 I can remember being at an assembly in the middle school gym and covertly passing a Stephen King novel from one classmate to another. And we passed around all of the flowers in the attic books. I mean, pleasure reading at my middle school really was like the Wild West. You read what you wanted and nobody asked questions. In high school, a friend shared some issues of the Sandman comic by Neil Gaiman and then a copy of On the Road by Jack Kerouac with me.