I have a confession: I am not a Judy Blume girlie. Sure, as a kid growing up in the 1990s, I enjoyed some of her books. I adored the chaotic mayhem of 1972’s “ Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing ” and 1980’s “ Superfudge .” And I had a soft spot for Sheila Tubman (of 1972’s “ Otherwise Known As Sheila the Great ”), whose bratty impudence masked a terrified, tender vulnerability.  But I was a girl who did not want to grow up. I craved escape (dragons, princesses, Victorian orphans). Blume wrote