Remembering Mrs. Rossi (9780763670900)

by Hest, Amy; Maione, Heather (ILT)

  Or this one:

  But on this snowy morning, the note Annie finds has nothing to do with chores.

  Annie springs off her bed and runs barefoot to the kitchen, where the wonderful smell of coffee fills the air. “I bet it’s two feet deep, Daddy! No, three!” She slides into her seat near the window. “Can I have coffee,” she asks, “in honor of my day off from school?”

  “May I.” Professor Rossi puts two bowls on the little white table that used to be set for three.

  “May I, because last week you let me have coffee.” (In fact, it had been mostly milk with a splash of coffee, barely a spoonful.)

  “Are you sure it was me?” he teases. “Because I don’t actually approve of children drinking coffee.”

  “It was you,” Annie says. “Definitely.”

  “Well then”— shaking cereal into the bowls —“I must be an extremely nice fellow.”

  “Extremely.” Annie giggles.

  Professor Rossi pours milk in Annie’s glass, then coffee (just a splash). Then he picks up the morning paper and disappears behind it as usual. He always starts with sports. Then around-the-world news, and after that, city news. He does the same thing, in the same order, every single morning, and yet this morning it occurs to Annie that what he does is boring. She even feels a little sad on his behalf, because he is so boring. She also feels a little sad on her own behalf, because why can’t he just be fun for a change? Surely other fathers are fun. Especially on such a special day, a day when they cancel school.

  Annie gently knocks two knuckles on the table — Knock, knock, Mr. Boring! — then under the table: Hello, hello! It’s time to plan our snowy day! The newspaper rustles, but nobody answers her sweet little knocks. Annie makes a face at the back of the newspaper (the kind of face certain grownups find atrocious). She makes another face, too, even more atrocious than the one before, and tries to remember if her mother was boring like this at breakfast. No. Definitely not. Mothers talk to their children at breakfast. “Drink your milk, Annie. We don’t want to be late for school. . . .” Yes, mothers pay attention to a little girl and tell her all kinds of interesting news . . . “Guess what, Annie? An author is coming to room 222 today. . . .”

  Annie’s stomach rumbles hungrily. Maybe she should just go into the living room alone . . . and eat her breakfast . . . alone. Who would even notice her empty seat at the table? No one! She pictures her skinny little self, eating her cereal all by herself in the living room in front of the TV. . . . “In Jean-Marie’s house, there’s a TV in the kitchen,” Annie says to the back of the newspaper. “She’s allowed to watch before school.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Maybe we should have a TV in the kitchen, too.” Annie knows exactly how her father feels about this particular subject, but she likes waiting for him to say, “I certainly don’t think we need a TV in our kitchen, Annie.”

  “I certainly don’t think we need a TV in our kitchen, Annie.”

  “You always say that.” Annie leans on her elbow and looks out the window at the snow-covered park. She needs to go to the park! Now! With her sled and red mittens and . . . “Okay, Daddy”— suddenly bossy —“I’m going to tell you exactly what we do today. It’s a really good plan, so when will you be finished eating breakfast? Because we have to go to the park. Right away. We have to get there first. . . .”

  “Can’t, Annie.” Professor Rossi puts down the paper. “I’m teaching this morning.”

  “Daddy”— smiling patiently —“it’s a no-school day.”

  “Ah! You may have no school today . . . but some people have to work today.” Professor Rossi shrugs good-naturedly. “Snowstorm or not, the university’s open.”

  “But we’re going to the park,” Annie protests. “There’s all that new snow in the park and we have to get there first.”

  “We’ll go later,” he promises. “After my classes.”

  Later? No, they have to go now. Because later there are other things to do. Annie picks up her spoon and pokes at her breakfast cereal. (He forgot to buy her kind again, so now she has to eat his kind again, and that means picking out the raisins.) “You could call in sick,” she suggests. “Like the time you had that cough.”

  “But I don’t have a cough.”

  “You could pretend.” Annie puts four raisins in a napkin and rolls up the napkin.

  “By the way, Annie, Mrs. Peterman is going to keep you company while I’m in school.”

  “I don’t like Mrs. Peterman. I don’t like any babysitters, and you know it.” This is not altogether true, of course. Mrs. Peterman lives upstairs in apartment 12A and is a really nice babysitter, a babysitter who plans really good snacks for after school and lets Annie watch TV, even before she starts her homework. (Mrs. Peterman’s favorite soap opera, The Days and the Nights, is currently Annie’s favorite thing to watch, too.)

  “Baloney,” her father is saying. “Mrs. Peterman has always been like a grandma to you.”

  “She’s not my grandma,” Annie grumbles. “I don’t even have a grandma.”

  “Fine, but you still need to spend the day with her. And I need to spend the day with my kids over at Sherman Hall.”

  “They’re not your kids.” Annie stomps off to her room. She closes the door hard (in fact, it is a slam) and throws herself on the bed and puts her face in the crumpled-up pillow to be sad for a while. Nobody in this house cares about me, Annie thinks sadly. I’ll have to find another house, where people are NICE, not MEAN. I’ll run away from home and SOMEONE will be sorry. She rolls off the pillow and wraps her arms around her knees, wondering where in the world she might run away to — and that’s when she notices her pajama top is red plaid and the bottoms are green! Well, now she feels stupid on top of everything else for wearing mismatched pajamas. Annie’s lip begins to quiver. She covers her eyes with both hands, but still the tears jump out — so many tears, and so many reasons for tears! Because her pajamas don’t match and they always used to. Because she had slammed a door. And because she wants to have fun with her mother today, and here she is stuck with a father who doesn’t know you do certain things in a snowstorm. He doesn’t know the rules.

  “Honestly, Annie. I’ve never known you to be so huffy.” A little while later, Professor Rossi is sitting on the edge of Annie’s bed, trying to be silly by using words like huffy.

  “I’m not huffy,” Annie mutters, mopping her tears.

  “Fine. But the door slamming has to go. Makes me jumpy.” In his silly voice, “Plus, we’ll get a noisy-neighbor reputation.”

  “I didn’t slam the door. The wind blew it.”

  “You don’t say?” Eyebrows up.

  “I’m very mad at you, Daddy.”

  “Oh, I hate when you’re mad at me, Annie! It’s so unpleasant!”

  “Then don’t go to work today. Stay home with your very own child.”

  “But what about my students?” Professor Rossi walks across the room to look out the window. “Think of them, Annie, trudging across campus in all that snow. Just to hear my scintillating lecture.”

  “You always use big words, and I hate when you use big words!” All at once Annie pulls herself to a standing position in the middle of her bed. “See these pajamas?” Turning slowly on the bed. “They don’t match.”

  “You’re absolutely right.” Nodding. “They don’t match.”

  “You’re supposed to put the red top with red bottoms, not green.”

  “Yes, I need to try harder with that laundry,” he agrees, “and perhaps you can show me again about the folding. You do such a good job folding laundry,” he adds. “Anything else, Annie? And please, no more complaints!”

  Annie slides off the bed. It just so happens she has lots of complaints! “Well, it’s boring at breakfast when all you do is read the newspaper, that is complaint number one,” Annie says calmly. “You always forget to buy my cereal, complaint number two.”

  “Yes, but I can explain about the cereal . . .”

&
nbsp; Annie doesn’t want his explanations. No sir, she wants to wave her arms in the air, this way and that, and tell her father all the hundreds of things he does wrong every day — all the millions of things he simply doesn’t know! “We’re supposed to be the first ones making tracks in the park . . . and then we come home and make cookies . . . and eat them hot . . . and that’s what you do in a snowstorm. Mommy knows!” Annie blinks with surprise at her very own rush of words. Mommy knows, Mommy knows. . . .

  Professor Rossi puts his arm around Annie. They look at the park and the snow-covered trees and don’t say much for a while. Then Annie makes lines for tic-tac-toe on the window in the frost. “I don’t even like tic-tac-toe — it’s stupid,” she mumbles when she doesn’t win her game. She intends to pout and frown for a while, but just then the memory of another day pops into her head, and the memory makes her smile. “Remember the time I went to school with Mommy in a snowstorm? Remember, Daddy? I got to go to sixth grade!”

  “You were five, as I recall. Very spunky,” adds Professor Rossi, “going off with your mom to the big school.”

  “Did everyone think I was cute, all the big kids?”

  “Apparently, you were quite a hit with the sixth grade. We had a hard time getting you back to kindergarten after that!” Professor Rossi laughs. “Yes,” he says, “you were simply crazy about Mommy’s class.”

  “And Mommy was simply crazy about me.”

  “You bet,” her father says softly, “and me.”

  Annie pats his wrist. “Don’t be sad,” she says. “I’ll go to school with you sometime, too.”

  “I suppose . . .” Professor Rossi rubs his chin. “No, never mind . . .”

  “Never mind what?”

  “Oh, it’s just a silly idea. You know me and my silly ideas.”

  “Maybe it’s a good idea,” Annie says. “Tell it, Daddy!”

  “Okay, then, here’s my idea. Since your school is closed today, you could — if you want — come to school with me.”

  “You mean now?” Annie gasps.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “And no Mrs. Peterman? Just you and me?”

  “Just you and me,” he says. “Plus a bunch of college kids. And if you care to do a little spy work,” he adds, lowering his voice, “you will surely catch at least one sleeper in my nine o’clock class. There’s always one who dozes.”

  “Well, Daddy, I hope it’s not boring in your nine o’clock class.”

  “Boring?” Professor Rossi pretends to be shocked. “As a matter of fact — and you’ll see firsthand — I happen to be a scintillating, interesting teacher. And remember, Annie, you have to laugh at my jokes. You can’t fall asleep, either.”

  “Too many rules!”

  “Oh, one more thing. We’ll have cookies in my office later on, and tea.”

  “I don’t like tea,” Annie reminds her father.

  “You could pretend. Now hurry up and get ready.” Professor Rossi kisses the tip of Annie’s nose. Then he goes inside to call off Mrs. Peterman.

  Annie quickly dresses: gray skirt, red sweater, warm socks. She brushes her short hair. She brushes her teeth and washes her cheeks and examines the scar on her chin. (It is lovely.) At the front door, she pulls on her boots and coat. It’s time to go to college! Well, nearly. Annie races back to her room. She reaches under the mattress, wriggling her fingers until she feels the familiar cardboard cover of Remembering Mrs. Rossi. Hello there, best book in the world.

  They aren’t the first ones in new snow this morning, and they don’t go to the park. Nonetheless, Annie and her father make beautiful tracks, and they both carry school bags. Professor Rossi’s is crinkled and brown; Annie’s is blue with a red handle, and Remembering Mrs. Rossi is tucked safely inside. They tramp along in deep snow. They trudge up the steep hill to Broadway, through the tall iron gates, and onto the campus of Columbia University. Sherman Hall is five stories tall, and they clomp up the stairs (too many stairs!) to the very top floor, to room 505. Professor Rossi turns on the light.

  “It’s so big!” Annie whispers. “Way bigger than room 107.” She looks around at the walls with no pictures. (There are many pictures on all the walls in room 107.) There are no cubbies, either, and no class pet. (Everyone has a cubby in room 107, and they all share the goldfish, Walter and Sue.) In room 107 Annie always sits at the second desk in the third row. In room 505 there are rows and rows of dark wooden desks, and Annie is allowed to sit wherever she wants. From 8:45 a.m. until 8:55 a.m., she tries out seven different desks in seven different rows. In the end she settles on one in the very last row, right under the clock — a perfect spot for spy work.

  The college kids burst in shaking snow off their coats, stamping wet boots. (Three kids aren’t even wearing boots!) Some say, “Morning, Professor Rossi,” and others say, “Hi.” (Some say nothing at all!) The college kids are tall, short, and medium in height. (Two of them look like grownups!) They drop into seats, in groups big and small, talking and laughing. (A few sit alone.)

  On the dot of nine o’clock, Professor Rossi steps forward, and — just like that — a hush falls over room 505. (In room 107 it is never quiet — not even for a second — not until Miss Meadows says, “Quiet down, people.”)

  “I’m pleasantly surprised to see that so many of you made it to class on such a stormy morning.” Professor Rossi smiles in a friendly way as he looks around the room. (Annie sincerely hopes the students like his friendly smile.) “I suppose,” he goes on with a laugh, “you couldn’t bear to miss my fascinating little talk on Romeo and Juliet in a modern world.” (Annie hopes someone will laugh at her father’s joke. But nobody laughs.)

  Professor Rossi clears his throat. “Ladies, gentlemen.” He clears his throat a second time, and you can tell he is about to say something important. “I wanted to let you know we have a visitor in class today. A student from another school,” he adds, “and a real charmer, if I may say so myself. Her name is Annie. Annie Rossi” (as if it is the most important name in the world!). “She is eight years old and — be forewarned — she is watching everything you do.”

  Annie feels her face getting red. Everyone turns to look at her. A few even wave to her!

  For the next hour, Professor Rossi talks about Romeo. He talks about Juliet. He does not talk about Annie. (Frankly, she is hoping to hear at least one little story about herself.) He walks back and forth, and up and down the aisles. Annie doesn’t actually care all that much about Romeo, or even Juliet. She pumps her feet back and forth in big black boots, counting the students in Room 505. (There are forty-six.) She counts the girls in room 505. (There are twenty-one.) And the girls with curly hair. (There are eight.) She counts the boys who keep their coats on in school. (There are six.) And the girls in red sweaters. (There are two, plus Annie.)

  Annie’s cheeks are cold and hot from the storm outside and the steam heat inside. She leans on her left elbow awhile, then her right elbow. She leans on both elbows and looks inside her school bag, on the floor near her feet, and reaches down, slowly, for her book. She puts it on her lap and looks around the room. See what I have, everyone? Remembering Mrs. Rossi . . . a whole book about my mother! She smiles as she pictures herself reading out loud to the college kids, all of them squeezing as close as they can to Annie. They love her book very much, and they love Annie very much, and two — no, five — of the big girls want to be her friend! Please, Annie, please! Be my best friend. . . .

  Annie opens her book for the hundredth — no, thousandth — time. She reads slowly. Silently. Quietly turning the pages. Hello, Mommy. It’s me, Mommy. . . . Page after page, like so many secret little visits with her mother, and she imagines, just for a moment, a tiny version of herself dancing on the pages with her mother . . . and their fingers are touching, and no one dies. . . .

  Now and then Annie pauses, determined to choose, once and for all, her favorite story. But she runs into the same old problem every time: how to pick the best story when every single one is the be
st in the world. Twenty-four stories and twenty-four best authors!

  Once she wrote a letter to the authors in room 222, all twenty-four. The letter was her father’s idea (“We need to write a proper thank-you, Annie, for our book about Mommy”), but she did all the work — including lots of good pictures by Annie.

  Annie rests her head on her hands on the dark wooden desk. She drums her fingers softly on the desk and imagines running home to tell her mother all about her day off from school. Mommy, there’s a girl in Daddy’s class with long red hair . . . and two girls were telling secrets . . . and a boy with a silly green hat was sleeping, I think.

  Professor Rossi talks on, and Annie drums on, longing to tell her mother about no hot cookies and mismatched pajamas and her big black boots making beautiful tracks all the way to Sherman Hall. Yes, she longs to tell her mother every single thing about the biggest blizzard ever, and together they can give it a name. They can call it Annie’s Blizzard.

  One spring morning, Annie Rossi escorts her father to the breakfast table. The inside of her is bubbling with excitement. On the outside, though, she is trying to sound wise and serious. “In honor of your birthday,” she says in a wise-and-serious tone of voice, “I’m in charge of breakfast, and you have to do everything I say.”

  “Everything?”

  “Yes”— Annie nods —“and you may now sit down.”

  Professor Rossi sits in his usual seat across from Annie at the table. Because it is such a special day (all birthdays are), Annie has already set the table and made breakfast — including toast and blueberry jam (her father’s favorite). She has even put his newspaper on the table (open to his favorite page, sports).

  “As you can see,” Annie says, “someone has been hard at work this morning.”

  “Yes, and I certainly am impressed.” (Her father is impressed!) “Looks good enough to eat,” he adds, passing the jam to Annie.