Anastasia's Chosen Career (2 page)

With the paper in her hands, she opened the door to her room and called down the stairs.

"Mom? Dad?"

No answer. Far below, on the first floor, she could hear the television. They were watching
Hill Street Blues,
their favorite TV show.

Anastasia went down to the second floor, tiptoed past the bedroom door where Sam was sleeping, and then went partway down the stairs to the first floor. She sat down on the stairs, pressed her face against the railing, and called into the study.

"Mom? Dad?"

Her mother came into the hall from the study and looked up at Anastasia. "What?" she asked.

"Mom," Anastasia said, "you said that you and Dad would talk over what I asked you, about going in to Boston all by myself on the bus during school vacation. Did you? Did you talk it over?"

Sounds of gunshots came from the television. Mrs. Krupnik was standing there, but it was obvious to Anastasia that her mother hadn't even listened to her question. Her mother was listening to the television. Talk about supportive parents.

"To take that course, Mom. Remember?"

"Katherine!" Dr. Krupnik called urgently. "They've taken Bobby Hill hostage!"

"Go on back, Mom," Anastasia said with a sigh. "I'll discuss it with you at breakfast."

Anastasia read the paper again as she wandered back up to the third floor to get ready for bed. She had had it memorized for several weeks, but still she read the words over and over.

"Frank?" she said. She looked over at her goldfish. Frank opened and closed his mouth several times, very slowly. If Frank could talk, Anastasia thought, he would say nothing but "Oh. Oh. Oh."

"Frank," Anastasia told him, "if my parents will let me go all by myself into Boston on the bus during school vacation next week—"

Frank flipped his translucent tail and executed a languid somersault through the water.

"And they'd
better
let me, because I'm old enough—I'm thirteen, after all—well, then my school vacation isn't going to be at all boring. Because I'm going to do something absolutely incredible! And educational, too. And to prepare me for my chosen career: how about
that,
Frank?"

Frank stared at Anastasia and moved his mouth again. "Oh. Oh. Oh," he said silently, as if maybe he knew something that she didn't.

Anastasia sighed, opened her notebook, and began to work on her school project.

Anastasia Krupnik

My Chosen Career

After a great deal of careful thought about my future, I have chosen a career which will be exciting, glamorous, and

Mrs. Krupnik shook her head apprehensively. Her hair was tied back with a piece of yellow yarn, and she was wearing her plaid bathrobe.

"I don't know, Anastasia. Dad and I
have
talked about it, and we don't entirely agree. It really sounds risky to me. Sam, quit playing with your eggs.
Eat
them, please."

"I'm making a mountain," Sam said. He piled another forkload of scrambled eggs on top of the mound he'd fashioned on his plate. "When it's all made, then my fork will ski down.
Then
I'll eat it."

Mrs. Krupnik looked at her watch. "Sam, your carpool driver will be here in ten minutes. Think of all the exciting stuff you're going to do at nursery school this morning. Eat your breakfast."

Carefully Sam reached over to the sugar bowl, took a spoonful of sugar, and sprinkled it on top of his scrambled-egg mound. "Snow," he said happily. "Snow on my skiing mountain."

Anastasia carried her own empty plate to the kitchen sink. "
Mom,
" she said, "I am thirteen years old. Practically adult. What's risky about a practically adult person going alone to Boston on the bus in broad daylight?"

Mrs. Krupnik frowned and sipped her coffee. "I keep remembering what that guy says at the beginning of
Hill Street Blues.
He gives everybody their assignments, and then he looks very solemn, and he says—" She took another sip of coffee. "Myron, what does he say when he sends them all out after roll call?"

Dr. Krupnik looked up from the newspaper. "'Remember,'" he said in a serious voice, "'Be very, very careful out there.'"

"Right." Mrs. Krupnik picked up a piece of toast and began to spread some raspberry jam on it. "There's all sorts of crime and violence in cities, Anastasia." She looked over at Sam. "
Sam!
Stop it!"

Sam was sprinkling more and more sugar on his egg mountain. "Blizzard," he said blissfully.

Anastasia tried very hard to be patient and reasonable, because she knew that if they got into a big argument she would lose. "Mom," she said, "and Dad. I
am
a very, very careful person. I've been in Boston a million times, with you guys. I know my way around. I don't ever speak to strangers. The bus goes right to the corner of Tremont Street and I'd only have to walk two blocks. It would be daylight. They said on the news that the mayor has cracked down on the drug dealers in Boston Common—"

"The
what?
" Mrs. Krupnik asked in an astonished voice.

Whoops. That had been a mistake, mentioning drug dealers, Anastasia realized. Parents wanted to think that thirteen-year-old people had never heard about drug dealers.

"Actually," Anastasia said hastily, "I was referring to last summer, when there was a small problem with crime in the city. But now the mayor has solved that.

"And you know," she went on slyly, changing her tactics a little, "I have this very important school project to work on. So this will give me a chance to do the research."

"Research?" her father asked, looking up from his paper with interest. "For school?" There was nothing her father liked more than the thought of one of his children doing research for school.

Mrs. Krupnik looked at her watch again. She got up and went to get Sam's winter jacket, which was hanging on a hook by the back door. "Sam," she said, "you now have about three minutes until your ride comes."

Sam aimed his fork into the top of his sugar-and-egg mountain, pried off a large forkful, and put it into his mouth. He made a terrible face. "I hate my eggs," he said.

Mrs. Krupnik sighed. "Here, Sam," she said. She handed him the half slice of toast she had left. "Eat this." She helped Sam into his jacket, pulled a woolen hat down over his curls, and thrust his mittens into his pockets. "There's Mrs. Harrington now, beeping her horn. Goodbye. See you at lunch." She closed the back door behind Sam and they all watched from the window as he climbed into the back seat of the nursery school car.

"Now
I
only have ten minutes before I have to leave," Anastasia said. "Please, Mom. Please, Dad. I really want to do this. And I have to make the phone call this afternoon."

"Anastasia, it is
so
much money," said her mother. "Your dad and I were hoping that after your summer job, after you put all that money in the bank, you would develop some sense of financial responsibility—you know, looking ahead to the future."

Anastasia tried to be patient. "Mom, I
told
you that this would be in preparation for a career. It would be
educational.
"

"Well," said Mrs. Krupnik. "Myron, what do you think?"

"I like the idea of school research," Dr. Krupnik said. "I wish
my
students would do research during vacations. What kind of research would you be doing?"

"My Chosen Career," Anastasia reminded him.

Her father's face brightened. "That's right," he said. "I forgot that you had that assignment. You were thinking about Bookstore Owner. I think that's a terrific idea."

"Actually," Anastasia told her father, "I've kind of changed my mind about Bookstore Owner. Now, since I want to take this course, I'm thinking more along the lines of—"

But her father was already reaching for the telephone book. "Let me check the address," he said. "There's a wonderful little bookstore on Beacon Hill, and I met the owner when my last book of poetry came out. She had a wine-and-cheese party there at the store, and an autographing."

"Dad," Anastasia said, "I've been thinking that—"

"Only three people actually bought the book," he muttered. "Forty-seven people came and forty-seven people drank wine and ate cheese, but only three bought the book. Still, she was a nice woman."

"Myron," Mrs. Krupnik said, "she could interview a bookstore owner right here in town. She doesn't have to go all the way into the city for that."

"Here it is," Dr. Krupnik said, with his finger on one of the yellow pages. "Mount Vernon Street. That's a good safe part of the city, if she goes in the daytime."

"Myron," said Mrs. Krupnik again. "She could go right down the street. There's a Waldenbooks right down the street."

"Mom," Anastasia pointed out, "there are a million Waldenbooks all over the country. Mr. Walden probably lives in New York or something. And what I need is a bookstore owner, if I'm going to do Bookstore Owner for My Chosen Career."

"Oh," said Mrs. Krupnik. "You're right."

"Anyway," Anastasia went on, "it's really the
other
thing that I want to do in Boston. It would be
so
self-improving," Anastasia exclaimed. "And I
need
self-improvement. Even if I were going to be a bookstore owner, I would need self-improvement."

Dr. Krupnik was dialing. "I hope she remembers me," he said. "Do you think a bookstore owner remembers someone whose book sold only three copies?"

But the bookstore owner did. She remembered him, and she said that she would be willing to be interviewed by Anastasia.

"At noon," Anastasia whispered to her father while he was on the phone. "At lunchtime. Because I'm going to be doing this
other
thing, too."

"Here you are," her father said after he had hung up. He handed Anastasia a slip of paper. "Her name and the address of the store. She'll see you at twelve-fifteen on Monday. She said you could have a sandwich with her, there in the shop, while you do the interview."

Anastasia looked at it. "So now I'm going to be a Bookstore Owner," she said.

"Right," her father told her, grinning. "And you'll have wine-and-cheese parties and autographings for poets. For your dad."

Anastasia folded the paper. "Well, if I promise to do that—and I promise to sell more than three copies—can I do the other thing,
please?
"

"Oh, all right," her father said. "At least it will keep you busy during vacation. It seems like a harmless enterprise to me. Katherine, what do you think?"

"Well," Mrs. Krupnik said dubiously, "okay."

Anastasia jumped up and hugged each of them. "Thank you!" she said. "I have such great parents! Greater than anybody's! You know what Sonya's parents said when she asked them if
she
could do it? They said it was incredibly low class and tacky and revolting and expensive and absolutely ridiculous. What do
they
know, right?"

***

"They're really letting you do it?" Sonya held her large notebook in front of her face so that Mr. Earnshaw wouldn't see that she was whispering. They were in study hall. "
Really?
"

Anastasia, behind her notebook, nodded. "I'm going to call this afternoon."

"How're you going to pay for it? It costs a fortune!" Sonya peered up to the front of the room, but Mr. Earnshaw was busy at his desk, correcting papers.

"Out of my savings account. I have the money I earned last summer—remember I worked for Daphne's grandmother? And also I have the money that my aunts and uncles send on my birthday every year; my parents always make me put it in the bank. So I have about three hundred dollars in my savings account. And this only costs a hundred and nineteen. Shhhh." Anastasia ducked her head and pretended to read her history book. Mr. Earnshaw had stood up and begun to prowl around the room.

After he had passed her desk and observed her diligently reading about the Battle of Bull Run, Anastasia unfolded the piece of paper and read it for the billionth time.

INCREASED POISE,
it said at the top.

Boy, thought Anastasia, I can sure use
that.
I have zero poise.

She remembered all the times that she had
needed
poise and it hadn't been there. The time, just recently, for example, when on Careers Day at the junior high, Anastasia had been assigned to guide the lady architect around the corridors of the school as she visited classes. Anastasia had practiced the night before, things she might say to an architect—
poised
things—and then, when she tried to say them, when she began, "Architecture interests me a great deal. My family lives in a Victorian house that was built in—" she had walked right smack into a glass door, practically wrecking her nose.

She was still embarrassed thinking about it, even though the lady architect had been very sympathetic and kind and had given her a Kleenex to hold against her fat lip, which bled a little.

INCREASED CONFIDENCE,
the paper said.

And if anybody needed increased confidence, it was Anastasia. If she'd had enough confidence, she would have run for Class Secretary. She really
wanted
to be Class Secretary. She really liked taking minutes. She liked the
word
"minutes." She wanted to write "Minutes" at the top of a page and then take notes. She would have done it better than anybody—certainly better than stupid old Emily Ewing, who had so much confidence that she had not only run for Class Secretary but had made posters that said