Read Online Anastasia Has the Answers by Lois Lowry - Free Book Online
Authors: Lois Lowry
Tags: Ages 9 & Up
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a terrible face.
"It's not
you,
sport," he said. "You're doing just fine. It's the poem. That poem is sentimental garbage. Why don't they assign you something great to memorize?"
"Like what? It has to be something uplifting."
He stared at her with a puzzled look. "Why uplifting?"
Anastasia shrugged. "I don't know. Because these people from other countries are visiting, and we're supposed to be real patriotic and happy and enthusiastic and uplifting."
"Like Nazi Youth?"
"
Dad!
Cut it out!"
Dr. Krupnik began to fill his pipe. "Sorry," he said. "I don't know why I said an obnoxious thing like that. Isn't it amazing how sometimes obnoxious remarks just
appear
out of your mouth without any warning? I'd better keep my mouth shut. But I
do
think it's one of the worst poems ever written. That's a matter of taste, of course."
Anastasia had giggled. "Yeah. Like Sam's favorite poem is 'Popeye the Sailor Man.'
Standing, now, in front of her English class, Anastasia wondered briefly what would happen if someone decided to recite "Popeye the Sailor Man" in front of the visiting educators. Well, it wouldn't be Anastasia Krupnik. She
liked
"O World—" and she would do her best with it tomorrow, even though she would cool it on the gestures.
"All right, Anastasia," Mr. Rafferty said. "That's just fine. I wish you'd
think
about the arm-flinging, though. Maybe you'll change your mind. Or maybe, when you're actually reciting the poem for an audience, the emotions will overwhelm you, and the gestures will come naturally."
She nodded politely and went back to her desk. No way was arm-flinging ever going to come naturally, not to Anastasia Krupnik.
***
Gym class was a severe humiliation. The only good thing about gym class was that the students got to wear jeans for a change, since their gym suits were all at home being laundered for the next day's demonstration.
But Ms. Willoughby didn't even let Anastasia
try
the ropes. She handed Anastasia the whistle, and put her in charge while her classmates climbed the ropes.
"Ms. Willoughby," Anastasia began, "I practiced last night in my garage, and I think maybe I can—"
But Ms. Willoughby—beautiful, sensitive, kind, thoughtful Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby—was already headed off for the other side of the gym to pick up some basketballs. She was determined that the gym look perfect for tomorrow.
Grouchily Anastasia turned toward the lines of waiting girls. She put the whistle's cord around her neck, lifted the whistle to her mouth, and blew. "
Phweet!
" Then she watched, dejected, while her classmates and friends all clambered up the ropes like chimpanzees.
***
She
had
begun to master the rope in the garage, Anastasia thought on her way home from school. Yesterday, with her mother cheering her on, she had gotten halfway up. If only Ms. Willoughby had stopped worrying about the appearance of the gym long enough to listen.
Anastasia shifted her schoolbooks from one arm to the other and began to daydream. There, in front of a whole group—maybe a hundred or more—of visiting international educators (all wearing uniforms, for some reason, in Anastasia's fantasy, and taking notes in small notebooks), Anastasia would step forward, still holding the hated whistle, after the rope-climbing exhibition was over.
"Now," she would say (and they would all look up, startled, from their notes), "one final demonstration!"
"
Phweet! Phweet!
" She would blow the whistle briskly, twice. In the corner, she could see Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby watching with amazement and awe.
"I owe this all to Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby," Anastasia would announce. Then she would remove the whistle and its cord from around her neck. "Everything that I am, I owe to Ms. Willoughby." Perhaps there would be a smattering of applause then, and Ms. Willoughby would blush and acknowledge it gracefully with a nod.
Anastasia would step forward to the rope. With one quick leap she would grasp it with both hands, and her sneakered
"It's not
you,
sport," he said. "You're doing just fine. It's the poem. That poem is sentimental garbage. Why don't they assign you something great to memorize?"
"Like what? It has to be something uplifting."
He stared at her with a puzzled look. "Why uplifting?"
Anastasia shrugged. "I don't know. Because these people from other countries are visiting, and we're supposed to be real patriotic and happy and enthusiastic and uplifting."
"Like Nazi Youth?"
"
Dad!
Cut it out!"
Dr. Krupnik began to fill his pipe. "Sorry," he said. "I don't know why I said an obnoxious thing like that. Isn't it amazing how sometimes obnoxious remarks just
appear
out of your mouth without any warning? I'd better keep my mouth shut. But I
do
think it's one of the worst poems ever written. That's a matter of taste, of course."
Anastasia had giggled. "Yeah. Like Sam's favorite poem is 'Popeye the Sailor Man.'
Standing, now, in front of her English class, Anastasia wondered briefly what would happen if someone decided to recite "Popeye the Sailor Man" in front of the visiting educators. Well, it wouldn't be Anastasia Krupnik. She
liked
"O World—" and she would do her best with it tomorrow, even though she would cool it on the gestures.
"All right, Anastasia," Mr. Rafferty said. "That's just fine. I wish you'd
think
about the arm-flinging, though. Maybe you'll change your mind. Or maybe, when you're actually reciting the poem for an audience, the emotions will overwhelm you, and the gestures will come naturally."
She nodded politely and went back to her desk. No way was arm-flinging ever going to come naturally, not to Anastasia Krupnik.
***
Gym class was a severe humiliation. The only good thing about gym class was that the students got to wear jeans for a change, since their gym suits were all at home being laundered for the next day's demonstration.
But Ms. Willoughby didn't even let Anastasia
try
the ropes. She handed Anastasia the whistle, and put her in charge while her classmates climbed the ropes.
"Ms. Willoughby," Anastasia began, "I practiced last night in my garage, and I think maybe I can—"
But Ms. Willoughby—beautiful, sensitive, kind, thoughtful Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby—was already headed off for the other side of the gym to pick up some basketballs. She was determined that the gym look perfect for tomorrow.
Grouchily Anastasia turned toward the lines of waiting girls. She put the whistle's cord around her neck, lifted the whistle to her mouth, and blew. "
Phweet!
" Then she watched, dejected, while her classmates and friends all clambered up the ropes like chimpanzees.
***
She
had
begun to master the rope in the garage, Anastasia thought on her way home from school. Yesterday, with her mother cheering her on, she had gotten halfway up. If only Ms. Willoughby had stopped worrying about the appearance of the gym long enough to listen.
Anastasia shifted her schoolbooks from one arm to the other and began to daydream. There, in front of a whole group—maybe a hundred or more—of visiting international educators (all wearing uniforms, for some reason, in Anastasia's fantasy, and taking notes in small notebooks), Anastasia would step forward, still holding the hated whistle, after the rope-climbing exhibition was over.
"Now," she would say (and they would all look up, startled, from their notes), "one final demonstration!"
"
Phweet! Phweet!
" She would blow the whistle briskly, twice. In the corner, she could see Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby watching with amazement and awe.
"I owe this all to Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby," Anastasia would announce. Then she would remove the whistle and its cord from around her neck. "Everything that I am, I owe to Ms. Willoughby." Perhaps there would be a smattering of applause then, and Ms. Willoughby would blush and acknowledge it gracefully with a nod.
Anastasia would step forward to the rope. With one quick leap she would grasp it with both hands, and her sneakered
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