Anastasia Again!

by Lois Lowry

  "Okay. I promise."

  "Well, I feel sort of weird about this. I'm sorry, but there isn't any word except weird for it. But I think I'm going to have to marry Robert Giannini."

  Anastasia had always thought that it was only in books that people's mouths fell open in surprise. But her mother's mouth fell open in surprise.

  "Anastasia! That's impossible! How could that be? You're only twelve years old! You can't possibly..."

  "Mom," Anastasia said impatiently. "I didn't mean now. I mean years from now, after I finish college. But I might as well start getting used to the idea now. And that's what makes me feel weird. Because I can't stand Robert Giannini. I had sort of decided that maybe I could learn to like him, because I do like him a little bit sometimes. But I was just talking to Gertrustein, and she was telling me how she married someone she couldn't stand, although she liked his aluminum cookware, but she never did learn to like him, because he wanted her to call him Yoyd, and then he ran off with a mandolin player, and..."

  "Hold on. Hold everything. I very rarely want a beer in the middle of the afternoon. But suddenly I want a beer. Can I get you something?"

  "Are there any Popsicles?"

  Her mother came back from the refrigerator with a can of beer and a green Popsicle. Anastasia peeled off the paper and began to lick the Popsicle carefully.

  "Now, for starters. Why do you think you're going to have to marry Robert Giannini in ten or fifteen years?"

  "Because he loves me. And he's the only boy who ever has or ever will. Now don't feel bad about this, Mom, because it isn't your fault, but I am a sort of freak. In fifth grade I was the tallest girl in the class, but the boys were taller, most of them. But in sixth grade I was the tallest person in the class. There weren't any boys as tall as me, and I was even taller than the teacher. By the time I finish high school, I will probably be one of the world's tallest human beings. I also have the world's most hideous hair, in case you haven't noticed.

  "Now for some reason Robert Giannini doesn't seem to mind what I look like. He's the only male in the world who will ever feel that way, so probably I'm lucky to have found him. The trouble is, I think he's revolting. I hate his squeaky voice. And I hate it that he carries a dumb briefcase everywhere. I can't stand it that he wears a SeaWorld tee shirt. But I have to figure out how to adjust to those things if I'm going to marry him, because I certainly don't want to have a Brief and Unfortunate Marriage, for pete's sake..."

  "Whoa. You're going much too fast for me, Anastasia. Wait a minute." Her mother sipped at the beer and looked puzzled. "First of all, what makes you so sure you want to get married at all? Lots of women never do and are perfectly happy."

  "Would you be?"

  "No, I like being married. But that doesn't mean that you have to."

  Anastasia sucked on her Popsicle and thought for a long time. She thought about the time that her mother had had the flu and her father had taken cups of tea to her and sat beside her bed, not minding that he might catch the flu, too.

  Then she thought about what it would be like to be in bed with the flu if there were no one to bring cups of tea and sit beside your bed. It made her feel lonely, just thinking about it.

  Then she thought about the day that Sam was born, and her father took her mother to the hospital and stayed there with her while Sam was being born, and when he came home, he was so excited that he couldn't remember if the baby weighed eight pounds and four ounces or four pounds and eight ounces; and she and her father smoked cigars to celebrate, only hers was a chocolate cigar.

  She thought about what it would be like to have a baby if you weren't married, and nobody stayed with you while the baby was being born and smoked a cigar afterward to celebrate. It made her feel lonely.

  She thought about not ever having a baby at all. That made her feel even lonelier.

  "I really do want to get married someday," she said, finally.

  "Okay," said her mother. "First of all, then, about Robert. I've never met him, but I'll take your word for it that some things about him right now are revolting. But he's how old? Twelve?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, I didn't know your dad when he was twelve. But I'll bet you anything he had a squeaky voice. Robert's voice will change. He'll grow taller. And I can guarantee you that within the next year, his mother will be using the Sea World tee shirt as a cleaning rag. Do you know what I was using as a cleaning rag just this very morning?"

  "What?"

  "A pink tee shirt with ruffles on the neck and daisies embroidered on the sleeves."

  "Oh, gross. I'd forgotten that shirt."

  "Well, you loved it when you were eight or nine. People's tastes change. Robert's will, too."

  "Yeah, probably he won't even like me after a while." Anastasia caught the last piece of green Popsicle just before it slid off the stick. She fired the empty stick into the wastebasket with a long, arching basketball shot.

  Her mother laughed. "Well, maybe not. But other boys will."

  "Hah," said Anastasia gloomily.

  "Hah. Trust me. I promise you that will be true. Did you just hear something? I thought I heard a buzzer."

  "The doorbell. It's the first time anyone has rung the doorbell since we moved in! I'll get it."

  The boy at the front door was the same boy that Anastasia had seen mowing a lawn down the street. She had walked past him twice, trying to get up the nerve to say hi. Now he was standing right here on the front porch, looking at her. He was looking down at her, because he was a little taller than she, and he was wearing cut-off jeans and a rugby shirt. He looked a little like Luke Sky-walker. When he said hi, she noticed his voice was a little squeaky, like Robert's.

  His voice will change, she thought happily.

  "Hi," she said.

  "My name's Steve Harvey. I live down the street, and I saw that you guys moved in, and I wondered if you wanted your lawn mowed. I've got my lawn mower right outside."

  "Well, I'll ask my mother, but I'm absolutely certain she'll say yes. She was just saying this morning that the grass needed to be cut." What she had said, actually, at breakfast, was, "Myron, we have to buy a lawn mower and cut this grass."

  "My name is Anastasia Krupnik," she added, before she went to get her mother.

  "What grade are you in?"

  "I'll be in seventh."

  "Me too. You'll probably be in my homeroom because they do it alphabetically."

  "Oh. Well, it'll be nice to know someone in my homeroom before I start school."

  "Yeah. It's lousy to be the new kid. I know, because I just moved here last year. But it doesn't take long to make friends. Do you play tennis?"

  "Not very well."

  "Me neither. But there are courts down behind the school. You want to play later?"

  "Sure. Wait here a minute, and I'll go ask my mom about the lawn."

  Her mother was standing in the kitchen, grinning.

  "Mom, there's a boy at the door who..."

  "I know. I was eavesdropping."

  "We do need the grass cut. You were just saying to Dad this morning that..."

  "Anastasia, up in my bathroom there's a brand new bottle of shampoo. You'll have time to wash your hair and dry it while he's doing the lawn."

  "Do you think maybe I should shave my legs?" whispered Anastasia.

  "The last time you tried to shave your legs," her mother whispered back, "you practically needed blood transfusions. I'd forget it if I were you."

  "Cosmopolitan magazine says that it's fashionable not to, especially if you have blonde hair, like me."

  "Fine. Wonderful. Now scoot. I'll get him started on the lawn."

  ***

  Hmmm, thought Anastasia, as her hair dried, and she practiced her backhand, standing in the center of her tower bedroom. Maybe it's true, what Mom said. Maybe other boys besides Robert Giannini will like me.

  Maybe this boy will.

  Maybe my hair will look okay when I go to play tennis.

 
; Maybe my legs aren't quite as skinny as they were last month.

  Maybe I will think of something intelligent to say to him. And maybe I won't hit the ball into the net every time, the way I usually do.

  I think I will have a hyphenated name, she thought, when I get married. Anastasia Krupnik-Harvey, she thought. That doesn't sound too bad.

  Anastasia peeled a strip of the old, loosened, flowered wallpaper from the wall of her room, exposing an even older layer of paper underneath. She rolled the strip into a ball and shot it into the wastebasket.

  Outside, she could hear the clatter of Steve Harvey's lawn mower.

  Maybe I will get to feeling at home in this room before too long, she thought.

  Maybe the suburbs aren't as bad as I used to think.

  Maybe I was making premature assumptions.

  Anastasia picked up her notebook and began a new version of Chapter 2.

  "After she moved to her new home," Anastasia wrote, "the young girl began to be more adaptable than she had been in the past. She began to take up tennis, as a hobby."

  9

  The phone rang, and it was Jenny MacCauley.

  "Jenny! I've called you twice, and you weren't home either time."

  "Oh. I guess I was out."

  "Yeah, your mother said you were out. How are things in Cambridge?"

  "Booorrring," said Jenny mournfully.

  "Yeah, here too. Booorrring," said Anastasia.

  "Do you hate it there?"

  "Well, sort of," Anastasia lied. "When are you going to come see me?"

  "I thought Robert and I might ride our bikes out next Saturday. He said he looked at a map and figured out how to get there."

  "Robert Giannini? When did you talk to him?"

  Jenny hesitated. "Well, yesterday he came over and we rode our bikes down to the river."

  "That jerk."

  "Yeah, that jerk Giannini. Anyway, we sat by the river for a while because Robert was doing one of his surveys. We were counting joggers. How many old joggers and how many young. How many male and how many female. How many wearing special jogging shoes. How many female joggers wearing bras and how many not. Robert's going to send the results of his survey to Psychology Today."

  "That idiot."

  "Yeah. Anyway, after that we went over to the Brattle Theater and saw Casablanca."

  "JENNY MACCAULEY! YOU TOLD ME THAT WE WOULD GO SEE THAT TOGETHER. YOU KNOW I'VE ONLY EVER SEEN IT ON TV!"

  "Well, you weren't here, Anastasia."

  Anastasia glowered. "Funny that you said things were boring in Cambridge, Jenny. It sure doesn't sound boring."

  There was a long silence. Finally Jenny changed the subject. "Have you met anyone out there?"

  "Yeah. The woman next door. She takes Sam out for a walk every afternoon."

  "Any boys?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact. A boy named Steve Harvey. He's going to be in the seventh grade, and he's tall and good-looking. I've played tennis with him three afternoons now."

  Jenny interrupted her. "You're a terrible tennis player. You always hit the ball into the net."

  "That's because I never had a good partner before, Jenny MacCauley, you rat," said Anastasia angrily. "It just so happens that when I play tennis with Steve Harvey, I hit the ball over the net at least fifty per cent of the time. We're playing again today. Probably by the end of the week I'll hit the ball over the net eighty per cent of the time, and probably—"

  Jenny interrupted her again. "Anastasia," she said pointedly, "you promised me you'd call me if you met any boys."

  "I did call you. You were always out. You were always out seeing Casablanca with Robert Giannini, probably."

  "So? You're always out, playing tennis, it sounds like. Funny that you said things were boring there."

  There was another long and uncomfortable silence.

  "Are people like you expected in the suburbs?" asked Jenny finally. "Do they wear pink curlers and eat TV dinners and have bowls of artificial fruit?"

  Anastasia thought about the past three afternoons, when she had gone to Gertrustein's house after tennis and rolled Gertrustein's ragged gray hair up in pink curlers so that she would look nicer. On one of those days, Gertrustein had put a TV dinner into the oven while Anastasia was there. She had explained how she very seldom did much cooking anymore, because it was so lonely to cook for just one person.

  "Yeah," said Anastasia to Jenny. "The lady next door is just like that. Pink curlers. TV dinners. Artificial fruit. The whole bit."

  "Sick-o," said Jenny.

  "Yeah," said Anastasia vaguely. "I guess."

  "Listen, I gotta go. But Robert and I'll ride out next Saturday, okay?"

  "Okay. Hey, did Robert ask you anything about Sam? Did he say anything about Sam, well, not having any legs, or anything like that?"

  "Good grief. Why would he ask me that? Sam has legs. He kicked me once, because I hid his blanket as a joke."

  "Oh," sighed Anastasia, "it's too complicated to explain. I'll see you guys on Saturday."

  "Don't forget to watch TV tonight. The Maltese Falcon is on."

  After Anastasia had hung up, she thought, I should have asked her if she was going to watch it on TV. Or if she was going to go see it at the Brattle Theater. With Robert Giannini, that jerk.

  She decided that maybe this afternoon she would get the tennis ball over the net more easily, and harder, by pretending that it was Robert Giannini's head. Whammo.

  ***

  One of the things that Anastasia liked about her tower room was that her parents didn't very often come up to it. So it was very private.

  Not that she ever did anything subversive in her room. A lot of kids she knew sometimes smoked cigarettes in their rooms and then sprayed air freshener around so their parents wouldn't know; but Anastasia thought smoking cigarettes was gross.

  And some kids she knew occasionally drank beer in their rooms. But there was always beer in the Krupniks' refrigerator, and whenever her father drank a beer, he gave it to her first, so that she could sip off the foam, because he didn't like foam. So she was actually pretty bored with beer, and it never seemed like a big deal, the way it did to some kids.

  And of course lots of kids read dirty books in their rooms and hid them under the mattresses. But Anastasia's house had always been filled with books, and some of them had sex in them, and she had always been allowed to read whatever she wanted. Anastasia thought that dirty books were generally not as gross as cigarettes, but rather like beer: interesting now and then, in small doses, but no big deal.

  So there was not, really, anything private in her room except her private notebook, and she didn't even need to hide that. Her parents had told her once that they would never read her private notebook. So she had tested them a few times, by leaving it around the house conspicuously, with an almost-invisible hair on it, which would be dislodged if anyone opened the notebook. She had learned that trick from spy novels. But the hair always remained in place. Her parents really hadn't opened it. Sam had, once, and scribbled with crayons on a few pages. But Sam couldn't read yet.

  Still, even though she didn't need a private place for subversive stuff, she did like having a room that was very private. It was quiet. It was a good place to read, or to think, or to daydream, or to be sad.

  Right now she was lying on her bed, wondering what to do next Saturday when Robert Giannini showed up in the suburbs.

  First of all, it was a problem because she didn't want Steve Harvey to know that the Other Man in her life carried an idiotic briefcase everywhere and wore a SeaWorld tee shirt.

  It was okay for Steve Harvey to know that there was an Other Man. In fact, it was probably a good thing. It made her seem desirable, at least, and according to Cosmopolitan, that was a good thing. "Keeping Him on His Toes" was the title of the article that had pointed that out.

  But keeping Steve Harvey on his toes was one thing; keeping him doubled over, laughing, when he saw Robert Giannini was something else ag
ain.

  She reached out and peeled another strip of old wallpaper from the wall, while she thought. Her wastebasket was almost full of crumpled bits of old wallpaper.

  Second—Anastasia almost groaned aloud—was the problem of what to do about Sam, when Robert Giannini came. Probably that jerk was going to show up with a get-well card and a March of Dimes contribution for Anastasia's poor crippled, deformed brother.

  Downstairs, she could hear the familiar padding sound which was Sam wandering around the big house in his little red sneakers. On his two very sturdy, healthy legs.

  Maybe she could just shut him in his room while Robert was visiting. But that wouldn't work, she knew. Sam never stayed anyplace where you put him. He was always popping out of doors, doing his Ed MacMahon imitation. "Heeeeeere's Johnny!" Sam would announce loudly and wait for applause.

  Maybe if she fed him a lot of beer, he would just go to sleep for a long time. But Sam didn't like beer. He didn't even like foam. It made him sneeze.

  Maybe she could convince him to just sit in his stroller with a blanket over his legs. But it was ninety degrees outside. Nobody in his right mind would sit in a stroller with a blanket over his legs when it was ninety degrees.

  Anastasia sighed and pulled off another strip of wallpaper. There were three layers of wallpaper. After she pulled off a piece of the top layer, she could see green flowered paper underneath. If she picked at that and peeled it off, there was a blue striped paper under that. Finally, behind the blue striped paper, there was bare plaster. It made kind of interesting designs, as she poked and peeled at the three layers.

  "Anastasia? You up there? May I come up?" It was her mother calling.

  "Sure. Come on up."

  Her mother appeared in her room, puffing from two flights of stairs, but grinning. "Guess what! They still make Stanley and Sibyl! I've just been to the wallpaper store."

  "No kidding!"

  "No kidding. It costs more than it used to, but that's okay. I ordered three rolls, and it'll be in next week. We'll have to strip off the old stuff. Oh, I see you've already started!"

  "Yeah, I was just lying here thinking, and I was kind of peeling while I was thinking."