Anastasia's Chosen Career Page 8

  "But don't you think it's beautiful?" Anastasia asked.

  Mrs. Peabody frowned, looking at her daughter. "I have to get used to it, I guess," she said. Then she called to her grandchildren. "Jason! John Peter! You settle down now! We have company! You want Anastasia to think we're raising wild animals here?"

  The little boys ignored her and continued tickling each other and shrieking with laughter.

  "Henrietta, you go wake up your daddy and tell him dinner's almost ready." Henry left the kitchen and Mrs. Peabody turned back to the stove. "He's working the night shift this week, so he slept all day. He's going to take you home when he leaves to go to work," she explained to Anastasia. "Sit down and make yourself comfortable."

  Anastasia took a chair at the big kitchen table. It felt something like her own house: the warm, friendly, good-smelling kitchen; the little boys, just Sam's size, playing on the floor; the potholder mitten hanging from a magnet on the refrigerator door. She noticed a teapot shaped like a little house, exactly like a teapot that her own mother had.

  Wait till I tell Mom, she thought, about how a black family here in Dorchester has a teapot exactly like ours. I thought we were the only people in the whole world with that teapot.

  Wait till I tell Mom and Dad and Sam that Henry's father is a policeman—just like Bobby Hill on Hill Street Blues—and that once he actually aimed a gun at someone.

  Suddenly Anastasia had a terrifying thought. Henry's father was going to take her home on his way to work. That meant that she—Anastasia Krupnik—would be driven right up her own driveway in a police car. Maybe the blue lights would be flashing. She would be riding with someone who had a gun in a holster on his hip. The police radio would be on. What if a call came in—an emergency—and he had to stop along the way and arrest a criminal? Then she—Anastasia Krupnik—would be riding in the police car, probably in the back seat, and there would be a metal grille separating her from Henry's father, and she would be sitting beside a hardened criminal. Of course the criminal would be in handcuffs. But maybe, even with the handcuffs on, he could grab her. Take her hostage. He could say to Henry's father, through the grille, "Unlock these handcuffs or I will kill this thirteen-year-old girl."

  Then Mr. Peabody would do it, of course. Mr. Peabody was the kind of guy who had nightmares after he aimed his gun at someone. So of course out of concern for Anastasia's life he would have to stop the car and unlock the handcuffs.

  Then Anastasia would be in the clutches of an unhandcuffed hardened criminal.

  It wouldn't be Henry's father's fault, she thought sadly, feeling terribly sorry, partly for him, because he would be stricken with the helplessness and guilt, but mostly for herself and the fate that lay in store.

  Probably Mr. Peabody would aim his gun at the guy. But she—Anastasia Krupnik, innocent victim—would be in front of the criminal. He would have one arm around her neck; maybe the other would be holding a knife to her throat.

  I suppose Henry's father could radio for a SWAT team, she thought, the way they sometimes did on TV. She wasn't exactly certain, though, what a SWAT team was or what it was supposed to do. Heck, if they just came and swatted at the criminal—the way her mother sometimes swatted at Sam's behind when he was being naughty—what good would that do?

  Anastasia stared glumly at the teapot that was just like her mother's and wondered whether she would ever see her mother's teapot again. She wondered whether she would ever get to Thursday's classes at Studio Charmante. Thursday was Fashion Consultation. Anastasia needed Fashion Consultation. Everybody else in the class would be getting Fashion Consultation, and she—Anastasia Krupnik, innocent victim—would probably be bound and gagged in a deserted warehouse someplace, still wearing these same old jeans.

  Her thoughts, which had become sadder and sadder, were interrupted when Henry reappeared. "This is my dad," Henry said cheerfully. "Dad, this is my friend Anastasia."

  Anastasia looked up. Mr. Peabody smiled and reached out his hand to shake hers. He wasn't wearing a gun. He wasn't even wearing a uniform. He was wearing corduroy pants, just like her father's, and a dark green sweater.

  "Hi," he said. "I'm glad to meet you, Anastasia."

  "I'm glad to meet you, too," she said. Then she gulped. "I, ah, I don't know what to call you. Is it Officer Peabody?"

  He laughed. "How about Frank?" he suggested. "That's my name."

  "I have a goldfish named Frank!" Anastasia exclaimed.

  Oh, great, she thought instantly. Talk about dumb. Telling a policeman that your goldfish has his name.

  But Frank Peabody was laughing. So was his wife. So was Henry.

  "Guess what!" Anastasia burst through the door to her father's study. Her parents both looked up from their books.

  "What?" they asked in unison.

  "A policeman brought me home! But he wasn't wearing a gun, and he wasn't in a police car—it was just an old car like ours, Dad, and he said it always needs lots of repairs, same as ours—so there were no blue lights flashing and no radio. Well, yes, there was a radio, but I meant that it wasn't a police radio, so there weren't any emergency calls, and we didn't have to stop and arrest anyone, and he wasn't wearing a uniform because he changes at the station—"

  Her parents looked concerned. "Hold it," her father said. "Slow down. What do you mean, a policeman brought you home? I thought your friend's father was bringing you home."

  "Henry's father is a policeman! Isn't that neat? Just like Bobby Hill. Exactly like Bobby Hill. He even looks like Bobby Hill! But he has never once shot anyone. He only aimed his gun one time, and after that he had nightmares.

  "And her mother," Anastasia went on, "is a waitress. Poor Mrs. Peabody, her feet get so swollen from being a waitress that she has to soak them when she gets home, but tonight she wasn't soaking them, because today was her day off, so today she was babysitting for these cute little boys; one is named Jason, and one is named John Peter—"

  She paused to take a breath. "And we had pot roast, and it was delicious. Mom, it was even better than your pot roast, because Mrs. Peabody's pot roast gravy doesn't have one single lump in it. Not even one tiny lump; do you believe that? She says that the secret is to blend the flour in real slowly, with a fork, and never stop stirring, not for one single second.

  "And you know what else? I forgot to do my interview again, but it doesn't really matter, because Barbara Page is the world's worst bookstore owner—she gives stuff away all the time; wait till you see what she gave me, and wait till you hear what she gave Henry—and she let me answer the phone, and I sold a book, and wait till you hear what book I sold. You'll really freak!

  "And tomorrow is Fashion Consultation! I thought I'd miss it because I thought I'd be in an abandoned warehouse with old rags stuffed in my mouth so I couldn't even scream, but I'm not! So I get to go to Fashion Consultation tomorrow! And you should have seen me this morning, Mom and Dad, when we practiced walking, because I was just like a giraffe; it was soooo funny! Barbara Page says that giraffes are her favorites, and she ought to know, because she went on safari in Africa—"

  Anastasia flopped down on the couch, exhausted.

  "And I haven't even told you yet about the amazing coincidence of the teapot," she added.

  Dr. Krupnik pushed back the sleeve of his sweater and looked at his watch. "Katherine," he said, "it's ten o'clock. Do you know where your children are?"

  Katherine Krupnik shook her head slowly. "The little one's in bed," she said. "But the other? I haven't the foggiest idea."

  "Ha ha," Anastasia said. "The other one is headed up to her bedroom to rewrite her school assignment for the ninth time."

  Anastasia Krupnik

  My Chosen Career

  There are a lot of good things about being a bookstore owner that you might not be aware of until you have done a lot of research.

  1. Men don't stare at you.

  2. Your feet don't get all swollen up and you don't have to soak them.

  3. You don't hav
e to carry a gun.

  4. Or a briefcase.

  11

  "Do you think this is an okay outfit to wear on the day we're having Fashion Consultation, Mom?" Anastasia stood beside the kitchen table at breakfast, and posed. She was wearing clean jeans and a dark blue sweat shirt that said ski your buns off across the chest. "This shirt is sort of a lie because I don't even ski. But it's one of my favorites."

  "Sure. I don't think it matters what you wear because they'll want to start from scratch. It's like going to the beauty parlor. You don't trim your own hair first. You let them start from square one."

  Anastasia's father looked up from the newspaper. "I've been trying to tell you that for years, Katherine," he said. "You always clean the house the day before the cleaning lady comes. That makes no sense at all."

  "Of course it makes sense," Katherine Krupnik said. "I don't want her to think I'm a slob."

  "That's right, Mom," Anastasia agreed. "And I don't want Aunt Vera and Uncle Charley to think I'm a slob."

  She looked down at herself. Like all of her jeans, these had patches. Her sweat shirt had frayed cuffs. "Of course I am a slob—that's the whole trouble," she said.

  "No, you're not," her mother told her. "When you're dressed up, you look great. And those clothes aren't slobbish—they're just casual. You look fine. Really."

  Relieved, Anastasia sat down and began to eat.

  The main room at Studio Charmante was arranged differently that morning. The chairs were set up in a semicircle, and several large mirrors were propped against the walls. All five kids—even Helen Margaret—kept looking at themselves in the mirrors. It was hard not to.

  Aunt Vera talked for a while about colors and color combinations and different styles of clothing. She held up a lot of pictures illustrating Casual (but it was tweed and cashmere, not at all what Anastasia's mother had told her was casual), Sophisticated, Executive Look, Fun and Far-Out. It was all pretty boring.

  But then the interesting part started. A woman wearing Executive Look—a dark gray suit and a cream-colored silk blouse—arrived, and Aunt Vera introduced her as Fashion Coordinator from Filene's. Her name was Sarah Silverman.

  Anastasia liked that. She always liked names with matching consonants, like her mother's: Katherine Krupnik. She could never figure out why her parents hadn't given her a name that began with "K." Kim, maybe. Kimberly Krupnik. Instead of, yuck, Anastasia.

  Even matching ending consonants would be okay, she thought. Like Henry Peabody: those two matching "y's" at the end of her two names really gave it a neat sound.

  Anastasia tried to think of a name that ended in "k," a first name that would go with Krupnik.

  Rick. Rick Krupnik.

  Jack. Jack Krupnik.

  Mick, maybe. Or how about Spike? Like Spike Owen on the Red Sox. It didn't matter that it was a guy's name—look at Henry; she had a guy's name, and it sounded great.

  Spike Krupnik. Anastasia said it to herself several times. She wondered how her parents would feel if she changed her name to Spike.

  "Anastasia? Are you listening?" Sarah Silverman, the Fashion Coordinator, was leaning toward her with a questioning look.

  "Oooops. Sorry. I was daydreaming, I guess," Anastasia said, embarrassed.

  Sarah Silverman smiled. "I was explaining," she said, "that I've brought a variety of clothes with me from the store. Aunt Vera told me the sizes. Now I'm going to take each of you in turn and analyze your coloring and type. Then we'll try different outfits, and you'll see how your whole look can change."

  "Do we get to keep the clothes?" Henry asked.

  Sarah Silverman shook her head. "No. I'm sorry. But we can offer you a ten percent discount on the regular price, if there's anything you want to buy."

  "Rats," Anastasia whispered. "I can't afford anything."

  "Neither can I," Henry whispered back.

  "Who wants to go first?" Sarah Silverman asked.

  "ME!" Bambie Browne was already standing up.

  "All right." Sarah Silverman stood beside Bambie in front of the group. She cupped her hands around Bambie's chin and tilted her face toward the light.

  "Bambie has a typical redhead's coloring," she said. "Pale skin and green eyes. We'll try a few cool colors on Bambie."

  "I don't really care about looking cool," Bambie said. "In the entertainment field it's more important to look—"

  "I didn't mean that kind of cool," Sarah Silverman said. "I meant blues and greens. We call those cool colors, as opposed to—well, it's complicated to explain. Trust me.

  "Now," she went on, "since Bambie has a tiny weight problem—"

  "We had our Diet Counseling on Tuesday," Aunt Vera explained. "And Bambie's going to start watching the calories."

  Bambie blushed.

  Aunt Vera took Bambie off into the dressing room. Anastasia and Henry watched, bored, as Bambie returned wearing a pair of green tweed slacks and a bulky green sweater. Actually, she did look pretty good dressed in the new clothes.

  "Did you bring jewelry?" Bambie asked. "I'd like a whole lot of gold jewelry. When I do one of my monologues, especially in front of TV cameras, I think there should be a lot of bracelets flashing during my gestures."

  "Your gestures?" Sarah Silverman asked.

  Bambie demonstrated. She recited a few lines from something and her arms moved about. She looked like a puppet.

  "Oh," said Sarah Silverman. "Well, I'm afraid I don't have jewelry with me. But I see what you mean. Probably, though, you wouldn't be wearing slacks and a sweater if you were doing a, ah, monologue on TV."

  "Oh, of course not," Bambie said. "I have my costumes specially made. I have a Scarlett O'Hara outfit, and I have a Little Mary Sunshine, and I have a Poor Little Match Girl, and then of course my Juliet—"

  Sarah Silverman nodded. "Well, Filene's certainly can't compete with that," she said. "But let's stick with regular clothes now, Bambie. I'm going to put a wonderful plaid coat over that outfit now. It'll look great with that red hair."

  When she had finished with Bambie, she selected Robert and stood beside him.

  "Now Robert, too, has to work on his weight a bit," she said. "But he has—"

  Robert interrupted. "I'm expecting my growth spurt any time now," he said. "And I'll thin out then. My pediatrician told my mother I would."

  Anastasia poked Henry and they both tightened their mouths to restrain their laughter.

  "Great," Sarah Silverman said. "And in the meantime, Robert, you still have lovely dark hair and that wonderful, clear olive skin. Let's see how you'll look in some really smashing sportswear."

  Uncle Charley led Robert off to the dressing room. Anastasia was in the middle of a yawn when he returned, and she almost choked when her yawn turned into a gasp. Robert Giannini in designer jeans, an enormous red and yellow plaid shirt with huge shoulder pads, and a golf hat: it was the most astounding thing she'd ever seen.

  Henry put two fingers into her mouth and gave a piercing whistle. Robert blushed, grinned, and attempted once again to do a cheetah-like walk.

  Anastasia found herself hoping, for Robert's sake, that even with the 10 percent discount he couldn't afford to buy that outfit. It did look somewhat sensational here in the privacy of Studio Charmante. But if Robert Giannini showed up in his seventh-grade classroom wearing designer sportswear with giant shoulder pads—well, Anastasia shuddered to think what might happen.

  Robert clumped about, preening, and then he said to Sarah Silverman, "What's your opinion of a Miami Vice look, for someone who doesn't yet have chest hair?"

  Bambie was admiring her own fingernails. Helen Margaret was looking at the floor. Henry hooted loudly and grinned. But Anastasia wanted to die. It would be bad enough to hear a zoo keeper, talking about gorillas, mention chest hair, which was certainly one of the grossest things in the whole world. To hear Robert Giannini talk about chest hair was absolutely unbearable. Anastasia looked at the ceiling and tried to think about some subject that wouldn't have any
thing to do with chest hair. Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. She thought about Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood as hard as she could so that she couldn't hear Sarah Silverman talking to Robert.

  Finally Robert was back in his seat, wearing his own Giannini-style clothes again. In an odd way, it was reassuring to see him looking normal—even if normal meant dressed like a wimp.

  "Now," Sarah Silverman said, looking around, "Helen Margaret."

  Helen Margaret had been sitting silently as Bambie and Robert modeled their clothes. But now she ducked her head, wrapped her arms around herself as if for protection, and whispered, "I don't want to."

  "It's fun," Bambie said. "Come on. She has a gorgeous dress hanging in there, just your size."

  Helen Margaret shook her head back and forth. "No," she whimpered.

  Robert turned to her. "I know how you feel," he said, "because I really felt like a jerk standing there with everyone looking at me. But you just have to laugh at yourself. It really is fun. Come on."

  Everyone in the room said encouraging things until finally, reluctantly, Helen Margaret stood up. She looked terrified. Her shoulders slumped. Her eyes were on the floor.

  "You're a very pretty girl," Sarah Silverman said in a kind voice. "And Bambie was right, that I have a gorgeous dress intended for you. Aunt Vera described each of you to me, and now that I see you, I know I've chosen just the right clothes."

  Helen Margaret looked up at last. She stood woodenly, with a frightened expression, while Sarah Silverman analyzed her appearance.

  "Helen Margaret is so tiny, so fragile," she said, "that one of those big shirts or sweaters would overwhelm her. So I've chosen pastel colors and fine, delicate fabrics for her. Aunt Vera, could you take her in and help her with that pale blue dress?"

  Aunt Vera took Helen Margaret by the hand and led her to the dressing room.

  "When she comes out," Sarah Silverman said to the others, "she will take your breath away. It's too bad she's so shy because she has an exquisite look."