assign
Gone with the Wind
in seventh-grade English," she said.
Her mother looked over from where she was folding a nightgown. "They couldn't," she said. "It's too risqué."
"
Mom,
" Anastasia said, "there isn't a single sex scene in
Gone with the Wind.
And only one 'damn.' Remember when Rhett Butler says to Scarlett—"
"'Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn,'" Mrs. Krupnik said in a deep voice along with Anastasia, and they both laughed.
Dr. Krupnik made a face. "It's terrible literature," he said.
"But it's so romantic, Dad. I love romance. I wish someone would say to me, in a deep voice: 'Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.' Someone rich and handsome, with a mustache, like Clark Gable."
Anastasia pulled her long hair up into a pile on top of her head. She rose to her knees so that she could see herself in the mirror on the opposite wall. With one hand, she held her hair in place, and with the other she pulled the neck of her sweat shirt down over one shoulder. "Do you think I have a swanlike neck, Mom?" she asked.
Her mother glanced over at Anastasia's neck. "Long and skinny, yes," she said. She went to the closet. "Myron," she asked, "what ties do you want to take? You'll need something dark and somber, for the services."
Anastasia pulled her sweat shirt tight around her and looked sideways toward the mirror, to see her body in profile. "Would you call me voluptuous?" she asked.
"No," said her father. "Thank goodness. I don't want a voluptuous thirteen-year-old daughter. You can be voluptuous when you're twenty-seven, not before."
Anastasia flopped back down on the bed and sighed. "Well," she said, "I don't know any rich, handsome men with mustaches anyway. I just know obnoxious seventh-grade boys. None of them even shave yet."
Her mother snapped the suitcase closed. "There," she said. "All set. Anastasia, when you get home from school tomorrow, Mrs. Stein will be here, with Sam. Give her a hand with things, would you? And we'll be back late Thursday afternoon."
"It's ten o'clock, Anastasia," said her father. "You ought to be getting to bed."
Anastasia disentangled her legs and stood up. She kissed her father and her mother and went to the hall.
"Don't be dismayed if you notice lights in my room all night long," she called back to them. "I will probably be reading
Johnny Tremain
three or four times, because I know how important it is to you guys that I get an A in English."
She could hear her father's voice respond as she headed up the stairs to her third-floor bedroom.
"Frankly, my dear," he was calling in a deep voice, "I don't give a—"
Giggling, Anastasia closed her door. She sprawled on her bed and took out the notebook in which she was practicing for a journalism career.
2
The test on
Johnny Tremain
was grim. Anastasia hadn't bothered looking at the book again the night before. Now, in school, she answered the questions as well as she could—but she knew it wasn't very well.
When she had finished, she leaned back in her seat and stared out the window of the classroom. Maybe, she thought, instead of a journalist, she should be an English teacher when she grew up. Probably there was a rule that seventh graders had to read a historical novel—that was why they assigned
Johnny Tremain
every year. But she, when she became an English teacher, would definitely assign
Gone with the Wind
in seventh grade.
She began to compose a test on
Gone with the Wind.
The short-answer questions were easy: the names of Scarlett's sisters, stuff like that.
Essay questions were tougher. But Anastasia had a good one:
"Scarlett O'Hara seemed to think that Ashley Wilkes was a wimp. Do you agree, or disagree? Give your reasons."
Anastasia sort of agreed. Ashley and Melanie were
both
kind of wimpy. But she wasn't exactly sure why. She tried to think of some reasons. If they had lived in current times, Melanie probably would have worn lace-up shoes. Ashley would have gone to the symphony instead of rock
Gone with the Wind
in seventh-grade English," she said.
Her mother looked over from where she was folding a nightgown. "They couldn't," she said. "It's too risqué."
"
Mom,
" Anastasia said, "there isn't a single sex scene in
Gone with the Wind.
And only one 'damn.' Remember when Rhett Butler says to Scarlett—"
"'Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn,'" Mrs. Krupnik said in a deep voice along with Anastasia, and they both laughed.
Dr. Krupnik made a face. "It's terrible literature," he said.
"But it's so romantic, Dad. I love romance. I wish someone would say to me, in a deep voice: 'Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.' Someone rich and handsome, with a mustache, like Clark Gable."
Anastasia pulled her long hair up into a pile on top of her head. She rose to her knees so that she could see herself in the mirror on the opposite wall. With one hand, she held her hair in place, and with the other she pulled the neck of her sweat shirt down over one shoulder. "Do you think I have a swanlike neck, Mom?" she asked.
Her mother glanced over at Anastasia's neck. "Long and skinny, yes," she said. She went to the closet. "Myron," she asked, "what ties do you want to take? You'll need something dark and somber, for the services."
Anastasia pulled her sweat shirt tight around her and looked sideways toward the mirror, to see her body in profile. "Would you call me voluptuous?" she asked.
"No," said her father. "Thank goodness. I don't want a voluptuous thirteen-year-old daughter. You can be voluptuous when you're twenty-seven, not before."
Anastasia flopped back down on the bed and sighed. "Well," she said, "I don't know any rich, handsome men with mustaches anyway. I just know obnoxious seventh-grade boys. None of them even shave yet."
Her mother snapped the suitcase closed. "There," she said. "All set. Anastasia, when you get home from school tomorrow, Mrs. Stein will be here, with Sam. Give her a hand with things, would you? And we'll be back late Thursday afternoon."
"It's ten o'clock, Anastasia," said her father. "You ought to be getting to bed."
Anastasia disentangled her legs and stood up. She kissed her father and her mother and went to the hall.
"Don't be dismayed if you notice lights in my room all night long," she called back to them. "I will probably be reading
Johnny Tremain
three or four times, because I know how important it is to you guys that I get an A in English."
She could hear her father's voice respond as she headed up the stairs to her third-floor bedroom.
"Frankly, my dear," he was calling in a deep voice, "I don't give a—"
Giggling, Anastasia closed her door. She sprawled on her bed and took out the notebook in which she was practicing for a journalism career.
2
The test on
Johnny Tremain
was grim. Anastasia hadn't bothered looking at the book again the night before. Now, in school, she answered the questions as well as she could—but she knew it wasn't very well.
When she had finished, she leaned back in her seat and stared out the window of the classroom. Maybe, she thought, instead of a journalist, she should be an English teacher when she grew up. Probably there was a rule that seventh graders had to read a historical novel—that was why they assigned
Johnny Tremain
every year. But she, when she became an English teacher, would definitely assign
Gone with the Wind
in seventh grade.
She began to compose a test on
Gone with the Wind.
The short-answer questions were easy: the names of Scarlett's sisters, stuff like that.
Essay questions were tougher. But Anastasia had a good one:
"Scarlett O'Hara seemed to think that Ashley Wilkes was a wimp. Do you agree, or disagree? Give your reasons."
Anastasia sort of agreed. Ashley and Melanie were
both
kind of wimpy. But she wasn't exactly sure why. She tried to think of some reasons. If they had lived in current times, Melanie probably would have worn lace-up shoes. Ashley would have gone to the symphony instead of rock
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