Mallory Pike No.1 Fan Read online

  There it was! I'd been right. It was just as I'd said to Claudia the other day. Most people write about themselves. It made me so eager to know more about Henrietta Hayes. What a happy, funny person she must be! Would she ever write back to me?

  I sighed so loudly that the librarian shot me a warning glance.

  Well, there was no sense worrying about it. Instead, I had to make the best use of my time while I waited. The best thing I could do was start writing my own play. What would I write about, though?

  I looked again at the book open in front of me, quickly rereading the opening paragraph. That's when it hit me. Like Henrietta Hayes's address, the perfect subject was right in my own home. The Pike family! Chapter 5.

  A sick feeling churned in my stomach four days later as I stood in my front hall and read the words in front of me. Dear Reader, Thanks so much for your lovely letter. .

  What did it take to get through to this woman?

  No wonder she replied so fast. She didn't even read her letters! If she'd read my letter she'd have known I was getting desperate! I'd nearly finished reading Alice Anderson's Greatest Challenge. As in the previous books, Alice never let anything defeat her. Last night I had read a chapter in which Alice storms into a producer's office and demands to be allowed to audition for the role in a big movie. The producer is so impressed with her spunk that he agrees.

  With Alice in mind, I ran upstairs and grabbed a notebook. I also snapped up the questionnaire I'd prepared in order to be ready the very moment Ms. Hayes contacted me. I put them in my pack and hurried back downstairs.

  "Where are you going?" Mom called to me from the kitchen as I pulled on my jacket and headed for the front door.

  "To Morgan Road," I replied firmly.

  "What's on Morgan Road?" Mom wanted to know.

  "I'm going to find Henrietta Hayes," I called over my shoulder as I swung out the door.

  In the garage, I grabbed my bike and pedaled to the street. A few minutes later, I turned onto Burnt Hill Road. I spotted Mary Anne in her yard, raking leaves.

  "Hi," she called to me. I really didn't want to be delayed. (I worried I'd lose my nerve.) I just waved and kept going. When she realized I wasn't stopping she called out, "Where are you going?" "To meet Henrietta Hayes," I called back.

  "Good luck!" she shouted. At the last BSC meeting I'd told my friends about Henrietta Hayes living on Morgan Road. Mary Anne had told me then that 312 had to be all the way at the end of Morgan Road since the house nearest Burnt Hill Road was only number 80.

  Burnt Hill Road is some hifi! I breathed hard as I pumped past the old barn behind Mary Anne and Dawn's house. (There's a secret pas56 sage which leads from Dawn's bedroom out to the barn. Isn't that cool?) By the time I reached the top of the hill, I was panting like crazy. (I told you I'm not exactly a super athlete.) I still had a way to go. Luckily, the rest of the road curved downhill.

  Well, not exactly all downhill. There were small ups and downs along the way.

  Morgan Road was the fifth left turn off Burnt Hill Road. It was winding and hilly, too. Eventually, though, I reached 310 Morgan Road. It was a big, fancy house. So was 314, the next house I came to. What had happened to 312?

  Then I spotted a narrow dirt path which led into a cluster of trees. I peered in, trying to see what lay behind the trees. The trees were too close together, though. On a hunch, I turned my bike down the path.

  Soon, I entered the line of trees. There, in the woods, stood 312 Morgan Road. Henrietta Hayes certainly didn't live in a castle. But I liked her house. It was a cozy-looking onestory, mostly brown wood except for a stone chimney up the side. A screened-in porch on the right led to a wooden deck with several bird feeders on it.

  I got off my bike and I walked it up the stone path leading to the house. For a second, I almost lost my nerve, feeling more like chicken Mallory Pike than indomitable Alice Anderson. Breathing a gulp of air for courage, I pressed on to the front door.

  I didn't see a doorbell anywhere, so I pulled open the screen door and knocked hard on the heavy wooden insidedoor. Then I quickly shut the screen door and stepped back. I didn't want Henrietta Hayes to think I was walking right into her house or anything like that.

  I waited. . . and waited. Finally, I decided that Henrietta Hayes wasn't home. I took my questionnaire from my pack. I'd leave it inside her screen door, along with a note.

  I leaned up against her house and began writing my note. At that moment, the door opened. Dropping my pad, I jumped back, startled.

  "Can I help you?" asked the short, petite woman in the doorway. She wore brown-framed glasses with thick lenses, which made it hard to see her eyes. Her pale face would have looked young except for the fine wrinkles lining it. She had thick gray and brown hair which was cut to her chin, and a bit on the messy side. She was dressed simply, in a gray sweater and black slacks. I guessed her age to be somewhere in her fifties. It was hard to tell exactly. I've never been too good at guessing how old adults are.

  "I'm Mallory Pike," I said, sure that my name would be familiar to her after three letters.

  An amused smile formed on Ms. Hayes's lips. I hoped I hadn't sounded stupid. "How can I help you, Mallory?" "Didn't you get my letters?" I blurted out. Ms. Hayes looked at me, and her expression didn't reveal anything.

  She thinks I'm a maniac, I told myself, losing hope. My idol now thinks I'm a complete nut case. I've ruined everything.

  "I can't say I remember your letters at this very moment." Henrietta Hayes spoke slowly. "But since you're here, why don't you come in?" My tight, anxious shoulders relaxed. I should have known it took more than one awkward eleven-year-old fan to unnerve the author of Alice Anderson. "Thank you," I said as graciously as I could manage. I picked my notebook up off the ground, fumbled my questionnaire back into my pack, and stepped inside the home of the world's greatest living author. (The greatest in my opinion, anyway.) I liked her simply furnished home. The couch and chairs were wood-framed with cushions in deep, rusty shades of brown, gold, and red. On her golden brown walls hung large works of art. Some were prints by artists I recognized, such as Van Gogh and Renoir. Others were original paintings and sketches by artists I didn't know.

  "Would you like some tea?" Ms. Hayes offered.

  "No, thanks," I said, not wanting to be a bother.

  "Some hot chocolate then?" I didn't want to be rude, either, so I agreed. "That would be nice, if it's not too much trouble." "No trouble," said Ms. Hayes. She left the living room and went into her kitchen, across the hail. I wasn't sure if I should follow her or stay put. I took a chance and followed her into a country kitchen with white cabinets and a yellow and white tile floor.

  A large picture window looked out onto her yard. Gazing out the window, I saw she had a flower garden, though most of it was now turning brown. Only a patch of orange and yellow chrysanthemums still bloomed.

  "So, what brings you to my door?" asked Ms. Hayes as she put a bright blue tea kettle on the stove. Somehow it seemed so right that Henrietta Hayes wouldn't own a microwave oven, which is what we use to make hot water in our house.

  "Well, I wrote you some letters about it," I began. "I know you received them, because I got replies from you, but . . ." I stopped, because I didn't want to sound as if I were complaining - even though I was complaining.

  "But you got a form letter back," Ms. Hayes said sadly.

  "Well, yes." "I feel so bad about those letters, but I'll tell you, Mallory, mail became quite a dilemma for me. I used to try to answer all my letters personally, and as a result a great many letters went unanswered. There were simply too many. Answering them all took up every bit of my time. So, after a while I started putting them aside for a moment when I would have some time, and that time never came. I'd feel terribly guilty. When I finally said, I must answer these this minute, I'd look at them and find that some were nearly a year old. I felt foolish writing things like, 'You may remember that you wrote me almost a year ago.

  .' I had t
o come up with a solution, and that solution was the form letter." "That makes sense," I said.

  "I can imagine how unsatisfying it must be to receive a reply like that," Ms. Hayes went on, taking lovely pink teacups from her cabinets. "Yet it's better than being ignored, don't you think?" "Oh, yes," I agreed. "That would be worse." - "Of course it would," said Ms. Hayes. "So, now tell me what you wrote to me." "I guess that means you didn't read my letter," I said. "I thought maybe you hadn't." "I would have read it eventually," Ms. Hayes assured me as she set out the cups. "But I can't guarantee when. See those?" She nodded to a willow basket filled with blank stamped envelopes which sat on a table in the corner. "The moment a letter comes in, I look at its return address. I write the address on one of those envelopes - each one has a form letter inside - and put it right into the mail. After that, I set the letter aside to read when I can. I do treasure the letters. They mean so much. They're very encouraging." "Good thing I came here, then," I said. "By the time you read my letter it would have been too late." "Too late for what?" Ms. Hayes asked.

  "For my report." I told her every detail of what had happened: from my discovering her books, to Mr. Williams' rejecting my proposal, to my coming up with the brilliant idea of improving the project by including her in it, and then to my being inspired by Alice Anderson to come to her house myself.

  Ms. Hayes clapped her hands with delight at the last part. "So Alice inspired you, did she? How wonderful. You don't know, Mal62 lory, how happy that makes me. That's exactly what I wanted Alice to do - inspire girls to take life head on, and not let anything get in their way. Oh, you have really made my day. Thank you, Mallory." "You're welcome," I said. "Thank you for writing about Alice." Ms. Hayes smiled just as the kettle let off a high pitched whistle. "Let's get going on that project of yours," she said gamely, shutting off the flame and pouring water into our cups.

  "Are you sure you have time?" I asked.

  Ms. Hayes laughed, as she stirred in the hot chocolate mix. "Would Alice have asked that?" "No, I guess not. Okay. Here's my first question . . ." As I went down my list, Ms. Hayes answered every question. I learned that she wrote for four hours every day. Then she spent two more hours working on outlines for new projects.

  "That, to me, is the hardest part," she admitted. "I find the writing fairly easy. Ideas are often more difficult to come by." She told me that her ideas came from life combined with imagination. "Sometimes I put real people I've observed into situations I've created with my imagination," she explained.

  I longed to ask her if she was Alice or Alice's mother. Somehow, though, sitting there faceto-face, it seemed like too nosy a question.

  Instead, I stayed with easier questions such as, "How did you feel when you saw your first play performed?" "Terrible," Ms. Hayes admitted. (I'd expected her to say she felt great.) "It wasn't nearly as terrific as I'd thought it was when I'd finished writing." "That was 'Vacation at Frog Pond'?" "Yes! You've really done your homework, Mallory." "I know all the titles of your books and plays," I told her. "I'm not finished with the entire 'Alice Anderson' series yet but pretty soon I'll be finished. Are you working on something new?" "Always," Ms. Hayes said with a smile. She tapped her forehead. "I can't seem to turn this thing off." "I hope it's another Alice book," I said.

  "No, it's not," Ms. Hayes said, sipping her hot chocolate. "You'd like to see another, would you?" "Very much," I said. "I can't stand the idea of never finding out what happens to Alice, you know, in her life and all." Ms. Hayes looked at me in the same blank way she had when she'd met me in the doorway. "You may have given me an idea," she said after a moment.

  "What?" I asked.

  Ms. Hayes waved her finger. "No, no. I never talk about my ideas until they're on paper. Talking about them has a way of making them die out on me. I'm not sure why." "All right, then don't tell me," I said quickly. I went on and finished my questions. I scribbled Ms. Hayes's replies down so fast my hand hurt after awhile. "Thank you so much, Ms. Hayes," I said when I had asked my last question. "I really, really appreciate this." - "You're welcome, Mallory," said Ms. Hayes, frowning.

  "Is something wrong?" I asked.

  "No, it's just that I'm not sure I've given you a good sense of what the life of an author is really like," she said.

  "I do have a lot more questions if you ever have any more time to spare," I dared to say. "I mean, I'm sure I could think of a lot more questions. There's so much I'd like to know." "You know, Mallory, I have an idea. How would you like to earn a little money?" "I already do - I mean, I baby-sit - but what were you thinking?" I asked as I stood up.

  "I'm in the middle of two big projects right now. I could use an assistant around here for the next three weeks. It wouldn't be too hard - filing, a little typing, maybe making some phone calls for me. Then you could see for yourself what my workday is like. Would you be interested?" "Oh, Ms. Hayes," I gasped. "I am so interested you wouldn't believe it! Yes! Yes! Absolutely!" I felt so overwhelmed I had to lean on a kitchen chair a moment for support. I would be working for my favorite author. This had to be a dream. But it wasn't! Up until now I knew I wanted to be an author, but I really had no idea how I'd get my books published. By working as Ms. Hayes's assistant I'd learn how it was done. And I'd be able to ask Ms. Hayes questions. She could give me advice about how to improve my work and who to send it to. This was a giant step forward on the road toward becoming a real author.

  "This is terrific, Mallory," said Ms. Hayes. "I needed an assistant, and here you are. It's as if fate brought you here." Fate! What an author-like thing to say.

  She was right, though. It was fate.

  At that moment I had the sense that my life was about to change forever.

  Chapter 6.

  The very next afternoon I reported for my first day as Ms. Hayes's assistant. "Here's where I work," she said, showing me a small room with a very large wooden desk, on which sat an electric typewriter.

  "You don't use a computer?" I asked.

  "Oh, I know I should," Ms. Hayes said with a laugh, stepping into the room. "But I can't quite deal with the idea. To me, this typewriter seems like high technology. I bought it only last year and I still can't believe how amazing it is. I can read two sentences on this print display here and change them as much as I like before printing." I nodded and decided that when I knew Ms. Hayes better I would offer to teach her how to use a computer word processing program. Mom showed me how and it's not that hard.

  Bookshelves lined the back wall of the office from floor to ceiling. The top three shelves were all books by Henrietta Hayes. "That's where I keep my author's copies of my own work," Ms. Hayes explained, when she saw me staring at the books. "The next three shelves contain books written by friends of mine, and below that are books I love to reread from time to time." "Wow! You know Amelia Moody!" I exclaimed, noticing her copy of Nitty Gritty Meatballs on the fifth shelf down.

  "Amelia is a dear friend of mine," said Ms. Hayes. "She visited me just last week." "Gosh," I murmured. I wondered how many other wonderful, famous authors would be dropping by to visit Ms. Hayes. Maybe I would be here when they dropped by. The thought of it gave me goosebumps.

  Next to Ms. Hayes's desk was a very large willow basket cluttered with official-looking papers and fat typewritten manuscripts. Ms. Hayes picked it up. "This is the first thing I'll need you to do," she said. "These desperately need to be filed. I can't cram another thing into this office so I keep the filing cabinets in a different room. Come with me." I followed Ms. Hayes back out into the hall. We went down three brown-carpeted stairs to a large room with a stone fireplace. The sliding glass doors set in the far wall looked out onto the woods. A long wooden table stood not far from the door. Behind it were three wooden filing cabinets. Ms. Hayes set the basket on the table.

  "The best way for you to proceed, Mallory, will be to make piles here on the table. Sort everything by project title, which you'll almost always find somewhere on the paper. If you can't tell where something belongs
, put it in a 'Don't Know' pile and I'll look at it later. If the phone rings, please answer it and take a message. Or let my machine pick it up. I don't speak to anyone during my writing time." As she spoke, I noticed a small room off the family room we were in. The door was ajar and I could see in. It appeared to be a girl's bedroom. Pink ruffled curtains hung on the window. They matched the pink bedspread on the twin bed. "Is that your daughter's room?" I asked.

  Ms. Hayes's pale skin took on an almost gray color. "My daughter?" "That just looks like a girl's room so I thought. .

  Ms. Hayes whirled around toward the door. She stared into the room for a moment, then pulled the door shut firmly. "The cleaning lady must have left that open," she said, annoyed.

  "I didn't mean to be nosy or anything," I began, my voice coming out all trembly.

  "No, it's all right. It's fine," Ms. Hayes said sharply. She took a few breaths to compose herself. "I apologize if I seem agitated. Yes, that room belonged to my daughter, Cassie. She's dead now." Dead! I had that same feeling you get when someone hits you hard in the chest with a snowball that you didn't even see coming. It's a combination of shock, hurt, and anger. I was angry at myself for opening my big mouth. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Hayes," I said.

  Ms. Hayes waved her hand briskly as if to make the subject go away. "Thank you. But I'd rather not talk about it. It's too . . . I just never do talk about it." "Sure," I said.

  "At any rate, this filing should take you about two hours, I would think. When you're done, please come and get me in my office." "All right," I agreed.

  After Ms. Hayes left, the room suddenly seemed extremely quiet. In my house, quiet is something you never hear. Even at night the refrigerator hums, the old hall clock ticks, and occasionally a car passes on the street. There are always doors opening and shutting as someone makes a trip to the bathroom or to the kitchen. But at that moment, there in Henrietta Hayes's home, there was complete, absolute silence.