Read Online Anastasia Again! by Lois Lowry - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lois Lowry
Tags: Ages 9 & Up
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12, so I wrote down 12."
"Okay. I'm 12, too." She wrote it down.
"Then you write down the day of the month your birthday is on. Mine's September 20th, so I wrote down 20.
"Mine's 9. October 9th."
"Now add those together. Next you add today's date."
"What's today?"
"The 16th. Add 16."
"Okay."
"Now add your favorite TV channel. Mine's 5."
"Mine's 56. I like the old movies on Channel 56."
"Okay, add 56."
"Then what?"
"This is the last one. You add the last three numbers of your phone number. Mine are 058."
"I know," Anastasia said. "I just dialed them."
"Now," said Robert triumphantly. "Look at the number you end up with—and then look at the alphabet. There's your future!"
"I don't understand."
"I came out with 111. So look at letter 1 and letter 11. A and K. Your initials, Anastasia!"
Anastasia made a face. "You're weird, Robert."
"What number did you get?"
Anastasia checked her addition. "370." She looked at
the alphabet. "C and G. Big deal. I don't know a single person with those initials. Unless Clark Gable is going to come back from the grave."
There was a silence. "Well, maybe if you liked some other TV channel. Walt Disney's on Channel 4 on Sunday nights. Don't you like Walt Disney?"
"Yuck. Robert, this is really a dumb system you invented."
"Well, it worked for
me.
" She could tell from Robert's voice that he was mad.
"I'll do it again tomorrow when the date is different. Maybe by tomorrow I'll like a different TV channel, too."
"Okay," Robert muttered.
"I have to go now, Robert."
"I might ride my bike out to see you. I looked on the map, and it's not too far."
"Okay," said Anastasia. "But call first. Because I might be busy with my new friends or something."
She felt like a rotten person after she hung up. But honestly. Robert was such a jerk. Your age. The date. Your favorite TV channel. Your phone number. All of those things
change,
for pete's sake. How could anybody know anything about the future
ever,
when everything changes all the time?
Anyway, she thought suddenly, if you
did
know the future, there wouldn't be any
surprises
left.
Back in the kitchen, her parents were measuring the windows so that her mother could make curtains.
Once, several years ago, her parents had had a huge fight about sewing. Anastasia's mother had suddenly
said, one day, that she didn't see why she automatically did all the mending and sewing. She was sewing some buttons onto something at the time and had just pricked her finger with the needle, and she had the tip of her finger in her mouth, sucking it, when suddenly she got mad.
"This is the most sexist household in Cambridge," she had announced angrily. "Why is it that the wife gets stuck with the sewing? Myron, you do some of the
cooking.
Will you tell me one good reason why you don't
sew?
"
"Because I don't know how," Dr. Krupnik had said, chewing on his pipe.
"I'll teach you, then."
"Thank you, but I don't
want
to know how to sew."
Her mother sat there for a minute, sucking her finger, looking madder and madder. "In that case," she said, finally, "thank you, but I don't want to do any laundry anymore. Ever."
"In
that
case," said her father, "I don't think I want to be an English professor anymore. I have always, if you must know, wanted to be a beachcomber. So I think that from now on I will walk on empty beaches—all alone, by the way—and recite poetry to myself. Of course that means that there will be no more paychecks."
Anastasia's mother folded the shirt which was still missing two buttons, very neatly, and laid it on the table. "As a matter of fact,
I
have been wanting for a long time to go to the Cotswolds and live in a small cottage with a thatched roof—all alone, by the way—and paint."
Anastasia had scurried away to her room, terrified. If her father became a beachcomber—all alone—and her mother went to the Cotswolds, whatever the Cotswolds were—all alone—what would happen to Anastasia?
But after a while, she heard her
"Okay. I'm 12, too." She wrote it down.
"Then you write down the day of the month your birthday is on. Mine's September 20th, so I wrote down 20.
"Mine's 9. October 9th."
"Now add those together. Next you add today's date."
"What's today?"
"The 16th. Add 16."
"Okay."
"Now add your favorite TV channel. Mine's 5."
"Mine's 56. I like the old movies on Channel 56."
"Okay, add 56."
"Then what?"
"This is the last one. You add the last three numbers of your phone number. Mine are 058."
"I know," Anastasia said. "I just dialed them."
"Now," said Robert triumphantly. "Look at the number you end up with—and then look at the alphabet. There's your future!"
"I don't understand."
"I came out with 111. So look at letter 1 and letter 11. A and K. Your initials, Anastasia!"
Anastasia made a face. "You're weird, Robert."
"What number did you get?"
Anastasia checked her addition. "370." She looked at
the alphabet. "C and G. Big deal. I don't know a single person with those initials. Unless Clark Gable is going to come back from the grave."
There was a silence. "Well, maybe if you liked some other TV channel. Walt Disney's on Channel 4 on Sunday nights. Don't you like Walt Disney?"
"Yuck. Robert, this is really a dumb system you invented."
"Well, it worked for
me.
" She could tell from Robert's voice that he was mad.
"I'll do it again tomorrow when the date is different. Maybe by tomorrow I'll like a different TV channel, too."
"Okay," Robert muttered.
"I have to go now, Robert."
"I might ride my bike out to see you. I looked on the map, and it's not too far."
"Okay," said Anastasia. "But call first. Because I might be busy with my new friends or something."
She felt like a rotten person after she hung up. But honestly. Robert was such a jerk. Your age. The date. Your favorite TV channel. Your phone number. All of those things
change,
for pete's sake. How could anybody know anything about the future
ever,
when everything changes all the time?
Anyway, she thought suddenly, if you
did
know the future, there wouldn't be any
surprises
left.
Back in the kitchen, her parents were measuring the windows so that her mother could make curtains.
Once, several years ago, her parents had had a huge fight about sewing. Anastasia's mother had suddenly
said, one day, that she didn't see why she automatically did all the mending and sewing. She was sewing some buttons onto something at the time and had just pricked her finger with the needle, and she had the tip of her finger in her mouth, sucking it, when suddenly she got mad.
"This is the most sexist household in Cambridge," she had announced angrily. "Why is it that the wife gets stuck with the sewing? Myron, you do some of the
cooking.
Will you tell me one good reason why you don't
sew?
"
"Because I don't know how," Dr. Krupnik had said, chewing on his pipe.
"I'll teach you, then."
"Thank you, but I don't
want
to know how to sew."
Her mother sat there for a minute, sucking her finger, looking madder and madder. "In that case," she said, finally, "thank you, but I don't want to do any laundry anymore. Ever."
"In
that
case," said her father, "I don't think I want to be an English professor anymore. I have always, if you must know, wanted to be a beachcomber. So I think that from now on I will walk on empty beaches—all alone, by the way—and recite poetry to myself. Of course that means that there will be no more paychecks."
Anastasia's mother folded the shirt which was still missing two buttons, very neatly, and laid it on the table. "As a matter of fact,
I
have been wanting for a long time to go to the Cotswolds and live in a small cottage with a thatched roof—all alone, by the way—and paint."
Anastasia had scurried away to her room, terrified. If her father became a beachcomber—all alone—and her mother went to the Cotswolds, whatever the Cotswolds were—all alone—what would happen to Anastasia?
But after a while, she heard her
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