Read Online The Very Little Princess: Zoey's Story by Marion Dane Bauer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marion Dane Bauer
Tags: Retail, Ages 6 & Up
Ads: Link
her expression softened once more. “Are you hungry, Zoey?” she asked.
Zoey’s stomach had been rumbling for a couple of hours, but she answered politely, “Not really. Thanks.” Then she added, because she sensed it was important that Hazel know her mother took good care of her, “My mom made me peanut butter toast this morning.”
“Peanut butter toast! This morning!” Hazelrepeated. She clapped her hands to her plump cheeks, turned sharply, and marched away. “Please, come in,” she called back over her shoulder just before she disappeared from view. “I’ll get you some lunch.”
Zoey’s mom rolled her eyes as though this were the last thing she wanted … to be invited in for lunch. But she handed Zoey the pink suitcase she had brought from the car and, without a word, followed Hazel into the house.
Zoey didn’t move. The strange mixture of welcome and accusation in the air seemed to glue her feet to the porch floor.
She
was
hungry, though. Starved, in fact. And Hazel had mentioned lunch.
So Zoey started after them. Before she had gone more than a dozen steps, the argument that had been hanging in the air since the moment the door opened had begun.
“Why?” her grandmother was saying. And, “Do you know …?” And, “It’s been more than ten years! I’ve been so …”
Zoey’s mother answered. Zoey could tell she was answering, because Hazel went quiet while she did, but Zoey couldn’t hear what her mother was saying.
Then her grandmother would come in again, her voice high and bruised-sounding. “You never … !”
Zoey stood perfectly still. She wasn’t used to arguments. She didn’t even argue with her friends very often. And she never argued with her mother!
Her new grandmother had seemed nice when she’d first come to the door. But she didn’t seem nice when she talked this way.
Besides, Hazel was a witch’s name, wasn’t it?
In any case, Zoey wasn’t going to walk intothe middle of the argument. She could tell—without even hearing her name—that it was about her.
Zoey considered going back outside to the car, but she’d been riding too long to want to be there again. She looked around for someplace else to go, away from the voices. When she noticed stairs, that seemed as good a solution as any. She’d see where they went.
She climbed the stairs slowly, her cardboard suitcase banging against her leg. With each step, the angry voices grew farther away.
In the hallway at the top, Zoey hesitated for a moment. Perhaps she should go back downstairs. After all, she hadn’t been given permission to explore.
But then the voices rose to a pitch that she could hear again, and she started down the hall, glancing into the rooms on either side.
It should be easy to find her mother’s room. It would be pink.
Not this one. Not that one.
The hall ended in front of a closed door. Zoey turned the knob and swung the door open.
“This one!” she breathed. “This is the one!”
It had to be the room her mother had talked about. It was as pink as any she had ever seen.
And white.
And gold.
The walls were papered in pink rosebuds on a creamy white background. The bedspread and the curtains were pink. The furniture was white with gold trim. There was a white and gold dresser and a white and gold dressing table with an oval mirror. The bed had a delicate white and gold post at each corner holding up a ruffled pink canopy.
Across the room was a bay window with awindow seat. And in the middle of the window seat stood a tall object, covered by a sheet.
Zoey set down her suitcase and tiptoed to the window. She touched the sheet. Whatever was hidden under it must be precious. Nothing else in the room was covered this way.
Did she dare peek?
She stepped back, away from temptation, and stuffed her hands into her pockets. This was her grandmother’s house. She didn’t even know her grandmother. All she knew about Hazel, actually, was that she could be angry.
But, as if they
Zoey’s stomach had been rumbling for a couple of hours, but she answered politely, “Not really. Thanks.” Then she added, because she sensed it was important that Hazel know her mother took good care of her, “My mom made me peanut butter toast this morning.”
“Peanut butter toast! This morning!” Hazelrepeated. She clapped her hands to her plump cheeks, turned sharply, and marched away. “Please, come in,” she called back over her shoulder just before she disappeared from view. “I’ll get you some lunch.”
Zoey’s mom rolled her eyes as though this were the last thing she wanted … to be invited in for lunch. But she handed Zoey the pink suitcase she had brought from the car and, without a word, followed Hazel into the house.
Zoey didn’t move. The strange mixture of welcome and accusation in the air seemed to glue her feet to the porch floor.
She
was
hungry, though. Starved, in fact. And Hazel had mentioned lunch.
So Zoey started after them. Before she had gone more than a dozen steps, the argument that had been hanging in the air since the moment the door opened had begun.
“Why?” her grandmother was saying. And, “Do you know …?” And, “It’s been more than ten years! I’ve been so …”
Zoey’s mother answered. Zoey could tell she was answering, because Hazel went quiet while she did, but Zoey couldn’t hear what her mother was saying.
Then her grandmother would come in again, her voice high and bruised-sounding. “You never … !”
Zoey stood perfectly still. She wasn’t used to arguments. She didn’t even argue with her friends very often. And she never argued with her mother!
Her new grandmother had seemed nice when she’d first come to the door. But she didn’t seem nice when she talked this way.
Besides, Hazel was a witch’s name, wasn’t it?
In any case, Zoey wasn’t going to walk intothe middle of the argument. She could tell—without even hearing her name—that it was about her.
Zoey considered going back outside to the car, but she’d been riding too long to want to be there again. She looked around for someplace else to go, away from the voices. When she noticed stairs, that seemed as good a solution as any. She’d see where they went.
She climbed the stairs slowly, her cardboard suitcase banging against her leg. With each step, the angry voices grew farther away.
In the hallway at the top, Zoey hesitated for a moment. Perhaps she should go back downstairs. After all, she hadn’t been given permission to explore.
But then the voices rose to a pitch that she could hear again, and she started down the hall, glancing into the rooms on either side.
It should be easy to find her mother’s room. It would be pink.
Not this one. Not that one.
The hall ended in front of a closed door. Zoey turned the knob and swung the door open.
“This one!” she breathed. “This is the one!”
It had to be the room her mother had talked about. It was as pink as any she had ever seen.
And white.
And gold.
The walls were papered in pink rosebuds on a creamy white background. The bedspread and the curtains were pink. The furniture was white with gold trim. There was a white and gold dresser and a white and gold dressing table with an oval mirror. The bed had a delicate white and gold post at each corner holding up a ruffled pink canopy.
Across the room was a bay window with awindow seat. And in the middle of the window seat stood a tall object, covered by a sheet.
Zoey set down her suitcase and tiptoed to the window. She touched the sheet. Whatever was hidden under it must be precious. Nothing else in the room was covered this way.
Did she dare peek?
She stepped back, away from temptation, and stuffed her hands into her pockets. This was her grandmother’s house. She didn’t even know her grandmother. All she knew about Hazel, actually, was that she could be angry.
But, as if they
Similar Books
