Free Anastasia on Her Own by Lois Lowry Page A

Annie—"
    "'Good sport' isn't the term for it, Anastasia. You're a savior. You've absolutely saved my life, and my mental health, and my reputation. I was a nervous wreck, anticipating the evening with Annie. But look at me now: calm, cool. I'm not even worried about seeing Annie now, because of you. It won't be any big deal."
    "But you see, I'm planning a passionate evening."
    "You're planning a
what?
"
    "I have this magazine article that tells about how to plan a dinner date, and so I'm following its directions on how to make it romantic, and I have a color scheme and all, and that's why I got that record out, because the article said it was passionate."
    Dr. Krupnik glanced at the record with a wry look. "Oh," he said.
    "But I have several problems. One is that I have to have flowers, and I don't have flowers."
    "Well," said her father, "I can solve that one for you. There's a flower shop in Harvard Square. I'll bring home some flowers on Friday."
    "Purple," Anastasia said.
    "Purple?"
    "Yeah, because that's my color scheme. Purple is supposed to be a passionate color."
    "Just exactly how passionate is this evening supposed to be?" her father asked, with his forehead furrowed. "I thought it was going to be a casual dinner."
    "Well, I want to discuss that in a minute. But first, I have another problem. Do you know what cheesecloth is?"
    "No. Sometimes expensive cheese comes wrapped in a sort of disgusting clothlike stuff. Is that cheesecloth?"
    "I don't know. But I need some. Do you think we have any?"
    "Hold it. I
do
know how to do research. Hand me the dictionary, Anastasia."
    She took the thick red volume from the bookcase and gave it to her father.
    He flipped through the pages until he found the right one. "Here," he said. "'Cheesecloth. A coarse cotton gauze.'"
    "Gauze? Like a bandage?"
    "I guess so."
    "I bet we have bandages. From the time Sam fell out the window last summer and hurt his head. Mom had to change his bandages. I think there are some left over, in the bathroom closet. Good. That's solved. Now we can talk about passion."
    Dr. Krupnik groaned and put the dictionary on the floor. "I was afraid you were going to say that."
    "Here's the problem. You and Annie are going to be there—"
    "And Sam. Don't forget Sam, and Steve. I need all the chaperones I can get."
    "Okay, but what I'm talking about is you and Annie. Now, as I told you, I'm going to have all this romantic stuff, the purple color scheme, and that record, and the French food, and the candles. But that's for me and Steve. I
don't
want you to be affected by it. I don't want you and Annie to start feeling romantic or anything. I thought about asking you to eat in the kitchen, with the fluorescent light on, but—"
    Her father laughed. "Anastasia, you needn't worry about that. We'll eat in the passionately purple dining room, but frankly, all I'm planning to do is ask Annie about her life in Guatemala, and then I'll brag a bit about Katherine and my kids, and then she'll leave. And as for the romantic music—well, it may make you faint with passion, but frankly, it turns my stomach. So I'll probably have to excuse myself several times to throw up."
    "Good. That's very unromantic. I hope Annie throws up, too.
    "My only other problem is one that I guess you can't solve," Anastasia went on with resignation.
    "What's that? Try me."
    "Promise you won't tell Daphne, or Sonya, or Meredith."
    Her father promised.
    "Well, with all this passion and romance and my first date and everything, frankly, I have a horrible feeling that Steve Harvey is the wrong person."
    "But you said he was your boyfriend."
    "He
is,
but he's not at all romantic. He's so adolescent."
    "Well, of course he's adolescent, Anastasia. He's thirteen years old."
    "Yeah." Anastasia sighed. "Thirteen-year-old boys are so gross. I wish my first date was with Laurence Olivier.
That
would be romantic."
    Her father almost choked on the stem of his pipe. "Laurence Olivier's probably eighty years