pack for the trip.
"Would you guys like to know the real reason I decided not to go with you?" she asked.
Her father was polishing a pair of shoes that he planned to pack. Her mother was putting some jewelry into a small traveling case. They both looked over to where Anastasia was standing in the doorway, eating an apple.
"Sure," her father said.
"I was scared," Anastasia confessed.
"Of flying?" her mother asked. "You mentioned that. I was surprised. You're not usually scared of new experiences."
"No," Anastasia said, "not of flying. I'd really like to go someplace in an airplane. The new experience I'm scared of is—yuck, I even hate the word—
funerals.
"
"But Anastasia," her mother said, "you went to your grandmother's funeral when you were only ten years old. I remember that you behaved beautifully and that afterward you said you had
liked
being there, that it was a nice chance to hear people talk about your grandmother and their memories of her."
Anastasia bit into her apple again. "True," she said, chewing. "But you can see what the difference is. The
age
thing, for one."
"Well, you were ten then, and you're thirteen now. You're more mature—that should make it even easier," her mother said.
"I mean the age of the, ah, the deceased person," Anastasia pointed out.
Dr. Krupnik nodded. "I can understand that. Your grandmother was in her nineties, and your Aunt Rose—well, let me see. Katherine, how old was Rose?"
Mrs. Krupnik wrinkled her forehead, thinking. "Fifty-five, maybe?" she said, finally.
"See?" said Anastasia. "That's
old,
but still, it's not like ninety-two. And also, there's the other thing."
Her parents looked at her.
"Other thing?" her mother asked.
Anastasia cringed. "I don't quite know how to say it. Cause of Death."
Her parents both nodded. They looked very sad.
"Grandmother just died in her sleep, remember? And that seemed okay, because she was so old and tired, anyway. But Aunt Rose—well, I'm sorry, Dad, because I know she was your brother's wife and all, and I guess she was an okay lady, even though I don't really remember her because I hadn't seen her since I was little, but I have to tell you that I am really grossed out by her Cause of Death."
"Food poisoning? It's tragic," her father said, "but I wouldn't call it gross."
"That other word. I heard you say it to Uncle George on the phone."
"Salmonella."
"YUCK!"
"Why yuck? It's the medical term for a particular kind of food poisoning."
Anastasia made a face. "It sounds like someone's name. A mobster. A hit man. My Aunt Rose was killed by Sal Monella. It sounds like something a journalist should write about. By the way, do you know that when you write a newspaper story you should answer the questions 'who, what, when, where, and why' right in the very first paragraph?"
Dr. Krupnik sighed and put his newly polished shoes into the suitcase. "Well, here's the who, what, when, where, and why," he said. "Your Aunt Rose was unfortunately killed last night by one of the finest restaurants in Los Angeles, where she made the mistake of ordering some food that had not been properly stored and refrigerated. And as a result, incidentally, your Uncle George will no doubt collect a fortune in a legal settlement."
"No kidding? Uncle George will be
rich?
"
"I'm quite sure he would much prefer to have Rose back," Mrs. Krupnik said. "They never had a lot of money, but they were very happily married." She put a blouse into the suitcase, and sighed. "Poor George. This
is
going to be a sad, sad funeral, Myron," she said. "Anastasia's right. I don't blame her for not wanting to go."
"Since I'm not going, I should be reading
Johnny Tremain
again," Anastasia confessed gloomily. "I know I'll flunk the test."
"No, you won't," her father reassured her. "You always do well in English."
Anastasia sat down in the middle of her parents' king-sized bed and curled her legs up under her. She tossed her apple core into the wastebasket. "I
wish they'd
"Would you guys like to know the real reason I decided not to go with you?" she asked.
Her father was polishing a pair of shoes that he planned to pack. Her mother was putting some jewelry into a small traveling case. They both looked over to where Anastasia was standing in the doorway, eating an apple.
"Sure," her father said.
"I was scared," Anastasia confessed.
"Of flying?" her mother asked. "You mentioned that. I was surprised. You're not usually scared of new experiences."
"No," Anastasia said, "not of flying. I'd really like to go someplace in an airplane. The new experience I'm scared of is—yuck, I even hate the word—
funerals.
"
"But Anastasia," her mother said, "you went to your grandmother's funeral when you were only ten years old. I remember that you behaved beautifully and that afterward you said you had
liked
being there, that it was a nice chance to hear people talk about your grandmother and their memories of her."
Anastasia bit into her apple again. "True," she said, chewing. "But you can see what the difference is. The
age
thing, for one."
"Well, you were ten then, and you're thirteen now. You're more mature—that should make it even easier," her mother said.
"I mean the age of the, ah, the deceased person," Anastasia pointed out.
Dr. Krupnik nodded. "I can understand that. Your grandmother was in her nineties, and your Aunt Rose—well, let me see. Katherine, how old was Rose?"
Mrs. Krupnik wrinkled her forehead, thinking. "Fifty-five, maybe?" she said, finally.
"See?" said Anastasia. "That's
old,
but still, it's not like ninety-two. And also, there's the other thing."
Her parents looked at her.
"Other thing?" her mother asked.
Anastasia cringed. "I don't quite know how to say it. Cause of Death."
Her parents both nodded. They looked very sad.
"Grandmother just died in her sleep, remember? And that seemed okay, because she was so old and tired, anyway. But Aunt Rose—well, I'm sorry, Dad, because I know she was your brother's wife and all, and I guess she was an okay lady, even though I don't really remember her because I hadn't seen her since I was little, but I have to tell you that I am really grossed out by her Cause of Death."
"Food poisoning? It's tragic," her father said, "but I wouldn't call it gross."
"That other word. I heard you say it to Uncle George on the phone."
"Salmonella."
"YUCK!"
"Why yuck? It's the medical term for a particular kind of food poisoning."
Anastasia made a face. "It sounds like someone's name. A mobster. A hit man. My Aunt Rose was killed by Sal Monella. It sounds like something a journalist should write about. By the way, do you know that when you write a newspaper story you should answer the questions 'who, what, when, where, and why' right in the very first paragraph?"
Dr. Krupnik sighed and put his newly polished shoes into the suitcase. "Well, here's the who, what, when, where, and why," he said. "Your Aunt Rose was unfortunately killed last night by one of the finest restaurants in Los Angeles, where she made the mistake of ordering some food that had not been properly stored and refrigerated. And as a result, incidentally, your Uncle George will no doubt collect a fortune in a legal settlement."
"No kidding? Uncle George will be
rich?
"
"I'm quite sure he would much prefer to have Rose back," Mrs. Krupnik said. "They never had a lot of money, but they were very happily married." She put a blouse into the suitcase, and sighed. "Poor George. This
is
going to be a sad, sad funeral, Myron," she said. "Anastasia's right. I don't blame her for not wanting to go."
"Since I'm not going, I should be reading
Johnny Tremain
again," Anastasia confessed gloomily. "I know I'll flunk the test."
"No, you won't," her father reassured her. "You always do well in English."
Anastasia sat down in the middle of her parents' king-sized bed and curled her legs up under her. She tossed her apple core into the wastebasket. "I
wish they'd
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