by Lois Lowry
And there was Uncle George, off in a different corner now, talking to Dr. McCartin, who—Anastasia took a closer look at her doctor. Hmmmm. She was actually a pretty attractive lady, once she got that stethoscope out of her ears. Anastasia wondered if she was married, and decided that she would have to find a tactful way to ask. Of course there was no rush. It was still a little soon—just over a week since Aunt Rose's death—for Uncle George to remarry.
She felt exhausted. It had, after all, been an eventful day. Anastasia leaned back on the pillows and looked around the room filled with people.
Her parents looked more relaxed now that Anastasia had been talking cheerfully and sitting up comfortably in the bed. She had the greatest parents in the world, Anastasia decided, even if neither of them had much fashion sense (her mother was wearing jeans and a paint-smeared shirt, as usual; her father was wearing incredibly hideous baggy pants that he had bought probably in 1960).
Sam had leaned back in Mrs. Stein's lap and was sucking his fingers dreamily. Probably, Anastasia thought, he was planning another funeral. She was going to have to have a very serious talk with old Sam when her head stopped aching. Maybe she could help him find a new hobby. She really loved Sam a lot, and an older sister owed it to a little brother to try to guide him through life.
Gertrude Stein looked as if she had found Perfect Happiness, holding Sam on her lap. She had never had any children of her own. It was the luckiest thing for her, and for us, Anastasia thought, when we moved into the house next door. We got a brand-new grandmother and she got a brand-new family. Maybe I shouldn't try so hard to find her a man friend—especially a glamorous one—because he might whisk her away to live in Las Vegas or something.
Glamorous Uncle George was still talking to the doctor. They both looked very serious, and Anastasia thought he was probably telling her about how Aunt Rose had gotten zapped by a swordfish steak, compliments of Sal Monella. Poor Aunt Rose. Poor Uncle George. Anastasia felt sorry for everybody who had lost somebody...
Except Mrs. Bellingham, she realized suddenly. Daphne's mother, who so very recently had been grouchy and depressed, was apparently recovering. She had a new, becoming haircut; she was wearing eye make-up, something Anastasia had never seen on Caroline Bellingham before, certainly not when she was married to the Reverend Bellingham; and she was talking vivaciously to several of the international educators. One of the Japanese men was writing something on a small piece of paper—maybe Mrs. Bellingham's phone number? I wonder, thought Anastasia, what Daphne would think if...
Her eyes found Daphne's across the room. Daphne shrugged, grinned, and winked. Her blond Shirley Temple curls glistened, and Anastasia realized that Daphne would be a real big hit in Tokyo or Yokohama—or anywhere, for that matter. Daphne would be okay. Daphne had class.
Finally, Anastasia glanced over at Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby. Talk about class! Even in her trench coat, Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby looked as if she should be on the cover of Vogue. More than that, though, the bright sparkle in her eyes and the graceful way she moved, now, as she turned to leave, stopping in the doorway to wave affectionately to Anastasia—well, no question; on a scale of one to ten, Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby was definitely a ten, and Anastasia didn't care who knew she felt that way. Maybe she did have a crush on her gym teacher. So what? Her mother thought it was okay. It felt okay. And Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby didn't seem to mind.
Watching the room full of people as they began, now, to gather their belongings in order to leave, Anastasia tried in her mind to create a newspaper story. Who? she asked herself.
Mom, Dad, Sam, Gertrude Stein, Uncle George, Daphne, Mrs. Bellingham, Dr. McCartin, Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby, and six international educators—
What?
Had gathered together around the bed of Anastasia Krupnik—
When?
Anastasia wasn't at all sure. Probably it was Wednesday still, she decided—
Where?
In a small hospital room—
Why?
Because—Anastasia hesitated. Then she realized what the truth was. They all think I'm pretty special, Anastasia told herself, and she hoped that it didn't count as conceited if she didn't say it aloud.