Free Anastasia's Chosen Career by Lois Lowry Page B

for your father? Is your father a rock star or something?"
    Anastasia shook her head. They were walking across the Common toward Beacon Hill. "He's just a college professor. But he writes poetry, too."
    "Real poetry? In books? Not just funny poems for uncles' birthday parties and stuff?"
    Anastasia nodded. "No. Of course he does that, too. But he writes real poetry. In books."
    "Jeezum," said Henry. "Real books. Do they have his name on them?"
    "Sure. Right across the front. And they have his picture on the back."
    Henry looked awed. "So he's famous," she said.
    Anastasia felt embarrassed. She didn't think of her father as famous. Still, every now and then, they wrote about him in the
New York Times.
Once they had called him "Master of the Contemporary Image," whatever that meant. And strangers wrote fan letters to him, asking for his autograph. So she guessed he was famous, at least a little.
    "Yeah," she admitted. "I guess so."
    "I never once in my whole entire life knew the daughter of a famous person before," Henry said.
    Anastasia tried to think of a response. "I never knew a truly beautiful person before," she said, finally. "In fact, when I first knew you, just two days ago, I didn't even recognize that you were beautiful. And now look. Do you realize, Henry, that right now, right this very minute, as we walk through the Common, men are staring at you because you're so beautiful?
Grown men?
"
    "Yeah, I know. It's weird. Last night, when I was going home on the T, men stared at me.
Women
even stared at me. That never happened to me before."
    "Is it scary?"
    Henry shook her head. "No. Not if they just stare. But if they
say
anything, they die."
    And Barbara Page stared, too, when they entered the bookstore. She stared at both of them as Anastasia introduced her to Henry.
    "Anastasia," she said, "your haircut is fabulous, and I want you to give me the name of the person who cut it, because I want to make an appointment.
    "And, Henry," she went on, "
you
are gorgeous. There's no other word for it."
    "Yes, there is," Anastasia told her in surprise. "You of all people—a person who owns a bookstore—ought to know that. There are
lots
of other words for it. Dazzling. Spectacular. Magnificent. Just plain
beautiful,
for pete's sake."
    "Okay, okay." Barbara Page laughed. "You're right."
    "Wanta see what we learned at modeling school this morning?" Henry asked.
    "Sure. Show me."
    Henry dropped her jacket on a bench in a corner of the bookstore. She posed, standing straight; then she took a deep breath and walked across the floor to the opposite wall of bookcases. Her chin was high, her shoulders taut, and her long legs moved with a kind of grace that Anastasia had never seen on anyone before. Instead of hanging at her sides like every other pair of arms in the whole world, Henry Peabody's arms moved with a fluid ease. She turned, smiled slowly, and strode back toward them with the same gliding movement.
    Then she grinned. "Whaddaya think?" Henry asked. "Panther, or what?"
    "Panther," Anastasia said. "For sure."
    Aunt Vera had directed them, in class, to imagine themselves as animals. After they had finished goofing off and acting stupid because they were all so embarrassed, they had tried.
    Bambie had chosen a mountain goat. Mountain goats, Bambie explained, would have a determined, sure-footed walk. Then she mountain-goated across the room with her red curls bouncing. Ho hum.
    Helen Margaret had hung her head and said softly, "I'll try to be a deer, I guess." She walked timidly across the room, darting looks at Aunt Vera to see if she was doing it right. She
did
resemble a deer, Anastasia thought, remembering a deer she had seen once at the edge of a meadow; Helen Margaret had the same fearful, shy look, the same careful steps, the same vigilance.
    Robert went next. "Cheetah," he announced, which was a joke before he even started. There was no way that Robert Giannini could look like a cheetah. He clumped across the room; Aunt