Mary Anne and the Memory Garden

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Letter from Ann M. Martin

  Acknowledgment

  About the Author

  Scrapbook

  Also Available

  Copyright

  “Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!”

  Sharon was singing so loudly that Tigger, my gray-striped kitten, bolted out of the kitchen into our living room. He leaped into my lap and buried his little head under my arm to shut out the noise.

  Why was my stepmother singing Christmas carols in January? Partly because they’re some of the few songs to which she (sort of) knows all the words. And partly because our holiday decorations were still up.

  Dad used to put the tree up one week before Christmas, and he always made sure it was down and the ornaments were neatly packed away before the new year. But ever since he married Sharon, he’s become a lot more relaxed. Now we put the tree up the day after Thanksgiving and I love it!

  Dad has always liked his life to be neat and organized. His books are arranged alphabetically and his socks by color. Every morning Dad drinks precisely one and a half cups of coffee before heading off to work at his law firm.

  Sharon, on the other hand, is pretty disorganized. She’s been known to put the milk in the cupboard and the scissors in the refrigerator. Her style of housekeeping is relaxed at best. When she cooks, Sharon manages to dirty every pan in the kitchen. But you know the old saying — opposites attract. Dad and Sharon prove it. They’re very happy together, and that makes me happy.

  Before I tell you any more about my family, I should probably tell you about myself. I’m Mary Anne Spier. Age: thirteen. Height: average. (Okay, shorter than average.) Hair: brown and short. Eyes: brown. If you were to look for me at a school dance, you might not find me on the dance floor. The thought of dancing in front of people paralyzes me; I’m just too shy. You’d probably find me off to the side talking to my friends, or to my boyfriend, Logan.

  I know it may be hard to imagine that someone so shy could have a boyfriend, but it’s true. Logan Bruno and I have been in love — or at least, extreme like — practically since the day we met. Logan looks just like Cam Geary, the star (at least, I think so). He’s got sparkling blue eyes, curly, brownish-blond hair, and a charming Kentucky accent.

  For the past two days, Logan had been teasing me about our Christmas decorations. Because we put everything up so early, the wreath on the front door had turned almost completely brown, and the Christmas tree was drooping so much it looked as though the branches had lost the strength to hold up their ornaments. Which is why Logan was coming over — to help me take down the tree.

  “Mary Anne!” Sharon called from the kitchen. “I found another one of Dawn’s earrings.”

  “Give it to me, and I’ll put it in the box with her nightgown, sweater, and barrette,” I called back.

  Dawn Schafer is my stepsister. She used to live with us, but she doesn’t anymore. I really miss her.

  You see, even before Dawn was my stepsister, she was one of my best friends. If we hadn’t been friends, Dad and Sharon might never have gotten back together. (Notice I said back together?)

  Shortly after we first met, Dawn and I were looking through our parents’ old high school yearbooks. That’s when we discovered that my dad and her mom used to date. And not just casually. They were in love, big time. But Sharon’s parents didn’t think Dad would amount to much (boy, were they surprised when he became a lawyer!), and they made Sharon stop seeing him. So Dad and Sharon went their separate ways, and married other people.

  Dad and Mom were very happy together, but sadly, she died when I was just a baby. My grandmother, Verna Baker, tells me that I look and act just the way my mother did when she was my age. I can tell I remind Dad of my mother, too, because he sometimes gets this sad, misty expression when he’s looking at me.

  For the longest time it was just Dad and me, living together in a little house on Bradford Court. I told you he was organized and a major neatnik, but I didn’t mention that there was a time when he was very strict. Overprotective is another way to put it.

  I used to have to dress in really babyish clothes. I could only wear my hair in braids, and I was never allowed to talk on the phone for more then a few minutes at a time. I know he was doing what he thought he had to do as a single parent. But boy am I glad that’s changed.

  All this time Dawn was growing up with her family in California. After Dawn’s mom and dad divorced, Sharon brought Dawn and Dawn’s younger brother Jeff back here to Stoneybrook. Jeff had trouble adjusting and returned to his dad quickly. Dawn loved her friends in Connecticut, but hated the cold winters, and she missed her family and friends in California, too. She finally decided she’d be happier living with her dad (and his new wife, Carol) in California.

  Dawn writes me constantly, and we talk on the phone a lot. She even spent a few days with us at Christmas, and we had a blast. I think that’s another reason I wanted to keep the Christmas decorations up. They reminded me of the fun Dawn and I had over the holidays.

  When I talked to Dawn on New Year’s Eve, she told me she was celebrating with Sunny Winslow, her best friend in California.

  I spent New Year’s Eve with Kristy Thomas, my best friend in Connecticut. We’ve known each other since we were in diapers. I can only remember a few New Year’s Eves we didn’t spend together. That night we were doing one of the things we love — baby-sitting. We watched Kristy’s stepbrother and stepsister, Andrew and Karen, and her adopted sister, Emily Michelle. But I’ll tell you more about them later.

  Kristy had said she might come over today to help Logan and me with the decorations. Kristy likes to keep busy and was getting anxious for school to start again. So was I.

  “In the meadow we can build a snowman.”

  Sharon had switched to a new song. I wondered if she’d still be singing Christmas carols in February.

  I gently shooed Tigger off my lap and moved to the kitchen door. “I’m going to put away the decorations today,” I announced.

  “So soon?” Sharon opened the dish towel drawer and deposited a frying pan inside.

  I waited until Sharon turned back to the sink and then moved the frying pan to the cupboard. (There’s a lot of my father in me.) “I wish we could keep them up forever,” I said, “but if we wait any longer, I’m afraid this house will be declared a fire hazard.”

  “We don’t want that,” Sharon replied, drying her hands on a potholder. “This place pushes the limits as it is.”

  Sharon was referring to the fact that our farmhouse is two hundred years old and, naturally, is mostly wood.

  When Dad married Sharon, he and I moved in here with Sharon and Dawn, because this house was much bigger than our old house on Bradford Court. Practically before we’d unpacked our suitcases, Dad decided we needed more smoke alarms. Now we have one in every room.

  “Do you know where the storage box is?” I asked, helping Sharon put away the dishes.

  “I’m sure it’s in the attic.” Sharon passed me several cereal bowls. “I think it’s marked Table Linens.”

  That didn’t surprise me one bit. Sharon has her own filing method, which has nothing to do with traditional logic.

 
“There used to be a red tablecloth inside,” she explained. “But I lost that years ago.” She paused for a moment. “It may still be in California. But the box is here.”

  “In the attic?” I asked with a gulp. The attic is not exactly my favorite place. It’s dark and musty, and jammed full of old furniture and boxes. With the cobwebs and creaky floorboards, it is very easy to imagine a ghost living up there. (Yikes!)

  Speaking of ghosts, Dawn swears this house has one. But not in the attic; in the secret passage. (I’m serious.) We actually have a passage that leads from Dawn’s room to the barn. We think it may have been used to help slaves escape to freedom along the Underground Railroad.

  “I think I’ll wait until Logan is here to find the box.” It’s not that I think a boy would be less scared than me. It’s just nice to have someone hold your hand when you walk up that dark flight of stairs searching for the light switch.

  “And speaking of boxes,” I added, “do you want me to mail Dawn’s package? Logan and I could bring it to the post office this afternoon.”

  “That would be terrific.” Sharon gestured toward a plate piled high with cookies on the kitchen table. “I just finished a fresh batch of honey granola snaps. I thought I’d slip in a dozen or so, since they’re one of Dawn’s favorites.”

  Notice Sharon didn’t mention that they were one of my favorites? That’s because they’re not. Sharon and Dawn are practically vegetarians, and they eat a lot of healthy dishes made with tofu (ew) and seaweed (ick).

  Dad and I prefer plain, simple steak and potatoes. And when it comes to cookies, I love good old-fashioned chocolate chip.

  Ding-dong!

  “That must be Logan,” I exclaimed. “But what’s he doing here so early? He wasn’t supposed to come until noon.”

  Sharon tapped the clock on the microwave. “It’s twelve o’clock on the dot!”

  Where had the time gone? I had planned to spend the morning getting my clothes ready for school and cleaning my room. Instead, I’d been sitting in front of the fireplace, daydreaming.

  Kristy and I had made lists of resolutions on New Year’s Eve. But I brought mine home that night and promptly lost it. (Sometimes I think Sharon’s absentmindedness is contagious!) It wasn’t until two days later that I found it, under the throw pillows on our couch.

  Here’s what I wrote:

  It was item three on the list that caused me to daydream for so long. Ever since Dawn left, I’ve really depended on my other best friend, Kristy. She’s confident and outgoing and not afraid of anything. I’ve often wished that I could be more like her.

  I wasn’t aiming for a big change in my personality, I just wanted to be a little more confident about meeting new people. There are quite a few kids at school whom I like, but would like to know better.

  Ding-dong.

  “Oh, no!” I raced for the door. I was daydreaming again, and poor Logan was probably freezing on my front porch.

  When I opened the door, Kristy was standing next to Logan. She was dressed in her trademark sweatshirt and jeans. Her straight brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which poked out the back of her baseball cap.

  They both looked a little embarrassed.

  “Have you got a broom handy?” Kristy asked.

  “What for?” I asked.

  Logan grinned sheepishly. “Kristy and I decided to take your wreath off the front door.”

  He held up a ring of bare twigs. Then Kristy pointed to a pile of brown needles by her feet and winced. “The whole thing just fell apart.”

  They both looked so mortified that I burst out laughing.

  I think the three of us giggled our way through the rest of the afternoon. Every time we tried to get serious, something silly would happen.

  For example, when Logan found the decorations box in the attic. It wasn’t labeled Table Linens, as Sharon thought. It was marked Car Repair Kit.

  Or when Kristy reached to remove an ornament from a branch of the tree and accidentally broke off the entire limb.

  Tigger added to the hilarity, chasing an ornament into one of the Christmas stockings and getting tangled up inside.

  In between giggles, we devoured Sharon’s granola cookies (they’re not bad when you’re hungry) and talked about returning to school. All and all it was a fun day, the perfect end to our Christmas vacation.

  “Thirty-three right. Twenty-one left. Thirty-six right.”

  I tugged on my combination lock but it didn’t open.

  “What?” I checked the number above my head just to make sure I hadn’t gone to the wrong locker. One thirty-two. That was my locker, all right. But why wouldn’t it open?

  Stoneybrook Middle School (SMS) can be a real zoo. Especially after a break. Today it seemed as if there were twice the usual number of students in the hall, and they were all talking at the tops of their lungs. Maybe that’s why I was so confused.

  There I stood, with one hand on my lock, and the other trying to balance my notebook, new pencil case, science book, math book, and gym suit. Kids were racing past me to their homerooms, and the clock was ticking.

  If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being late for class. Everyone stares at you, including the teacher. Of course my face turns beet red and I feel like crying or throwing up or both.

  “Thirty-six right, twenty-one left, and thirty-three right.”

  Tug. Nothing again. How could I have forgotten my locker combination? We’d only been out of school for two weeks. It wasn’t as if it were two years.

  “Having a problem?” a voice asked as my books slowly slid out of my arms and hit the floor.

  I didn’t even need to look. I recognized the voice. It was Alan Gray, one of my least favorite people at SMS. Alan thinks he’s the class clown. I think he’s the class pain. He never misses an opportunity to point out that you have a glob of ketchup on your blouse, or that your hair is messed up, or that you did something stupid when you thought no one was looking. I decided I’d try being honest with him. Maybe it would confuse him, and he’d leave me alone.

  “I can’t remember my locker combination,” I confessed, turning back to try it once more before the bell rang.

  Just to make me more tense, Alan peered over my shoulder. “You’d better hurry or you’re going to be late.”

  “Gee, Alan,” I muttered. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

  Alan continued to breathe down my neck as he watched me carefully turn the dial. “Thirty-three. Twenty-one. Thirty-six.”

  “Aha!” he bellowed, nearly breaking my eardrum. “You forgot to turn it twice to the left.”

  I stared down at the lock. Alan was right. I had forgotten. I tried it once more and voilà! It opened. “Thanks for the help, Alan,” I said, very sincerely. “I needed it.”

  Alan actually blushed. “Uh, no problem.”

  It was then that I realized the halls were almost empty, which meant I probably had less than a minute to shove my books in the locker, grab my English book, and race all the way to room 216.

  “Hurry! Hurry!” Alan goaded as he jogged alongside me. “You’re not going to make it, you’re not going to make —!”

  Brrrrring!

  The bell drowned out the rest of his words and my entrance into class. I made a beeline for my desk and slid into my chair just as the bell finished ringing.

  Mr. Blake, my homeroom teacher, called roll while I tried to get my heart back to its normal pulse rate. Finally I felt calm enough to look around the room. It was amazing. My class looked as if it had just stepped out of a fashion magazine.

  Everyone was wearing something new: flashy gold earrings, cool new jean jackets, bright white sneakers, wool sweaters and skirts. I was wearing the Christmas present my friend Claudia Kishi (whom I’ll tell you about later) had given me. I’m usually a pretty conservative dresser, but this was a vest Claud had found at a vintage clothing store. She’d decorated it with funky pins and a burgundy silk rose corsage. I loved it.

  I was wearing the ves
t, along with my denim skirt and a white blouse Dad had given me for Christmas.

  When Mr. Blake finished calling roll, he moved to the first row of seats. “All right, everyone has thirty seconds to tell us about their entire Christmas vacation. I’ll start.”

  He took a very deep breath and told his entire story without taking another breath of air.

  “I took my family to Vermont to go skiing, we’d been looking forward to it all year; I had a brand-new pair of skis, a new ski sweater and gloves, we’d rented a condo for a whole week; I couldn’t wait to hit the slopes but before I could even put my skis on, I tripped and sprained my ankle, and spent the entire vacation on crutches in the lodge.”

  Mr. Blake turned to Bruce Schermerhorn. “Your turn.”

  Bruce hadn’t sprained his ankle but his family did miss their plane to their grandmother’s and very nearly missed Christmas.

  Here’s what I said in my thirty seconds: “Dawn came for a visit and we decorated everything in the house, even the barn. We took cookies to some of our favorite baby-sitting charges and on Christmas Day we built a bunch of snowmen and dressed them in our old Halloween costumes. Then we roasted marshmallows in the fireplace and Sharon made a vegetarian meatloaf (ew!) and Dad cooked some steaks (yum), then Dawn went back to California and I miss her.”

  My voice was getting pretty squeaky by the end of my story, which made me blush (of course!) and the kids laugh. But I didn’t mind that much because everyone sounded funny.

  Homeroom whizzed by, and before I knew it I was taking a nice leisurely walk to my English class. It was fun seeing kids I hadn’t seen all vacation, but my conversations started to sound a little like a broken record.

  “Hi, Bea,” I called when I passed Bea Foster. “How was your vacation?”

  “Great. How was yours?”

  I waved to Josh Freeman, a sixth grader who is the younger brother of my friend Amelia. “Hi, Josh, how was your vacation?”

  “Great,” Josh replied. “How was yours?”

  After I had pretty much the same exchange with Amanda Martin, Bill Torrance, and Dorianne Wallingford, I almost wished someone would answer, “Terrible. Was yours as rotten as mine?” just for a little variety. But I guess everyone was happy to have had a vacation.