Anastasia's Chosen Career, Page 2

  Mrs. Krupnik sighed. "Here, Sam," she said. She handed him the half slice of toast she had left. "Eat this." She helped Sam into his jacket, pulled a woolen hat down over his curls, and thrust his mittens into his pockets. "There's Mrs. Harrington now, beeping her horn. Goodbye. See you at lunch." She closed the back door behind Sam and they all watched from the window as he climbed into the back seat of the nursery school car.

  "Now I only have ten minutes before I have to leave," Anastasia said. "Please, Mom. Please, Dad. I really want to do this. And I have to make the phone call this afternoon."

  "Anastasia, it is so much money," said her mother. "Your dad and I were hoping that after your summer job, after you put all that money in the bank, you would develop some sense of financial responsibility—you know, looking ahead to the future."

  Anastasia tried to be patient. "Mom, I told you that this would be in preparation for a career. It would be educational."

  "Well," said Mrs. Krupnik. "Myron, what do you think?"

  "I like the idea of school research," Dr. Krupnik said. "I wish my students would do research during vacations. What kind of research would you be doing?"

  "My Chosen Career," Anastasia reminded him.

  Her father's face brightened. "That's right," he said. "I forgot that you had that assignment. You were thinking about Bookstore Owner. I think that's a terrific idea."

  "Actually," Anastasia told her father, "I've kind of changed my mind about Bookstore Owner. Now, since I want to take this course, I'm thinking more along the lines of—"

  But her father was already reaching for the telephone book. "Let me check the address," he said. "There's a wonderful little bookstore on Beacon Hill, and I met the owner when my last book of poetry came out. She had a wine-and-cheese party there at the store, and an autographing."

  "Dad," Anastasia said, "I've been thinking that—"

  "Only three people actually bought the book," he muttered. "Forty-seven people came and forty-seven people drank wine and ate cheese, but only three bought the book. Still, she was a nice woman."

  "Myron," Mrs. Krupnik said, "she could interview a bookstore owner right here in town. She doesn't have to go all the way into the city for that."

  "Here it is," Dr. Krupnik said, with his finger on one of the yellow pages. "Mount Vernon Street. That's a good safe part of the city, if she goes in the daytime."

  "Myron," said Mrs. Krupnik again. "She could go right down the street. There's a Waldenbooks right down the street."

  "Mom," Anastasia pointed out, "there are a million Waldenbooks all over the country. Mr. Walden probably lives in New York or something. And what I need is a bookstore owner, if I'm going to do Bookstore Owner for My Chosen Career."

  "Oh," said Mrs. Krupnik. "You're right."

  "Anyway," Anastasia went on, "it's really the other thing that I want to do in Boston. It would be so self-improving," Anastasia exclaimed. "And I need self-improvement. Even if I were going to be a bookstore owner, I would need self-improvement."

  Dr. Krupnik was dialing. "I hope she remembers me," he said. "Do you think a bookstore owner remembers someone whose book sold only three copies?"

  But the bookstore owner did. She remembered him, and she said that she would be willing to be interviewed by Anastasia.

  "At noon," Anastasia whispered to her father while he was on the phone. "At lunchtime. Because I'm going to be doing this other thing, too."

  "Here you are," her father said after he had hung up. He handed Anastasia a slip of paper. "Her name and the address of the store. She'll see you at twelve-fifteen on Monday. She said you could have a sandwich with her, there in the shop, while you do the interview."

  Anastasia looked at it. "So now I'm going to be a Bookstore Owner," she said.

  "Right," her father told her, grinning. "And you'll have wine-and-cheese parties and autographings for poets. For your dad."

  Anastasia folded the paper. "Well, if I promise to do that—and I promise to sell more than three copies—can I do the other thing, please?"

  "Oh, all right," her father said. "At least it will keep you busy during vacation. It seems like a harmless enterprise to me. Katherine, what do you think?"

  "Well," Mrs. Krupnik said dubiously, "okay."

  Anastasia jumped up and hugged each of them. "Thank you!" she said. "I have such great parents! Greater than anybody's! You know what Sonya's parents said when she asked them if she could do it? They said it was incredibly low class and tacky and revolting and expensive and absolutely ridiculous. What do they know, right?"

  ***

  "They're really letting you do it?" Sonya held her large notebook in front of her face so that Mr. Earnshaw wouldn't see that she was whispering. They were in study hall. "Really?"

  Anastasia, behind her notebook, nodded. "I'm going to call this afternoon."

  "How're you going to pay for it? It costs a fortune!" Sonya peered up to the front of the room, but Mr. Earnshaw was busy at his desk, correcting papers.

  "Out of my savings account. I have the money I earned last summer—remember I worked for Daphne's grandmother? And also I have the money that my aunts and uncles send on my birthday every year; my parents always make me put it in the bank. So I have about three hundred dollars in my savings account. And this only costs a hundred and nineteen. Shhhh." Anastasia ducked her head and pretended to read her history book. Mr. Earnshaw had stood up and begun to prowl around the room.

  After he had passed her desk and observed her diligently reading about the Battle of Bull Run, Anastasia unfolded the piece of paper and read it for the billionth time.

  INCREASED POISE, it said at the top.

  Boy, thought Anastasia, I can sure use that. I have zero poise.

  She remembered all the times that she had needed poise and it hadn't been there. The time, just recently, for example, when on Careers Day at the junior high, Anastasia had been assigned to guide the lady architect around the corridors of the school as she visited classes. Anastasia had practiced the night before, things she might say to an architect— poised things—and then, when she tried to say them, when she began, "Architecture interests me a great deal. My family lives in a Victorian house that was built in—" she had walked right smack into a glass door, practically wrecking her nose.

  She was still embarrassed thinking about it, even though the lady architect had been very sympathetic and kind and had given her a Kleenex to hold against her fat lip, which bled a little.

  INCREASED CONFIDENCE, the paper said.

  And if anybody needed increased confidence, it was Anastasia. If she'd had enough confidence, she would have run for Class Secretary. She really wanted to be Class Secretary. She really liked taking minutes. She liked the word "minutes." She wanted to write "Minutes" at the top of a page and then take notes. She would have done it better than anybody—certainly better than stupid old Emily Ewing, who had so much confidence that she had not only run for Class Secretary but had made posters that said

  EXTRAORDINARY EXCELLENCE

  EMILY EWING

  and everybody voted for her. But Emily always forgot to go to the meetings. She only wanted to be Class Secretary because she wanted her picture in the yearbook. Anastasia would have been a much better Class Secretary, but she hadn't had the confidence.

  Soon I will, Anastasia thought with satisfaction.

  She read the final phrase at the top of the paper. INCREASED MATURITY.

  It didn't seem as important as poise and confidence. Anastasia's parents assured her often that she was very mature for thirteen. She read mature books, watched mature programs on TV, behaved in a mature way, not whining and fooling around the way her brother did. Sometimes she sulked, true; but mature people sulked now and then. Her mother had sulked all evening the time that she spent hours making a casserole with a whole lot of fancy ingredients and then practically no one in the family would eat it. Anastasia had started to eat it, until she found out that it contained liver, which she hated. Her fa
ther had started to eat it, until he saw an artichoke heart, which he hated. Sam ate it, because Sam ate just about anything, but Mrs. Krupnik had sulked anyway. Anastasia had acted very maturely on that occasion, going to the kitchen to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for herself and her father.

  It was the small print, farther down, that Anastasia really liked; and she read it now, again and again.

  videotaping

  hair styling

  make-up instruction

  posture clinic

  voice modulation

  diet modification

  fashion consultation

  She wasn't quite sure what "modification" or "modulation" meant. But since the whole $119 week was called "Junior High Models Workshop," she figured that they had to do with modeling. Weird. Maybe you modeled clothes and modificated your diet and moduled your voice. She would learn about all that stuff when she took the course.

  Of course, if she became a fashion model, there would be a whole new set of problems, Anastasia realized. She propped up her notebook again, ducked her head, and whispered, "Sonya?"

  Sonya lifted her notebook and looked over from her desk. "What?"

  "Would you pose for nude photographs if they asked you?" Anastasia whispered.

  "New photographs? Of course. Especially if I lost weight. I'd throw my old photographs away. They're all fat"

  "Not new. Nude," Anastasia whispered.

  Sonya looked puzzled. "Noon photographs?" she asked.

  "NUDE," Anastasia said aloud.

  Everyone in the study hall burst out laughing. Mr. Earnshaw stood up, straightened his glasses, and aimed his eagle eyes at Anastasia.

  "Anastasia Krupnik," he said, "I'll speak to you here at my desk privately, as soon as the bell rings." Then he smiled a pinched, sarcastic smile. "Fully clothed, of course," he added.

  Blushing, Anastasia began to arrange her books. Poise and confidence: she thought hard, willing those two qualities into herself as she prepared to explain to Mr. Earnshaw. Poise and confidence.

  "I have to confess I'm a little nervous about modeling school," Anastasia said to her parents that night. Sam was in bed, and they were sitting in the study in front of the fireplace. Her father had put one of his favorite records on the stereo. His eyes were closed, and he was directing the music with his hands in the air.

  "Ta da dum, ta da dum," he sang softly, with the record. "Hear that phrasing? Mozart was a genius."

  Anastasia nodded politely, even though her father still had his eyes closed and couldn't see her. He was so weird when he got involved with Mozart. Her mother just smiled and continued knitting.

  Anastasia didn't know a single kid who knit, or who listened to Mozart. She wondered how those things came about. Did you wake up one morning, suddenly, at age seventeen or so, with a sudden urge to knit mittens? And when did Mozart happen? Her father had once told her that he had loved the Beatles when he was young. What had gone wrong? Had he, years before, maybe when he was in college, had an overwhelming desire one day to turn off Sergeant Pepper and replace it with a symphony? She would have to ask him. But not, she knew, while the record was playing.

  "Of course you're nervous," her mother was reassuring her. "You were nervous when you began your job last summer. You were nervous the first day of school. Everybody's nervous when they set out on a new venture."

  "Actually," Anastasia reminded her, "I have two new ventures going on at the same time. When I go to Boston, I'm not only going to go to the modeling course; I'm also going to do the Bookstore Owner interview...."

  Her mother looked at her warily. "Anastasia, promise us that you will go directly to the bookstore. And to the modeling course. And to and from that bus. No fooling around in the city."

  "Fooling around? Moi?"

  The music stopped, and Dr. Krupnik stood up to turn the record over. "I want you to listen carefully to the third movement," he said.

  "Myron," Anastasia's mother said, "do you have any advice for Anastasia about the interview?"

  "You could ask her why my book sold only three copies in her store," he suggested.

  "Ha ha," Anastasia said sarcastically. "I wouldn't ask something like that. It's important to be super-polite during the interview. We have this sheet of instructions. Also we're supposed to ask open-ended questions."

  "What's an open-ended question?" asked Mrs. Krupnik.

  Anastasia remembered the instructions their class had been given. "Well," she explained, "if you just ask, 'Do you like being a bookstore owner?' she could just say yes or no. And it would be boring. So, instead, you ask, 'What exactly do you like about being a bookstore owner?' Then she has to say something. That's an open-ended question."

  Her father frowned. He was holding the arm of his stereo turntable carefully in his hand. "Now pay attention, you guys. This third movement is incredible," he said.

  "Dad," Anastasia asked, "what exactly do you like about Mozart? That's an open-ended question."

  "Shhhhh," said her father.

  Anastasia Krupnik

  My Chosen Career

  After a lot of careful thought, I have decided that for my chosen career I am going to be a bookstore owner. To be a bookstore owner it is necessary to have increased poise and self-confidence. So as part of the educational requirements it is probably a good idea to take a modeling course.

  3

  The bus will be late, Anastasia thought, stamping her feet in the snow. I know the bus will be late. The bus will be late, and then I will be late, and I'll be the only person in the whole class who is late. How humiliating. They'll probably kick me out, before I ever start. And they'll make me pay the money anyway. I'll have to pay the whole $119, and they won't even let me take the course because I'm late the first day.

  But then she heard the hiss of brakes and looked up, and the bus was there.

  Waiting in line behind a lady who had to wrestle two small children up the slippery bus steps, Anastasia looked at her watch.

  I'm going to be early, she thought. Good grief. I'm going to be a whole half hour early. I'll be the first one there, and they'll all laugh at me. How humiliating. The earliest one there. You're not eager or anything, Krupnik?

  The bus lurched, starting up, and Anastasia stumbled toward an empty seat after paying her fare. I hope this is the right bus, she thought nervously. What if I got on the wrong bus? What if this bus is headed to New York or something? Oh, great. I should have asked the driver if this was the right bus.

  She looked toward the front and studied the back of the bus driver's head. He was a middle-aged man with a mustache, and he was staring straight ahead as he drove, squinting against the bright sunlight reflected off the snow.

  That looks like a New York bus driver, Anastasia decided. I am on the wrong bus. Good grief, I am going to New York. I always wanted to go to New York someday, but I sure didn't want to go to New York all by myself, wearing jeans. How will I get home?

  "You going shopping?"

  Anastasia was startled when the woman beside her spoke. She glanced over at an elderly woman in a tweed coat, clutching a fat green pocketbook in her lap.

  "Excuse me?"

  "I asked if you were going shopping. I'm going to Filene's Basement. I go to Filene's Basement every day. The only way you can get bargains is to go every single day. Are you headed for Filene's?"

  That was a relief. Filene's was in downtown Boston, so she was on the right bus. Anastasia shook her head and smiled politely at the lady. She had promised her mother and father that she wouldn't speak to strangers, but she figured that shaking her head and smiling politely was okay.

  The woman kept on talking. "Half the people on this bus are going to Filene's Basement. Right now you see them all in coats and hats, right? Half an hour from now, they'll all be standing around Filene's Basement in their underwear."

  Anastasia stared at her. "I beg your pardon?" she asked.

  "No dressing rooms," the woman explained. "So you have to try thin
gs on right out in the open. That woman over there—you see her, in the blue hat? She always wears two slips, one on top of the other."

  Anastasia blinked her eyes and looked straight ahead. Ten minutes after I promise my parents that I won't talk to strangers, she thought, and here I am involved in a conversation about underwear.

  "So," the woman continued, while she opened her pocketbook, took out a compact, opened it, and examined her lipstick in the mirror, "are you going shopping?"

  "No," Anastasia said uncomfortably, "I'm going to modeling school."

  The woman snapped the compact closed. "Oh," she said, "Of course. I should have guessed."

  "Guessed? Why?"

  "Because you're tall," the woman said. "And thin."

  Anastasia slouched down in the bus seat gloomily. Thanks a lot, she thought. You could have said "because you have such great cheekbones."

  The woman droned on and on, talking about the bargains in Filene's Basement, but Anastasia stopped listening. She began to picture herself at the end of the week, getting on this same bus Friday afternoon, maybe sitting beside this same lady. Ha. The woman would look exactly the same—green pocketbook, frizzy gray hair—but Anastasia would be entirely different. Tall, yes. Thin, yes. But poised, confident, with—she thought about the small print on the paper—a new hair style, a modificated diet, better posture, a moduled voice, and an entirely revised sense of fashion.

  She remembered that it had said make-up, also. Anastasia had never worn make-up. Well, not really. Occasionally she had tried wearing make-up, but it never seemed to work. She didn't seem to have the hang of it. But of course modeling school would teach her that.

  Now the bus was entering the city. Anastasia peered through the grimy window and watched the tall buildings pass. She watched all the poised, confident people striding briskly along the sidewalks. Soon she would be one of them—well, not that one, she thought, as she spied an obese woman waddling along, bellowing at a small child scurrying by her side.