Mary Anne and the Secret in the Attic Page 5

  I skipped lunch so I wouldn’t have to sit with my friends. I knew I wouldn’t be able to laugh at any of Kristy’s nauseating jokes about the cafeteria food, or pay attention to Dawn when she talked about some cute boy in one of her classes. I also didn’t want to face Logan, and explain why I hadn’t come to the phone the night before. It was easier to hide out in the library, reading Wuthering Heights for the millionth time and nibbling at my sandwich.

  When school ended, I told Dawn I wouldn’t be walking home with her because I wanted to clean out my locker. She gave me a weird look, but luckily she didn’t question me. I dawdled for as long as I could, and then walked home slowly, kicking a stone the whole way. When I got home, I went right to my room and stayed there, patting Tigger and staring out the window over my bed.

  At five o’clock I heard a knock on my door. “Mary Anne,” said Dawn. “It’s almost time for our meeting. Want to walk over to Claud’s with me?”

  Oh, no. Of course, it was Wednesday. I’d forgotten that we had a BSC meeting. Now I was going to have to sit in Claud’s room and pretend everything was normal. I knew there was no way I could get out of going; I’d been at school that day, so I couldn’t pretend to be sick. But I did not want to walk to BSC headquarters with Dawn and have her question me about my weird behavior.

  “No, I’m finishing up my book report,” I lied. “I’ll ride my bike over as soon as I’m done.”

  “Okay, see you there,” she said. I heard her run down the stairs. I almost called after her, to ask her to wait for me. I had a sudden impulse to tell her everything. Maybe I would be relieved to talk about it. But then I heard the front door slam, and the impulse passed. Better to keep it to myself for now, I figured. I didn’t want to deal with other people feeling sorry for me — I was having enough trouble dealing with my own feelings.

  I lay staring into space for another fifteen minutes, and then realized I’d better get going if I didn’t want Kristy to be mad at me. She hates when any of us members is late for a BSC meeting. I hopped onto my bike and pedaled over to Claud’s, headed inside (none of us have to knock, we’re expected), and sprinted up the stairs. I arrived in Claud’s room a little out of breath, but just in time to hear Kristy say, “Order!”

  Kristy was sitting in the director’s chair, as she always does. She nodded at me as I took my regular seat on Claud’s bed, between Dawn (who was wearing her new turquoise jumpsuit) and Claudia. Stacey (wearing the pink twin to Dawn’s jumpsuit) was sitting in Claud’s desk chair, drawing on her sneaker with a fancy felt-tip pen. Jessi and Mal sat near her. Jessi was putting tiny braids into Mal’s hair. “This’ll look incredibly cool after you sleep with them in,” she said. “Trust me.”

  “I trust you,” said Mal. “I just don’t trust my hair. I never know what it’ll do.”

  “Ahem,” said Kristy. I could tell she was about to make some official-sounding statement about the meeting having begun, but just then the phone rang. Kristy, Stacey, and Claud all dove for it. I just sat there.

  “Hello?” said Stacey. She’d grabbed the phone first. “Baby-sitters Club.” She listened for a moment. “Sure, Mrs. Rodowsky. We’ll call you right back.” She hung up. “Mrs. Rodowsky needs a sitter for Friday afternoon and evening.”

  There was a silence. I realized everyone was looking at me, as though they expected something of me. I blanked out for a second.

  “Mary Anne,” said Kristy. “We’re waiting.”

  Waiting? For what? I looked down at my hands, trying to gather my thoughts. Then I saw the record book, which was sitting on my lap. I felt like a total jerk. “Uh, just a second,” I said, flipping it open. “That’s Thursday the twelfth, right?”

  “Not Thursday,” said Kristy. “Friday. Mary Anne, what’s the matter? Are you okay?” She looked at me closely.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Just fine. Now, let’s see. It looks like Jessi and Dawn are the only ones available.”

  “But I can’t do it,” said Jessi. “It’s not just for the afternoon, and I’m not allowed to sit at night.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “Okay, then, so Dawn has the job.” I marked her name into the calendar, and Stacey called Mrs. Rodowsky back.

  I looked up and saw that Kristy was still looking at me. She seemed puzzled. “Mary Anne, you’re off in outer space,” she said. “What’s up?”

  It figures that the one time Kristy would decide to be extra-sensitive would be the one time I didn’t wish to talk about my problems. “I’m really fine,” I insisted. I gave her my best “corners-up” smile.

  “I thought she’d had a fight with Logan,” said Dawn. “She’s been like this since last night. But I talked to him today, and he said they were getting along just fine.” She shook her head.

  “Maybe she’s upset about something that happened at school,” suggested Jessi.

  “No, she’d have told me,” said Dawn.

  I listened to them talk about me as if I weren’t there. And you know what? It didn’t really even bother me, because I felt like I wasn’t there. Pretty soon the phone rang, and they dropped the issue.

  “Mrs. Perkins!” said Claud, who had answered the phone. “How are the girls? I haven’t seen them in a long time.” She listened for a minute. “Myriah has a loose tooth,” she told the rest of us, relaying the information, “and Gabbie and Laura just got over the chicken pox.” She listened again. “Sure,” she said. “I’ll get back to you in a minute.” She turned to me. “Mary Anne,” she said, “Mrs. Perkins is looking for somebody for Saturday — not Friday, but Saturday — afternoon.” Her eyes twinkled. She was making fun of me, in a friendly sort of a way.

  I checked the schedule, told her who was available, and penciled in Mal’s name once we’d decided that she should have the job. I was beginning to function a little better.

  “I hear Myriah’s class is doing a great project for Heritage Day,” said Stacey. “They’re going to make a mural about Old Stoneybrook, and it’s going to be on display at the fair. Some of the fifth-graders are helping them.”

  “You know,” said Kristy, “I’ve been thinking about Heritage Day. The reason for having it is to raise money for the Historical Society, right?”

  “That’s true,” said Claud. “I’d kind of forgotten about that. Everybody’s so caught up in their projects that the fund-raising has almost been forgotten. But my mom says the Historical Society really needs money for renovating that old sawmill.”

  “Well,” said Kristy. “I think the BSC should contribute somehow. Like have some kind of a booth.”

  “Great idea!” said Claud. “How about a face-painting booth? I love painting little kids’ faces, and they look so neat walking around afterward.”

  “Face-painting is fun,” agreed Dawn. “But it doesn’t have much to do with the history of Stoneybrook. We should do something historical.”

  “Like what?” said Mal. “I was thinking of a bake sale. I suppose we could bake stuff from colonial recipes —”

  “Too much research,” said Jessi. “Let’s keep it a little simpler.”

  “I know,” said Stacey. “Last time I was in New York, I saw these people with big cardboard cut-out figures of people like the President and Bart Simpson. They’d take your picture with the figure, and it would come out looking like you had posed with the real person. It was cool!”

  “I love it!” said Claud. “I’m sure we could make our own cut-outs.”

  “It sounds like fun,” said Kristy. “But Bart Simpson and the President don’t have much to do with Stoneybrook. Who else could we make?”

  “How about figures from the history of Stoneybrook?” said Mal. I nodded. That sounded like a great idea. Even I couldn’t help feeling a little excited about a new BSC project. I wasn’t ready to participate exactly, but at least I was paying attention.

  “Like maybe Old Hickory?” said Jessi.

  “Yeah!” said Kristy. “And maybe Sophie. Remember? The girl in that old painting we found in Stacey�
��s attic?”

  “How about George Washington?” said Claud. “And Martha, too. I don’t know if he was ever in Stoneybrook, but there’s a big sign in Greenvale saying ‘George Washington slept here’ — and Greenvale’s only thirty miles away. That’s close enough, isn’t it?”

  Stacey looked excited, but just as she was about to get into the discussion, the phone rang and she grabbed it. She talked for a minute before hanging up, while everybody else kept offering suggestions for our cut-outs. “That was Dr. Johanssen,” she said. “She feels awful, but something came up and she can’t take Charlotte to the parent-child picnic. Mr. Johanssen can’t go either. Charlotte was kind of hoping I could take her, but I can’t. I already have a job that day. Who else is available?”

  I checked the book, without having to be reminded this time. “I guess I’m the only one,” I said.

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic,” said Stacey. “Are you sure you’re okay, Mary Anne? You’ve barely said a whole word the whole meeting.”

  “I’m fine,” I replied, for what felt like the thousandth time. “And I’ll be glad to take Charlotte to the picnic.” I was even gladder that it was six o’clock by then. Our meeting was over, and I could go back to my room and stop having to pretend to be fine.

  As I rode my bike home from the meeting, I thought how strange it had been to be with my friends — and yet not to be with them. It was as if I’d been observing my friends; as if I were some kind of anthropologist. Do you know what that is? We learned about anthropologists in my social studies class. They are scientists who study people’s behavior. Some of them visit tribes who live deep in the jungle, and observe the way they live their lives. The anthropologists document the way the tribespeople bring up their children, how they behave when they’re in love or at war — that kind of stuff. Anyway, at the BSC meeting I’d felt like an anthropologist observing the ways of the typical American teenage baby-sitter.

  You probably think I am pretty strange.

  I was even beginning to think I was strange. I realized that it was time for me to rejoin the human race — as a member, not just as an observer. And I knew that the only way to do that was to tell someone what I’d been going through. Maybe if I shared it, got it out in the open, I could start to deal with it.

  I decided to call Logan. I knew he must be wondering what was going on, since I hadn’t talked to him in days. I hadn’t been fair to him.

  As soon as I got home, I headed for the den. Dawn had gone on to the Pikes’ to help Mal sit for her brothers and sisters. Dad was making dinner in the kitchen, and Sharon was doing something upstairs. I didn’t know how long I’d have the den to myself, so I picked up the phone right away and dialed Logan’s number. I was feeling pretty nervous about talking to him, but as the phone rang at his house I kept telling myself that I was doing the right thing.

  “Hello?”

  Oh, no. Logan hadn’t answered the phone. It was his mother, instead. “Hi, Mrs. Bruno,” I said. “This is Mary Anne. Is Logan there?”

  “Hi, honey,” she said. (Mrs. Bruno has this great Southern accent, just like Logan’s. The Brunos moved here from Louisville, Kentucky.) “No, I’m sorry, he’s not. He’s just out doing an errand for me, though. He should be back any minute.”

  “Could you ask him to call me when he gets in?” I asked. “It’s — it’s kind of important.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll pass on the message. I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear it.”

  “Thanks,” I said. After I hung up the phone, I rubbed my sweaty palms on my pants. I hadn’t been so nervous about talking to Logan since we first started to go out! I sat right there on the couch, waiting for the phone to ring. Mrs. Bruno had said that Logan would be back any minute. I picked up a magazine and flipped through it, but I couldn’t concentrate.

  I rehearsed what I would say to Logan when he called. “Logan, I’m sorry I’ve been so distant recently. It’s just that I found out the most terrible thing. My own father gave me away when I was a little girl!” Logan would ask a million questions. He probably wouldn’t believe me at first, and I’d have to tell him about the letters. Then he’d want to know why I hadn’t stayed with my grandparents. “I don’t know,” I’d say. “I guess my father decided he wanted me after all. But my grandparents wanted me, too — and maybe they still do. I might have to move to Maynard, Iowa!”

  Logan would probably be just as upset as I was, but I was sure he’d find something soothing to say. And maybe he could help me figure out what to do next, now that I knew about the Big Secret of my past.

  I sat there, biting my nails and waiting for the phone to ring. Where was Logan? His mother had said he’d be back any minute. I checked the clock. That had been seven minutes ago. Maybe he’d gotten into some kind of trouble on his way home. Maybe he was hurt. I shook my head. I knew I was getting carried away. Then I had another thought. What if he was already home, and he wasn’t calling because he was mad at me for not speaking to him lately? My stomach felt like it was tied in a big knot. Maybe I should call him again, and apologize really quickly before he could hang up on me. I reached for the phone.

  Just as I touched the receiver, the phone rang. I nearly jumped out of my seat. I grabbed the phone, thinking quickly about what to say to Logan. But before I could say anything, I heard my father say, “Hello?” He must have picked up the extension in the kitchen. I was just about to say, “It’s for me, Dad,” when I heard a tiny, creaky voice at the other end. “Richard?” it said. “Is that you?”

  That didn’t sound like Logan. I should have hung up right away — I know it isn’t right to listen in on other people’s conversations — but I was curious. Who belonged to that voice? It was one I’d certainly never heard before.

  My father sounded as if he didn’t recognize the voice, either. “This is Richard Spier,” he said. “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Richard, this is Verna Baker.”

  My father didn’t say anything for a second. I wondered if he was as shocked as I was to hear that name. I almost dropped the phone. I had to put my hand over the receiver so that neither of them could hear my breathing, which was suddenly kind of loud. Verna Baker! My grandmother.

  “Verna,” said my father finally. “Well. It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes, it has,” she answered. “A very long time. Mary Anne must be — how old now? Twelve?”

  “She’s thirteen,” said my dad.

  “Thirteen years old,” mused my grandmother. “I can’t imagine what she looks like.”

  Wow. That meant that Dad hadn’t even sent them a picture for a long time. He probably hadn’t had any contact with my grandparents for awhile.

  “More like her mother every day,” said my father.

  Another shock! He’d never told me that.

  My grandmother sighed. “I’m calling, Richard, with some sad news. Bill passed on last week — a coronary.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said my father.

  “I’m sorry, too,” said my grandmother. “I’m sorry he didn’t get to see his granddaughter again before he passed away.”

  She sounded mad.

  “My understanding was that the two of you decided it would be better that way,” said my father. He was working hard to be patient.

  “That was our original decision,” said my grandmother. “But it wasn’t an easy one — and I’m not sure anymore that it was the right one.”

  “What do you mean?” asked my father.

  That was exactly what I would have asked. What did she mean? Did she mean she was sorry she’d given me back?

  “I mean that the loss of Mary Anne has been a heartache for both of us for all these years.”

  “I’m sorry,” said my father again. He sounded kind of helpless.

  “I want her to come here,” said my grandmother.

  What? I couldn’t believe my ears. This was exactly what I’d been afraid of.

  “What?” asked my father, echoing my
thoughts.

  “I want her to come to me,” said my grandmother. “l don’t want to die without seeing her. She is my only living flesh and blood now.”

  “Well, I don’t know, Verna,” said my father. “Mary Anne is a happy, well-adjusted girl. She doesn’t remember anything about that time, and I’d rather keep it that way. Bringing up the past would only be painful for everyone.”

  “Richard, you haven’t changed a bit,” said my grandmother. “You’re as stubborn as ever. You got your way all those years ago, and I want to get my way now. I can be just as stubborn as you. I want Mary Anne to come to Maynard.”

  “Verna,” said my father. “I’m sorry about Bill. He was a good man, but I can’t let you do this. Mary Anne stays here.”

  I was so happy to hear Dad say that.

  “I won’t take no for an answer, Richard,” she said. “We’re going to have to work this out, just like we did before.”

  At that point, I was too upset to listen anymore. I hung up the phone gently, hoping neither of them would hear the click. Then I sat back on the couch and let out a deep breath. If I’d felt confused and scared before, it was nothing compared to how I was feeling now. My whole life was in the balance. I’d lived in Stoneybrook ever since I could remember. All my friends were here, and all the family I knew — or cared to know. And now it looked as if I could spend the rest of my life in Maynard, Iowa, with an old lady who was a complete stranger to me. And she wasn’t the nicest old lady, either. She didn’t sound like a kindly cookie-baking grandmother. She sounded like a rock-hard negotiator who was going to go after what she wanted. And what she wanted was me.

  I couldn’t even cry.

  “Mary Anne?” Dawn had come into the den. “I just got back from the Pikes’. What’s the matter?”