Books For Seven-year-olds Novels & Stories

Kennedy POV. The weather was bad, but I needed to get that new book, it's Robert birthday gift, who'd knew a grown up man would kill for the newest werewolf love book. I got into my car, drove carefully toward the local book store, they had the new book reserved for me. It was supposed to one quick drive, until I walked into the library. A girl was sitting on a bean bag, her blond hair was covering her eyes with overgrown bangs, she tried to huff them away from her face but to no use. She looked young, maybe she's just here with her parents, looking down at the book she had in her hands it was a kids story. Does she read for the local kids? Or is it just for her?

Thanks to their big brother, they were brighter than the average two-year-olds. Autumn and Maeve were very close to Aiden. He was always protective and attentive to them whenever he was home and had no homework. Aside from playing with his sisters, he sometimes read them books before bed. Aiden had bought the girls books about fundamental gravity, basic mathematics, and simple quantum physics for toddlers. When the girls were eighteen months old, he taught them about atoms, protons, and electrons. At first, the girls could only see balls and circles, but gradually, they could differentiate the names through images. They were baby steps, but he was proud of his sisters.

—Flashback— “Bronx, there’s a monster in my closet. Maybe it’s a witch.” I peek into his room. He’s reading a book. I bet it doesn’t have pictures. He says books with pictures are little kid books. I like books with pictures though. Maybe when I’m ten like him, I won’t like picture books anymore? That sounds boring. I’ll like picture books forever. “There’s no monster or witch in your closet.” He keeps reading. “It’s your imagination.”

I navigated through the labyrinth of the library until I approached another section that caught my attention. Spells and Cantrips. The first one I laid eyes on was “Casting Magic for Dummies.” I laughed, unbelievable that they even have such a book, but I shouldn’t be too surprised. Maybe the author was a wizard himself. I plucked it from the shelf and meandered towards a set of tables, plopping my treasures down. I sat at the table and decided to start reading, starting with the year 1970.

And even when they hadn’t… I no longer let them land. I had too much peace in me now. There wasn’t room for shame anymore. Back at the house, I carried the books Darren had ordered for the nursery upstairs and placed them on the newly assembled shelf. They were all hardcovers with soft pastel covers and gold-stamped lettering: Goodnight Moon, The Velveteen Rabbit, Where the Wild Things Are, Dream Big, Little One, I Am Enough. I traced the spine of each book with my fingertip, whispering the titles softly.

Dad's face was grim, and he said nothing. Rosa handed me the plush bear. "This is my favorite toy, Cora. You can have it if you like it. It should be yours anyway." I took it from her. Back in the countryside by the sea, seashells were the only toys I had. I'd never come across anything as lovely as this bear. Now that I was back in the city, it felt like I was still only worthy of those cheap little shells. But here, not even a seashell could be found. I couldn't understand how it had all gone wrong.

"Are you ready for today?" "Yes! What book are we reading today?" I show her the book I picked out. “ We are reading Little Rabbit!” I say in excitement Brenda claps her hands and runs to the reading circle of children who have started coming in The rest of the children trickle in over the next few minutes. In comes Matthew the boy with ginger hair and for missing front teeth. Then Agatha, the troublemaker. Kelvin, the little child who is so hyperactive. They are also different but I love them and their own way

I glance down at the small hand still holding mine. How do you explain something like this to a child? None of it belongs in the world of an eight-year-old girl. My eyes hand on the book sitting on the bedside table and i slowly reach for it. The cover shows a colorful illustration of a little fox standing in a forest. I open it absentmindedly, flipping through the pages as I try to think. Iris watches me patiently. Finally, I sigh softly and close the book halfway, then I look back at her.

“But smart people learn from them.” I stared at him. “How old are you?” “Six,” they said in unison. Six. Six years of bedtime stories I missed. Of scraped knees. Of first words, first steps, first days of school. Six years I would never get back. “And you?” I asked. “We can read chapter books,” one said proudly. “And we know multiplication.” “And planets,” the other added quickly. “Except Pluto. It’s complicated.” I actually laughed this time. A real laugh.

Her lips trembled, but no words came out. Mrs. Cunningham stood to the side, wanting to curse at me, but not daring to. Seven years of marriage. Twenty years of friendship. In the face of betrayal and lies, it had all become worthless. I had nothing more to say. I turned, ready to leave this nauseating place.