Mary Anne and the Secret in the Attic

by Ann M. Martin

  I must have looked awfully upset. And suddenly, I found that I could cry, after all. “Oh, Dawn,” I wailed. “It’s terrible. You won’t believe it.”

  I told her everything, between sobs.

  “Mary Anne,” she said, looking worried. “Come on, stop crying. Please?” She hugged me. “It’s going to be okay … I think.”

  “D-did you know about this?” I asked, wiping my eyes with the tissue she’d given me. “I bet everyone but me knew.”

  “No way,” she said. “If Richard ever told my mom anything about it, she sure didn’t tell me. I’m as shocked as you are.” She hugged me again. “Listen,” she said. “You’re my sister. There is no way I’m going to let you be shipped off to Maywood, Ohio.”

  “Maynard,” I said miserably. “It’s Maynard, Iowa.” I had started crying again as soon as she called me her sister.

  “Whatever,” she said. “Don’t cry. Let’s calm down and talk his over. I’m sure we can figure something out.”

  We talked for the rest of the evening, but by the time we went to bed (I was totally exhausted by about nine o’clock) we hadn’t figured anything out. Telling Dawn had made me feel a little better, but it didn’t exactly solve anything. The big question still stood: Did my grandmother have a legal claim to me?

  As you can probably guess from Dawn’s notebook entry, sitting for the Rodowsky boys is always a challenge. They do know how to keep you on your toes — especially Jackie. We call him the Walking Disaster, because trouble always seems to find him, but it’s a fond nickname. We really like Jackie a lot, and we like his brothers, too. It’s just that you never quite know how the day will turn out when you first arrive at their door.

  When Dawn showed up that Friday afternoon, Mrs. Rodowsky was more than ready to leave. Dawn wasn’t late; we make a point of being a little early for jobs. But Mrs. Rodowsky looked as if she badly needed some time off from those three boys. She was all set to escape the second Dawn arrived. “ ’Bye!” she said to the boys, waving over her shoulder as she dashed to the car. “Be good!”

  Well, I’m sure Jackie and his brothers would like to be good. I’m sure they really try hard sometimes. But somehow “being good” is just not something that comes easily to the Rodowskys.

  Those boys have the reddest hair I’ve ever seen, and each of them is covered with freckles. Shea is the oldest; he’s nine. He plays Little League baseball and takes piano lessons. (What a well-rounded child!) Jackie, who’s seven, is the middle child. Like I said, we call him the Walking Disaster — he’s always getting into some kind of trouble. But he has this contagious grin. When he smiles, you just can’t help smiling back. Archie, the youngest Rodowsky, is just four. He’s adorable, especially when he shows off the stuff he’s practicing for his tumbling classes. Which is what he was doing when Dawn walked in the door that day.

  “Watch me, Dawn!” he cried, as he bent over and began a somersault. “My teacher says I do these best of anyone in my class!”

  Just as Archie began to roll over, Jackie ran into the room with a plate of crackers, tripped over his brother, and went flying. The crackers went flying, too. “Oh, no!” Jackie yelled. “I was going to eat those while I watched my TV show.” Archie had finished his somersault and was waiting to see what happened next. He didn’t even seem to realize that Jackie had tripped over him.

  Jackie looked shamefacedly at Dawn, who was standing with her hands on her hips. “I didn’t see Archie there,” he explained. “It’s not my fault, is it?”

  It’s never Jackie’s fault!

  “Of course not,” said Dawn. “But let’s clean up these crackers before they get ground into the rug.”

  “Bo will help,” said Shea, who had come into the room. “He’s really good at cleaning up stuff like that. Here, Bo!” he called.

  Bo, who happens to be a dog, came scampering into the room and headed straight for the crackers. Within seconds they had all disappeared. “See?” asked Shea proudly.

  “Great,” said Dawn. “Now, what’s up for today? Do you have homework?” Mrs. Rodowsky had run out so fast that Dawn had no idea what the boys were supposed to do.

  “Not me!” said Jackie.

  “I do,” said Shea glumly. Then he brightened. “Hey!” he said. “Maybe you could help me. I’m supposed to find out some stuff about the history of Stoneybrook. You know, for Heritage Day? I’m supposed to learn about the families that founded the town. My teacher said I should go to the town hall and look through the records they keep there.”

  “Sounds fine to me,” said Dawn. “I’ve never been there before, but I’m sure someone will be able to help us. It might be fun. What do you guys think?” she asked Jackie and Archie.

  “Yay!” said Jackie. “Can we take Bo?”

  Dawn just looked at him.

  “I guess not,” he said. “Oh, well. Poor Bo has to stay home again.” He bent to give the dog a hug. “Let’s go!” he said.

  Dawn helped the boys into their jackets (Jackie tore the sleeve of his because he was trying to show off how it looked when he put it on backward) and then they headed for the town hall.

  The Stoneybrook town hall is near the library. It’s a big old building made of gray stone, and I’ve always thought it looks kind of like a prison. Dawn thought so, too, as she climbed the stairs with the boys. She pushed open the heavy door and was greeted by a musty smell and a quiet, hushed feeling. Suddenly she realized that town hall might not have been the best place to bring the Rodowsky boys. She grabbed Archie’s hand and motioned to Jackie to come closer. “I want you boys to behave,” she whispered. “No loud talking, no running, no touching anything that looks breakable. Understood?”

  Jackie and Archie nodded solemnly. “Now, Jackie,” said Dawn, sitting him down at a table. “I want you to sit here with Archie while I take Shea to the information desk. He has to find out where to do his research. Sit right here and don’t move a muscle,” she said. “I’ll be back in a second.”

  She looked over her shoulder at the two of them as she walked Shea to the desk. They sat quietly, hands folded in their laps, looking like innocent little boys. Dawn smiled to herself. She knew they could be good if they tried.

  With the help of the woman at the desk, Shea was soon settled down next to a pile of big record books. “Looks like you can find just about anything here,” she said to him. And then something occurred to her. “I wonder,” she said out loud. She reached for the “B” volume, planning to look up Baker and see what she could find out about my mother and grandmother. But before she could open it, she heard a loud crash from the next room — and remembered Jackie and Archie.

  “Oh, no,” she cried. She ran back to where she’d left them, but they were nowhere in sight. So she ran toward the room that the crash had come from. There was Jackie, standing in front of a filing cabinet, looking sheepish. The woman from the information booth was on her knees beside him, trying to scoop up an armful of folders without letting them get out of order. One of the drawers from the cabinet lay on its side on the floor.

  “I’m so sorry,” Dawn said to the woman.

  “It’s all right,” she replied. “It’s not the first time it’s happened. These old drawers just don’t stop where they should.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” said Jackie. “I was just checking to see whether —”

  “Never mind,” said Dawn, a little impatiently. “Where’s Archie?”

  “Um,” said Jackie. “He said he wanted to play hide-and-seek. So I told him to hide.”

  “You what?” asked Dawn. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jackie, with a shrug. “He’s hiding.”

  Dawn rolled her eyes.

  It was a long afternoon at the town hall. While Shea did his research, Dawn was kept busy with Archie and Jackie. She found Archie behind some drapes, only to have to run across the room to keep Jackie from using the copy machine to make a picture of his face. Then Archie escaped and hid again, this time in the
men’s room. Dawn had to ask one of the clerks to fetch him. Next, Jackie slid down the big banister that ran down the center of the main stairs, almost knocking over the mayor, who was walking up to her office. And Archie escaped again while Dawn was apologizing for Jackie, and that time Dawn found him, after a long search, in the janitor’s closet.

  * * *

  Dawn was exhausted by the time she got home that night, but she wasn’t too tired to come marching into my room to tell me what she’d been thinking about all day.

  “You know,” she said. “I started to look for information on your mother at the town hall today.”

  “You did?” I asked. “Do you think there’s anything there?”

  “Whether there is or not isn’t the point,” she said. “I realized today that you shouldn’t have to be looking through public records to find out what you want to know. You should be able to ask your father about it. I think it’s time for you to do that.”

  “No,” I said stubbornly. “Not my dad.”

  “Well,” she replied, “I think you should talk to some adult about it.”

  “I couldn’t,” I said. “I wouldn’t know what to say. Now, if Mimi were alive —”

  “But she’s not,” said Dawn bluntly. “And you need information, and support. Why don’t you at least talk to Kristy, or Claud? Maybe their parents told them something about this — or maybe they remember stuff from way back.”

  Dawn was pretty convincing. It wasn’t easy to get on the phone and tell Kristy what I’d discovered. She was totally shocked, and so was Claud when I called her. But neither of them could help me at all. This was the first they’d heard about my strange past.

  “Paint?”

  “Check.”

  “Cardboard?”

  “Check.”

  “Tunes?”

  I held up the cassette player. “Check. We’re all set.” Dawn and I were waiting for the rest of the BSC to arrive. We had chosen Saturday as the day to create our cardboard cut-outs for Heritage Day. Dad and Sharon were running errands, as they usually do on Saturday mornings, so we had the place to ourselves.

  Logan was the first to arrive, and Jessi and Mal came soon after. When Claudia arrived, she gave me a significant look and a big hug. “I’m okay,” I said. “Really.” I had decided to forget about my problems — at least for this one day. Telling Claud and Kristy the night before had helped me feel better, even though nothing was solved. But I wasn’t ready to tell everyone else; not just yet, anyway. I’d apologized to Logan for acting so strangely, but I hadn’t explained anything to him.

  Kristy came in right behind Claud. She gave me a significant look, too, but instead of a hug she gave me a little punch on the arm. That’s Kristy’s version of a hug. It means, “I’m here for you” or something to that effect.

  Stacey showed up last, and finally we were ready to start. Dawn put the latest Gary Rockman tape in the cassette player, Claud and Mal started sketching the figures onto the cardboard, and the rest of us mixed paints and spread newspapers all over the floor in the den. I’d promised Dad and Sharon we’d clean up any mess we made.

  “Okay,” said Claud. “Who’s ready to start on Old Hickory, here?” She held up the sketch she’d done.

  “Claudia, that’s great!” said Dawn. “I love his outfit.” Old Hickory was wearing breeches and an old-fashioned waistcoat. Dawn turned to me. “How about if you, me, and Logan work on this one?” she said. “Then Jessi and Stacey and Kristy can start on the next one.”

  “Sounds good,” said Logan. He grabbed a brush and a jar of paint.

  “Wait,” I said. “Don’t we have to cut him out, first?”

  “Oh, right,” said Logan. He put down the paint and started to walk toward the kitchen. “I’ll get the scissors,” he said.

  “Logan!” I yelled, calling him back. “I’ve already got the scissors, right here.”

  Logan turned around quickly — and tripped over the jar of paint he’d just set down. A thick, yellow puddle spread over the newspapers.

  “Quick!” I said. “Mop that up before it hits the carpet!” I tossed him a roll of paper towels.

  “Don’t worry,” said Claud. “It’s water-based. It shouldn’t make any permanent stains.”

  “What about my new sneakers?” asked Logan, looking down at his feet. Both sneakers were smeared with yellow.

  “Take ’em off,” I said. “But first, catch that puddle.”

  Once Logan had cleaned up the paint and taken off his shoes, we were ready to start. By that time, the other team of painters were starting on a double figure: George and Martha Washington.

  Dawn cut out our figure, carefully working around the hard parts. She had just finished when the tape stopped. “I’ll get it,” said Dawn. She jumped up, ran to the cassette player — and knocked over the jar of red paint I’d been stirring.

  “Oh, no!” I cried. I grabbed the paper towels that were still sitting by Logan, and started to wipe up the mess. Some of it dripped onto my shorts, but I cleaned most of it up by the time Dawn started another tape. She turned up the volume even higher than before, and danced back to us.

  “Okay, let’s get to work!” she shouted, over the music.

  For the next half hour, we painted steadily without any major incidents. The music was loud, and the beat kept us going.

  “I love this portrait of Sophie!” yelled Jessi. “You guys did a great job with it.”

  Claud and Mal grinned. “She does look good, doesn’t she?” asked Mal. “Just like the original portrait.” Mal had a dab of green paint on her nose, and Claud pointed it out. Mal rubbed it, but only smeared it onto her cheek. She shrugged. “It’ll come off later,” she said, smiling.

  Logan reached for the jar of blue paint that I’d been using, and gave it a vigorous stir. So vigorous that it splashed all over my legs. “Hey!” I said. I picked up my brush and flicked it at him. It made red spots across his shirt.

  That’s when the paint fight began.

  Soon the eight of us were covered with streaks and spots and drips. Claud had yellow paint in her eyebrows. Stacey had a red streak in her hair. Jessi had pink toes. What a mess.

  Logan got the worst of it: his shirt was nearly covered with paint. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “Every time I move, I get more paint on me.” He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off.

  “Woo!” said Kristy.

  Logan blushed.

  So did I. I’ve seen Logan with his shirt off before, since we’ve been swimming together. But somehow it was different when he was sitting right there in my den. “I’ll get you one of my dad’s shirts as soon as I finish painting this,” I said. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you borrowed one.” I couldn’t even look at Logan as I said that; I was feeling very shy around him all of a sudden.

  “You know what?” said Mal. “I’m starving. I brought over stuff to make cookies with. Okay if I make them now?”

  “Sure,” said Dawn. “Go for it.”

  Mal headed for the kitchen, changing the tape as she passed the cassette player. She turned it up even louder so that she’d be able to hear it while she was baking.

  I looked around the room. “Boy, I hope Sharon and Dad don’t come home anytime too soon,” I said to Dawn. “This place is a mess.” Bits and pieces of cardboard were scattered over the table and the rug. Paint was splattered everywhere. And my friends and I looked as if we’d been in a paint-factory accident.

  Mal walked back into the room, holding two eggs. “Hey, Mary Anne,” she said. “How do you turn on your oven?”

  I got up to help her, and just then Tigger dashed out from behind the couch. Mal side-stepped to avoid him, and dropped the eggs. “Uh-oh,” she said. “I’ll go get some paper towels.” She ran back to the kitchen, and I started to follow her.

  The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it!” I yelled. I turned around and slipped in the broken eggs, but caught myself before I fell. Mal ran up behind me, paper towels in her hand, and started d
abbing at my shoes. “It’s okay,” I said to her. “Just try to get up the stuff on the floor.”

  I opened the front door, wondering who our visitor could be.

  “Hello,” said the woman on the front porch. “Is this the Spier-Schafer residence?” She was dressed in a navy-blue suit, stockings, and pumps. She had a little string of pearls around her neck. And she was carrying a clipboard.

  I stood there with my mouth hanging open. Who was this lady? “Uh, yes. Yes, it is,” I replied. “Can I help you?”

  “I just have a few questions to ask,” she said. She peered over my shoulder, as if to get a better view of the pandemonium inside.

  All at once, with a horrible, sinking feeling, I knew who she was and what she wanted. She was a social worker, and she was checking up on my father and me. She had come at the worst possible time.

  “Um, my father isn’t home,” I said. “I mean, he knows I have friends over, and he’d never let things get out of hand like this if he were home, but he’s not home right now. He’ll be home any minute, I’m sure. He never leaves me alone for very long.” I was babbling, and I knew it.

  The woman looked at me curiously. “This will only take a few minutes,” she said.

  “Fine, fine,” I said, edging out the door. I was hoping that if I kept her outside on the porch, she wouldn’t see what was going on.

  “Most of the egg is cleaned up now,” yelled Mal over the loud music that was blasting through the hall and out the door. “You guys can come in, if you want. I don’t think you’ll slip.”

  “That’s okay, Mal,” I yelled back. I turned to the woman. “Just a little accident,” I said. “She was going to bake some cookies — some nutritious cookies, and —”

  “What’s up, Mary Anne?” asked Logan from behind me. The woman gaped at him. He still wasn’t wearing a shirt, he was barefoot, and his hair, which was full of yellow paint, was standing straight up.

  “Logan,” I hissed. “Everything’s fine. Go on inside.” I practically shoved him inside and slammed the door behind him. Now I was alone on the porch with the social worker. “It’s not usually like this,” I said, talking quickly. “It’s just that all my friends — who are very responsible — are over to work on a project. It’s for Heritage Day, the one that the Historical Society is putting on. So this is educational.”