by Lois Lowry
Anastasia hesitated. "I didn't really meet him," she said. "I just heard about it."
"Well," said her mother, picking up her pen again, "there are a lot of women out there who would love to meet someone like that!"
"Yeah," Anastasia replied. "Like about four hundred and sixteen."
***
Back in her room, Anastasia reread her letter from Septimus Smith. She was awfully glad that her mother had explained the whole portfolio thing. Otherwise she might have written and suggested that he put his portfolio in with the garment bags on airplanes. Then she would have sounded like a jerk, and probably he would never have written to her again, right when their relationship was getting off to a pretty good start.
"Tell me more about your sloop," he had written.
She glanced at the little toy boat she had set on her windowsill. It was made of wood, and it was bright red. She figured she could tell him that. It was also about seven inches long, something she decided not to mention.
"I am guessing that you race," he had said. Anastasia wondered why he was interested in racing. Maybe, when he wasn't busy managing his portfolio, he jogged. She herself was not at all attracted to joggers, mainly because they smelled sweaty all the time. But probably he took showers after he raced.
Anastasia was not really into racing, but she always participated when they had races in gym class. Usually she did well, because she was tall and had long legs. So she could tell Septimus that she raced, and it wouldn't be a lie.
And he thought she was a doctor. She would have to confess to him that she was not. But maybe he wouldn't be disappointed. Doctors always had to wear beepers, and when their beepers went off in restaurants and theaters, people glared at them.
He was going to be in Boston next week. Anastasia had mixed feelings about that. She wanted to meet Septimus Smith sometime, but next week was too soon, so probably it was just as well that he knew her social calendar was full. She wanted to meet him after she was a little older, and had gotten contact lenses, and maybe finished college and all. The pierced ears were a good start—she glanced again in the mirror, thinking about them—but still, next week was too soon for their meeting.
She wondered about the sloop lady in California. California was full of movie stars, Anastasia knew. Still, probably Septimus would have mentioned it if the sloop lady was Debra Winger.
He had narrowed it down to 2, out of 416, and Anastasia was one of them. Much better odds than her seventh-grade class, where she felt fairly certain that Steve Harvey occasionally noticed that Emily Ewing had absolutely perfect hair and that the Wilcox twins had amazingly large bosoms for people thirteen years old.
She took a fresh piece of stationery out of her desk and began to write.
Dear Septimus,
Thank you for your letter!!! I was really thrilled to get it.
I do race occasionally. Just last week I raced, and came in second. I have to confess that I am not extremely interested in racing "not I am willing to do it now and then.
I always, of course, take a shower afterward.
About my sloop: it is made of wood, painted red. It has not been in the water for a while, but when it is in the water, the red paint, which is a little faded, looks really neat because it seems darker. I am thinking of putting a fresh coat on it one of these days.
Other people have sometimes commented on my interesting handwriting. Someone named Mr. Rafferty calls it indecipherable. But what does he know, right?
Ho, I am not a doctor, and therefore I do not ever have to wear a beeper or anything else which might be a nuisance in restaurants or, for that matter, during races.
My profession, which I forgot to mention, is that am sort of a scholar.
I was interested to hear about your profession. I have a very close relative who has an extremely large portfolio and she sometimes has trouble managing it.
I regret that circumstances make it impossible for us to meet when you are in Boston next week. But anyway, it would be better if our first meeting takes place sometime in the future. I need to complete some scholarly stuff first, and also to have some work done in the area of my eyes.
Perhaps you ready know from People magazine that Debra Winger has a young son. I have no children. I like them, of course, "but in my current "busy life, being childless is an advantage, I feel.
I am glad that you liked the photograph I sent.
Sincerely,
SWIFTY
(Scholar With Interesting Future: Tall, Young).
10
"Do I look okay?" Anastasia asked anxiously. She turned around, slowly, in the doorway of the living room, where her parents were sitting. They looked over at her and smiled.
Sam looked up from the complicated structure he was building from blocks on the floor. He smiled, too. He and Anastasia were pals again because she had agreed to loan him the sloop, free of charge, for his pre-wedding bath the next day.
"You look wonderful," her mother said. "You really do."
Her father gave her a thumbs-up sign. Sam watched his dad and tried to do the same thing, but he wasn't terribly good at it, and he went back to his skyscraper.
It was the night of the rehearsal and the rehearsal dinner. Anastasia was wearing a yellow dress and a gold necklace to match her new earrings.
They could hear the beep of a car horn in front of the house. Anastasia looked through the window.
"That's Sonya," she said. "Her brother's driving us over. I'll be back around ten."
"Have a wonderful time," her mom said. "And remember, when you practice walking down the aisle—"
"Woking," Sam corrected automatically.
Mrs. Krupnik laughed. "Yes. When you wok down the aisle, stand up straight. Pretend you're in the Miss America contest."
Anastasia made a face and waved goodbye as she went through the front door.
***
The rehearsal was sort of weird. Kristen kept giggling nervously while she stood beside Jeff at the front of the church. Daphne's father, the minister, didn't seem to mind. He told her that all brides were nervous.
Reverend Bellingham didn't actually say the whole ceremony. He just said, "Now I'll do blah blah blah, and Jeff, you take the ring—"
So Jeff took an imaginary ring and pretended to put it on Kirsten's finger while Kirsten giggled self-consciously.
"Then Frances will sing," Reverend Bellingham said. He looked up to the balcony of the church, where Frances Bidwell was standing. "Do you want to go through your song, Frances, or shall we skip it?"
"Let's skip it," Frances called back. "I've sung it a hundred times before. It'll be fine."
"Okay, then Frances sings, blah blah blah. And then," he said, "at the end, I'll say blah blah blah, and you can kiss each other—"
So Jeff and Kirsten both made loud kissing noises into the air while everybody laughed.
"Then," Reverend Bellingham went on, "everyone goes back down the aisle and out of the church. You first, Kirsten and Jeff; then the maid of honor with the best man; then the bridesmaids, each one with an usher. You first, Meredith, since you're her sister. You take this usher's arm—"
Meredith, looking embarrassed, took Jeff's brother's arm and started down the aisle.
"Then you, Anastasia, you take this usher's arm—"
Anastasia, feeling embarrassed, took the arm of Meredith's Uncle Tim. She was secretly glad that she'd been paired with him because he was the handsomest of the ushers, and the tallest, and Meredith had whispered to her that Uncle Tim, who was her mother's youngest brother, led a very glamorous life and drove a Porsche. But he looked just the teensiest bit bored, she thought, at having to march down the aisle with a seventh-grader.
Finally the rehearsal was over, and Reverend Bellingham assured them all that things would be perfect the next day.
"You promise that you won't use his middle name," Kirsten said for about the fifteenth time.
Reverend Bellingham, who really was a nice guy even though Daph
ne's mother said he was a sanctimonious creep, promised for the fifteenth time. He crossed his heart, and just for that moment, crossing his heart, looked like a Catholic, Anastasia thought.
Then they all piled into cars to go to the restaurant where they would have dinner. Anastasia had vowed to herself that she would eat absolutely everything on her plate even if it was something she hated—even if it was chicken livers. She had vowed to be outgoing and to make polite conversation, even with strangers. She had vowed to be poised and interesting and to sit up straight and use the right fork, and not to take a single bite until the person at the head of the table did.
She almost blew it the first minute, after they were all seated at a large table in a private room. She turned to the person on her left—the groom's older brother—and said politely, "I understand you're a lawyer. That's very interes——"
To her surprise, he put his fingers to his lips and said, "Shhhh." Was it a secret that he was a lawyer? Great. Talk about dumb. Now she'd blown his cover and he would hate her.
But he was gesturing toward Reverend Bellingham, who had stood and bowed his head. Anastasia gulped and bowed her own while the minister said grace.
Then the groom's older brother, whose name Anastasia had forgotten, said, "Yes. I'm a lawyer in Springfield. Have you ever been to Springfield?"
Anastasia hadn't; but when she said that she hadn't, he told her a little about Springfield and it wasn't totally boring.
Amazing, how easy it was to make adult conversation. Anastasia hadn't ever tried it before.
Next she turned to her right, where Uncle Tim was sitting. She said, "I understand you drive a Porsche."
"That's right. Have you ever ridden in a Porsche?" She hadn't; but now she had another adult conversation, and it wasn't totally boring either, except that she had never understood a single thing about horsepower and never would. What a great discovery, Anastasia thought. All you have to do is say something about the other person, and then they talk and you don't need to. She glanced across the table and saw that Sonya was doing the same thing. She was listening attentively and nodding her head as the usher on her left told her about medical school.
The food—shrimp cocktail, followed by lamb—wasn't a problem. She liked all of it.
The forks weren't a problem. There was just the right number, and she was pretty sure she was using the right ones, and no one seemed to be checking to see if she was, anyway.
And wine wasn't a problem. Anastasia had worried about whether she was supposed to drink wine if they served it, and what her parents would say if she did. But the waiter poured wine into the glasses in front of each adult, and ginger ale into the glasses of the junior bridesmaids. He did it so quietly, without making a big deal, that no one even noticed that hers was ginger ale, and Anastasia was relieved.
She had worried that she wouldn't be able to think of anything else to say to Uncle Tim after she mentioned the Porsche. She didn't know anything else about him except that he led a glamorous life, and she didn't think she could say casually, "I understand that you lead a glamorous life."
But when she noticed that he held his hand over the top of his wine glass and shook his head "no" to the waiter, it gave her a topic of conversation.
"Are you a recovering alcoholic?" Anastasia asked politely.
Uncle Tim looked startled. "No," he said, "as a matter of fact I'm not. But to tell you the truth—" He lowered his voice and glanced around to be sure no one else was listening. "I saw the label on the bottle," he whispered, "and it was a terrible wine. So I decided to skip it."
"No kidding?" Anastasia said. "I didn't know you could tell, from the label. I thought you had to taste it, and if it was terrible, you just got stuck swallowing it and maybe throwing up later."
Uncle Tim laughed, and explained a little about wine to Anastasia.
When he finished, she turned again to the lawyer on her left. "Are you enjoying your wine?" she asked.
He made a slight face. "Not really," he said.
"It's not a good year," Anastasia explained. "There was too much rain in France that year."
He looked intrigued, so she explained to him about grapes needing the right amount of sun. She took another bite of lamb after she had finished the explanation.
This is so fabulous, Anastasia thought. I'm so good at this. Making conversation and everything. Wait till I tell Mom and Dad how well I did.
Suddenly she was startled by a clinking sound. She looked up. The groom's father was tapping his fork against his water glass. Other people started doing the same thing.
Anastasia didn't have any idea what they were doing. But dutifully she tapped her fork against her glass.
Everyone stopped talking, and the groom's father stood up with his wine glass in his hand. "A toast," he announced in a loud voice, "to the bride and groom! Long life and great happiness to them!"
Everyone raised their glasses, so Anastasia held her ginger ale in the air and took a sip when they did.
The dinner plates were taken away, and dessert arrived. Now there were more clinking glasses and more toasts, some of them sentimental, some of them silly.
Finally Jeff stood up and toasted the bride. "To Kirsten!" he said, and everyone clapped while Kirsten beamed at him. "My solemn vow that I will bring her breakfast in bed every weekend!"
Everyone cheered, including Anastasia, who thought that was the best idea a husband could have. She thought she might mention it to her father, on her mother's behalf.
"And," Jeff went on with a grin, "that I will never ever use my middle name!"
Everyone cheered and clapped, and Jeff sat down.
"What's the fuss about his middle name?" Uncle Tim asked, leaning over to whisper to Anastasia. "Do you know what his middle name is?"
Anastasia nodded, grinning. "Yes," she told him, "but I promised I'd never tell."
"It can't be all that bad," Uncle Tim said. "Middle names are no big deal."
Anastasia disagreed. "I don't have one," she told him, "but if I did, I sure hope it would be just the right one. A wrong middle name would be awful."
Uncle Tim looked a little puzzled. "I can't imagine a wrong middle name."
"Well," Anastasia said, "you probably just haven't thought about it much. But think for a minute. What if—well, what if, for example, your parents had given you a middle name of Tom? Then your name would be Tim Tom! Wouldn't that be awful?"
He laughed. "I suppose so. Except that Tim's only a nickname. It's not my real name."
"Oh, of course. I forgot. Tim's a nickname for Timothy. Well, Timothy Tom would still sound kind of stupid, in my opinion."
Uncle Tim took a sip of his coffee. "You're right. But my name isn't Timothy. I have a really unusual first name. It's a family name."
"What is it?" Anastasia asked politely.
He chuckled. "Septimus," he said. "My name's Septimus Smith."
***
"Shrimp cocktail. Lamb. Ice cream with strawberry sauce. Yes, it was fine. Yes, I stood up straight. Yes, Kirsten gave us our pearl earrings. And I don't want to talk about it anymore," Anastasia said.
"Why not?" her father asked in surprise.
"Did something go wrong?" her mother asked.
"Everything went just fine. I just don't want to talk about it now," Anastasia said. "I'm tired. I'm going up to bed."
"Well, it is late," her mother said, looking at her watch. "And you have a big day tomorrow. Let's see. The wedding's at four. You'll need to wash your hair in the morning so that it has plenty of time to dry. What time should I wake you up?"
"I don't care," Anastasia said miserably, standing on the stairs.
"You know, Mom," she added, "you guys don't have to go to the wedding. Sam hates that sailor suit. You could just take him to the zoo or something while I go to the wedding. Maybe take him to the Science Museum. They're having a dinosaur exhibition."
"No way," her mother said, laughing. "I wouldn't dream of missing that wedding. I want
to see you come down the aisle. I might even weep."
You sure will weep, Anastasia thought as she trudged glumly up to her room. You're going to weep the instant Septimus Smith recognizes you from that picture and comes charging across the church saying "Swifty!" And you won't know what he's talking about, and you'll say, "Excuse me? Do you mean my daughter? The kids at school call my daughter Swifty!" And Septimus Smith will say—
She closed her bedroom door and sat down on her bed with her shoulders slumped. She couldn't even imagine what Septimus Smith would say.
Her mother knocked on the door. "Anastasia?" she called. The door opened.
"Here," she said. "I know you're tired, but I forgot to give you this. It's been on Dad's desk all day. With this wedding excitement, we're all getting absent-minded.
"Good night, sweetie," she said. She put something on the bed, kissed the top of Anastasia's head, and left the room.
Anastasia looked down and picked up the envelope. She sighed. It was one more letter from her pen pal, Septimus Smith.
Dear Swifty,
I'm writing this very quickly before I leave for Boston. I know you told me that your social schedule was very "busy this coming week. But when I looked again at your address, I realized that you live very close to the relatives I'll "be seeing while I'm there.
So I hope you won't mind if I drop by on Sunday afternoon. Ill be tied up all day Saturday with a family wedding. But I'll plan to stop by briefly on Sunday, maybe just for a quick glass of wine.
About two o'clock? I hope that's okay.
My best,
Septimus Smith
11
Anastasia frowned, and attached the back of the little pearl earring so that it would stay in her ear. She hadn't quite mastered earrings yet, the kind for pierced ears. It was very hard to find the teeny hole. But there—they were both attached, now.
She looked gloomily into the mirror. There had been a time—was it only two days ago?—when she might have been completely dazzled by the sight of herself with those pearl earrings on and her long hair tied up on top of her head with the narrow satin ribbon.