She was absolutely certain.
"Dad," she said, "guess what. You have chicken pox."
9
"Mr. Fortunate-," Anastasia said wearily into the phone, "this is Anastasia Krupnik. I need twenty more boxes of baking soda."
"Good grief, Anastasia, you've cleaned me out! I'll have to get them from my supplier. Let's see, today's Saturday. Can you wait till Monday for them?"
She sighed. There were still a few boxes left, and Sam didn't seem to be itching anymore. "Okay," she told the grocer. "But Monday for sure? I'll really, really need them by Monday."
She turned away from the phone and looked at the kitchen, which was still in the same shape it had been when she had left everything the night before. But worse. Now the food, which had been soggy leftovers last night, had congealed on the plates. She would have to use steel wool to get the plates clean.
And her father, of course, couldn't help. He was in bed, miserable, feverish, and complaining.
I could make up a whole new set of Seven Dwarfs, thought Anastasia: Grouchy, Itchy, Boring, Hateful, Demanding ... It was an interesting project, but it was interrupted by the doorbell. Anastasia put down the greasy pan she was about to wash and went to the front door.
"Packages!" the mailman announced cheerfully. "Sign here."
Curiously, Anastasia signed the slip he gave her. Maybe her mother had sent some gifts from California.
That
would be nice. That would cheer her up, and take her mind off the horrible housekeeping problems. The entire bulletin board was flapping with schedules, but none of them seemed to apply to her situation now. The excitement of the dinner party was gone. Her interest in gourmet cooking was gone. Her father's availability as an adviser and helper was gone. Her interest in Steve Harvey was gone. Everything was gone except a houseful of dirty dishes, dirty laundry, dust balls under every bed, a week of untouched homework assignments, and upstairs her father calling feebly now and then for ginger ale, and announcing every five minutes that he thought he would probably die before sunset, even though the doctor had said it wasn't true.
Both packages were addressed to Anastasia, and she opened the first one, which was the larger of the two.
Sam came into the room. "What's that?" he asked, as Anastasia lifted something blue out of the box.
"I don't know," she said, puzzled. She pulled off the plastic wrapping, and exposed a blanket with some cords attached to it.
"Oh," she said, remembering something vaguely. "I guess I ordered this. It's an electric blanket. I can't remember
why
I ordered it, though."
A slip of paper fluttered to the floor, and she picked it up. She glanced at it, and her stomach lurched. She closed her eyes for a moment, hoping that when she opened them again the electric blanket would be gone, and this would be a bad dream.
But when she opened her eyes, her arms were still full of blanket and the slip of paper was still in her hand.
"Seventy-seven dollars and ninety-five cents," she read aloud in a horrified voice. "Charged to Myron Krupnik's MasterCard."
"I'm going to tell Daddy," Sam said, his eyes wide.
"No, don't. Daddy's sick. This would do him in."
She pushed the blanket back into the box and closed the lid. She stared at the other, smaller box. She tried to remember what else she had ordered.
Nothing. She had ordered nothing except groceries—she cringed, remembering the veal marrow and knucklebones—and forty-one boxes of baking soda.
Suspiciously she opened the second package and took out a set of bright red leotards and the ugliest pair of shoes she had ever seen in her life. They were black, with big black bows, fat heels, and metal plates on the soles.
"Wicked-witch shoes," announced Sam in awe.
"I didn't order these," Anastasia said angrily. "I know I didn't."
She picked up the paper in the box. When she saw the letterhead — good times dance studio — she cringed.
Congratulations, Anastasia Krupnik. By enrolling in
"Dad," she said, "guess what. You have chicken pox."
9
"Mr. Fortunate-," Anastasia said wearily into the phone, "this is Anastasia Krupnik. I need twenty more boxes of baking soda."
"Good grief, Anastasia, you've cleaned me out! I'll have to get them from my supplier. Let's see, today's Saturday. Can you wait till Monday for them?"
She sighed. There were still a few boxes left, and Sam didn't seem to be itching anymore. "Okay," she told the grocer. "But Monday for sure? I'll really, really need them by Monday."
She turned away from the phone and looked at the kitchen, which was still in the same shape it had been when she had left everything the night before. But worse. Now the food, which had been soggy leftovers last night, had congealed on the plates. She would have to use steel wool to get the plates clean.
And her father, of course, couldn't help. He was in bed, miserable, feverish, and complaining.
I could make up a whole new set of Seven Dwarfs, thought Anastasia: Grouchy, Itchy, Boring, Hateful, Demanding ... It was an interesting project, but it was interrupted by the doorbell. Anastasia put down the greasy pan she was about to wash and went to the front door.
"Packages!" the mailman announced cheerfully. "Sign here."
Curiously, Anastasia signed the slip he gave her. Maybe her mother had sent some gifts from California.
That
would be nice. That would cheer her up, and take her mind off the horrible housekeeping problems. The entire bulletin board was flapping with schedules, but none of them seemed to apply to her situation now. The excitement of the dinner party was gone. Her interest in gourmet cooking was gone. Her father's availability as an adviser and helper was gone. Her interest in Steve Harvey was gone. Everything was gone except a houseful of dirty dishes, dirty laundry, dust balls under every bed, a week of untouched homework assignments, and upstairs her father calling feebly now and then for ginger ale, and announcing every five minutes that he thought he would probably die before sunset, even though the doctor had said it wasn't true.
Both packages were addressed to Anastasia, and she opened the first one, which was the larger of the two.
Sam came into the room. "What's that?" he asked, as Anastasia lifted something blue out of the box.
"I don't know," she said, puzzled. She pulled off the plastic wrapping, and exposed a blanket with some cords attached to it.
"Oh," she said, remembering something vaguely. "I guess I ordered this. It's an electric blanket. I can't remember
why
I ordered it, though."
A slip of paper fluttered to the floor, and she picked it up. She glanced at it, and her stomach lurched. She closed her eyes for a moment, hoping that when she opened them again the electric blanket would be gone, and this would be a bad dream.
But when she opened her eyes, her arms were still full of blanket and the slip of paper was still in her hand.
"Seventy-seven dollars and ninety-five cents," she read aloud in a horrified voice. "Charged to Myron Krupnik's MasterCard."
"I'm going to tell Daddy," Sam said, his eyes wide.
"No, don't. Daddy's sick. This would do him in."
She pushed the blanket back into the box and closed the lid. She stared at the other, smaller box. She tried to remember what else she had ordered.
Nothing. She had ordered nothing except groceries—she cringed, remembering the veal marrow and knucklebones—and forty-one boxes of baking soda.
Suspiciously she opened the second package and took out a set of bright red leotards and the ugliest pair of shoes she had ever seen in her life. They were black, with big black bows, fat heels, and metal plates on the soles.
"Wicked-witch shoes," announced Sam in awe.
"I didn't order these," Anastasia said angrily. "I know I didn't."
She picked up the paper in the box. When she saw the letterhead — good times dance studio — she cringed.
Congratulations, Anastasia Krupnik. By enrolling in
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