Free Anastasia at This Address by Lois Lowry Page A

narrow ribbon around her upswept hair.
    She wondered for the fiftieth time whether she would qualify, next Saturday, as beautiful.
    ***
    "They're lovely. They don't hurt, do they?" her mother asked.
    "Nope. I can't even feel them." Anastasia dropped her hair back down around her ears and leaned over her mother's drawing table, looking at the nearly finished illustration of the farmer and his cows. "Why don't you put earrings on the female cows?"
    Her mother studied the picture. The cows were carrying pocketbooks and shopping bags, and several were wearing high-heeled shoes.
    "
All
cows are female," she reminded Anastasia. "A male cow is a bull. There's going to be a bull farther along in the book. I was thinking of making him look like Rambo."
    Anastasia giggled.
    "But I like the idea of earrings. It's not too late to add them. Maybe even rhinestones." She picked up a pen.
    Anastasia glanced around the room. Suddenly she was reminded of something.
    "Mom? You know that big leather case you use when you take your drawings to the publisher? That one there, against the wall."
    Her mother glanced over to where Anastasia was pointing. "My portfolio. What about it?"
    Anastasia frowned. "Well, I was just wondering. Do you ever have trouble managing it?"
    "Yeah,
lots.
I don't dare check it with my luggage because I'm afraid it might get lost, or bashed around. So I have to carry it on the plane when I go to New York, and it never fits in the overhead compartment. So the stewardess always gets mad, and has to stick it in with the garment bags, and it holds everybody up. So I'm always apologizing for it. And once I left it in a taxi, and
that
was a big problem, getting it back. Yeah, I guess I'd say I do have a lot of trouble with it."
    "But would you say that you have to spend all your time managing it?"
    "Good grief, no. It's not that big a deal. Why?"
    "Well, I know this person who says he has to spend all his time managing his portfolio. He can't even
work,
because it takes so much of his time, just managing his portfolio. Isn't that kind of weird?"
    Mrs. Krupnik put down her pen and began to laugh. "Weird in a very interesting way. He's—did you say it was a he?"
    Anastasia nodded.
    "Well, he's talking about something different. What he means is that he owns a whole lot of stocks and bonds. That's called a portfolio, but it's a different thing. Someone who has to spend all his time managing that kind of portfolio is very, very rich. Goodness, where did you meet someone like that?"
    Anastasia hesitated. "I didn't really meet him," she said. "I just heard about it."
    "Well," said her mother, picking up her pen again, "there are a lot of women out there who would love to meet someone like that!"
    "Yeah," Anastasia replied. "Like about four hundred and sixteen."
    ***
    Back in her room, Anastasia reread her letter from Septimus Smith. She was awfully glad that her mother had explained the whole portfolio thing. Otherwise she might have written and suggested that he put his portfolio in with the garment bags on airplanes. Then she would have sounded like a jerk, and probably he would never have written to her again, right when their relationship was getting off to a pretty good start.
    "Tell me more about your sloop," he had written.
    She glanced at the little toy boat she had set on her windowsill. It was made of wood, and it was bright red. She figured she could tell him that. It was also about seven inches long, something she decided not to mention.
    "I am guessing that you race," he had said. Anastasia wondered why he was interested in racing. Maybe, when he wasn't busy managing his portfolio, he jogged. She herself was not at all attracted to joggers, mainly because they smelled sweaty all the time. But probably he took showers after he raced.
    Anastasia was not really into racing, but she always participated when they had races in gym class. Usually she did well, because she was tall and had long legs. So she could tell Septimus