Mary Anne and the Little Princess

by Ann M. Martin

  “It’s not just some silly excuse, Kristy,” Mallory said. “Three of you have been invited to the United Nations by English royalty.”

  “Besides, Victoria is one of our charges,” I said. “Think of this as a job.”

  “We might cause an international incident if we refuse,” Stacey said.

  “Who knows? You might end up on TV or something,” Claudia said.

  “Great publicity for the BSC,” I added.

  Kristy nodded her head slowly, as if deep in thought.

  Stacey and I gave each other a Look. An I-can’t-believe-she’s-even-thinking-about-this look. I crossed my fingers.

  “Okay,” Kristy said. “But the rest of you have to show up five-thirty sharp. I’ll be checking in by phone. And Mary Anne and Stacey, we have to be camera-ready — BSC T-shirts on at all times!”

  The idea of wearing our T-shirts over our parkas was ridiculous. Stacey knew it and I knew it. But we were both so totally delirious with happiness, neither of us said a word.

  * * *

  That night, after my homework, I found Sharon in the den, leafing through a family album.

  “Hi,” I said softly.

  “Oh, hi, Mary Anne.” Sharon’s voice was a bit husky. “Want to sit down?”

  I did. I glanced at the album. The pages were yellowing, and some of the photos were falling out.

  Sharon tucked in a shot of Dawn as a newborn, perched precariously on her lap. “She was always doing that, you know — practically falling out. She wanted so badly to walk.” She turned to a photo of her and Mr. Schafer, holding Dawn at about age three on a surfboard. “Look! Look at that one. The surfer who owned this board was majoring in Irish folklore. He used to tell Dawn stories about a white horse from the mystical land of Tir Na n’Og under the sea. Dawn wanted to surf out and pay a visit.”

  Tir Na n’Og? How on earth did she remember stuff like that?

  “Oh, and here’s the first time we took Dawn to Disneyland …”

  As Sharon went on and on, I smiled and listened. I could tell how much she missed Dawn. I didn’t blame her. I missed Dawn, too.

  Part of me was just dying to tell her the secret, to blurt out that Dawn was coming home for Thanksgiving. Maybe then Sharon wouldn’t feel so sad.

  Maybe then she’d relax and enjoy the daughter she had right there with her.

  * * *

  I don’t remember much of Tuesday, and Wednesday morning was an excited blur. After school, George was standing outside by the limo. A crowd of about ten kids had gathered around him.

  “Hi!” I called out, as Kristy, Stacey, and I approached.

  “Hello,” George replied. “I was meeting some of your good friends.”

  The rear door flew open and Alan Gray, the Dork King of the Eighth Grade, leered out. “Grrrrreetings! Will you shoo them all away, Jeeves, and take me to the bank so I can climb a pile of my own money?”

  Kristy stormed up to the open door. “If you’re not out of there by the count of five, Alan, I will personally climb in, sit on your lap, and kiss you.”

  Kristy didn’t even reach 1. Alan was sprinting down the street, screaming “EWWWWW!” at the top of his lungs.

  “Would you really have done that?” George asked.

  Kristy grimaced. “Do I look stupid?”

  We all climbed in. George drove us straight to the Kents’.

  Victoria was practically bursting with excitement as she climbed in the backseat. In her right hand she was holding a small flash camera, and she began snapping away.

  Miss Rutherford settled herself with a lot of huffing and grunting. “Now,” she announced, “there will be no eating or reading in a moving vehicle, or I will have Mr. McArdle immediately turn around and come back.”

  George turned around and peeked through the limo’s divider. “I could use the ejector seat,” he said. “You’re sitting on it, Ursula.”

  “Oh!” As Miss Rutherford jumped out of her seat, George pulled away from the curb.

  “Fasten your seatbelt, please,” Victoria scolded her.

  The five of us sat facing each other on the two bench seats. As we rolled out of the neighborhood and toward the expressway, I was all tingly.

  “I have never been to New York in such style!” Stacey said.

  “Let’s do some funky things,” Victoria piped up.

  Miss Rutherford gasped. “Young lady, please!”

  “What? Doesn’t that mean ‘fun’?” Victoria asked.

  “Well, not exactly,” Kristy said.

  “Oh, do teach me American slang,” Victoria pleaded.

  “How about American songs?” Stacey said. “Those are fun for car rides.”

  We sang songs that never end, like “Jon Johnson” and “Michael Finegan.” We sang “If I Had a Hammer,” and “This Land Is Your Land,” and the coolest song called “Turn the World Around.”

  When we reached “Follow the Drinking Gourd,” Victoria directed us to “correct” her pronunciation of gourd, with a hard r.

  “Gourd,” Stacey said as we sped down the Connecticut turnpike.

  “Gourrrrrrrd,” Victoria repeated.

  Stacey giggled. “Now just ease up … gourd.”

  Victoria’s eyes grew focused and intense. “Lord,” she said.

  “Uh, yeah, same idea,” Stacey said. “Just put a g —”

  “No, I mean, lord, look at those buildings!” Victoria cried out.

  Stacey turned. George had just passed a thick grove of trees, and the New York City skyline stood in front of us, beckoning.

  “ ‘A holiday bite of the Big Apple,’ ” read Kristy from a brochure Miss Rutherford had picked up somewhere, “‘has a touch of cinnamon and cloves, a cool tartness that keeps you on your feet, yet a sweetness and warmth that reminds you of home.’ Yechh, who writes this stuff?”

  “Sounds marvelous to me!” Victoria said, her nose pressed to the car window. “I mean, cool. Sounds way cool to me. Ooooh, this is so lovely. Can we climb out and walk?”

  “Across the Triboro Bridge? I don’t think so,” replied Stacey.

  “Where are we going first?” I asked.

  “To a powder room,” Miss Rutherford said. “Preferably in a large, comfortably appointed department store.”

  “Great, Saks Fifth Avenue,” Stacey replied. “That’ll put us right in the middle of all the good holiday stuff. We’re not meeting your parents until five, so we should have time to see the windows, the tree at Rockefeller Center, and FAO Schwarz.”

  “Oh, wayest cool! We’re meeting a friend?” Victoria asked.

  “That’s a toy store.”

  “Is it near the U.N.? I’m sure my parents will want to join us and take us to the loveliest restaurant —”

  “May I take this opportunity,” Miss Rutherford interrupted, as the limo swung onto the F.D.R. Drive on the East Side of Manhattan, “to review the rules of inner-city travel. At no time are we to lose sight of each other or the car. At all times, Victoria must be holding hands with one of us, preferably two of us. We are to avoid eye contact with suspicious individuals, crossing to the other side of the street if necessary.”

  “Oh, bother,” Victoria said. “How can we tell how bad they are if we don’t make eye contact? Personally, I intend to leap up and kiss anyone like that.”

  “Impudence is not a desirable quality in a city like New York, where young children are lost at the rate of … well, many a day! Now gloves are recommended, as the amount of surface grime creates an unhealthy breeding ground for microbes …”

  Miss Rutherford droned on about pickpockets and subways and dirt. Each time she gazed out the window, Victoria would cross her eyes or make a face. Kristy, Stacey, and I could barely keep from cracking up.

  George steered off the highway and onto the streets. Immediately we were in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Horns blared around us, and pedestrians wound their ways between the cars, clutching shopping bags.

  “It looks rather like London,” Victoria
said. “Oh, you three simply must come to London! Will you?”

  “Sure,” Kristy said. “Maybe George can drive us.”

  “You bet!” George called out. “I’ll use my jet car.”

  “Oh, I wish you had one now,” Victoria said. “I want to go straight to Bloomingdale’s!”

  “We’re right around the corner,” Stacey remarked.

  “Pull over right now!” Victoria shouted.

  “Absolutely not!” Miss Rutherford said. “To Saks Fifth Avenue, as planned, Mr. McArdle. We shall enjoy the sights from our comfortable seats and be grateful.”

  We passed under the big Roosevelt Island tram. We drove past the crowded sidewalks of Bloomingdale’s. We waved to people in a long line at Radio City Music Hall. At one point, we even caught the tiniest glimpse of Central Park.

  As we inched past a horse and carriage on Fifth Avenue, Miss Rutherford said, “Simply dreadful, that those beasts should be subjected to this treatment!”

  “That’s what the horses are thinking about us, cooped up in this smelly car!” Victoria said.

  I had to admit, I agreed. Seeing New York from the back of a limo in heavy traffic was dull. We might as well have been watching a video.

  “There’s Saks!” Stacey said, pointing ahead.

  “Very good,” Miss Rutherford said. “I shall go and freshen up. Mr. McArdle will find a parking space, while you wait for me.”

  Before Victoria could scream bloody murder, George made a sound like a game-show buzzer. “Ehhhhhh. False. Parking is not allowed on these streets. I’ll have to drop you off. Look, you’re supposed to meet the Kents at five. How about I meet you in front of the Plaza Hotel at four forty-five? Right near the golden statue of the horse and rider. Anybody know where that is?”

  “Sure!” Stacey said.

  “Oh, dear …” Miss Rutherford murmured.

  “We’ll take care of Victoria,” Stacey said.

  “Yyyess!” Victoria cried out, a little awkwardly.

  “And we’ll stand guard for you outside the bathroom door,” Kristy added.

  As we left the car, Miss Rutherford’s face was as red as the holiday decorations.

  Well, it took us awhile to reach the ladies’ room. The first-floor aisles were full of store employees spraying free perfume samples, and Victoria insisted on sniffing every one.

  After Miss Rutherford’s pit stop, we wandered through the store, trying on hats and scarves and sweaters — generally having fun while Miss Rutherford skulked around watching for serial killers or something.

  Even though it was not yet Thanksgiving, the dark wood-paneled walls were draped with pine boughs and twinkling lights. With holiday spirit in the air, and the knowledge that my dad and sister were going to return the next morning, I felt just wonderful.

  Not to mention the fact that Victoria seemed to be having the time of her life.

  After Saks, Stacey led us across the street, toward Rockefeller Center. On the corner of Fiftieth Street and Fifth Avenue, several food vendors stood side by side. The sweet aroma of hot, honey-coated peanuts competed with the smoky smell of roasting chestnuts.

  I thought I was going to drool right on the sidewalk.

  “I must have some of those chestnuts!” Victoria demanded.

  We walked down the block toward Rockefeller Center, stuffing our faces and giggling like crazy.

  “Look up,” Stacey said all of a sudden.

  I did. First I saw an army of trumpeting angels, sculpted out of thick white wire and arranged in two lines down a gentle hill. Beyond them was a skating rink. And beyond that, framed by the angels’ upraised trumpets, was the Rockefeller Center tree.

  How was it? Spectacular, even though it wasn’t yet lit. It was seven stories high (I counted), and surrounded by people snapping photos.

  Kristy was the first to notice that Victoria was gone. “Vic?” she called out.

  “Oh, dear.” Miss Rutherford began to shake. “Oh, my word!”

  “VIC!” Kristy bellowed.

  “Yes?” a bewildered-looking businessman answered.

  We left him there and bolted down the slope, screaming Victoria’s name.

  Stacey, Kristy, and I found her leaning over the railing, watching the skaters.

  “I thought I spotted David Letterman,” she squealed, “doing a pirouette!”

  “Victoria, don’t ever do that to us again,” Stacey scolded.

  As we lectured her about sticking together, Miss Rutherford stormed toward us, huffing and puffing. “Victoria, I have half a mind to tie your wrist to mine!”

  “You do so and I shall become a Pilgrim,” Victoria said defiantly, “and move to the United States to escape you.”

  “Look,” Stacey said, “we’ll walk together up Fifth Avenue. If any of us is separated, we can meet at our checkpoint in front of the statue at Fifty-eighth Street. George will be there waiting.”

  We all agreed. Victoria, however, wasn’t concerned at all about being lost. She took photos of the tree. She took photos of us, surrounding a chestnut vendor. As we walked up Fifth Avenue, she kept shouting, “Get yer chess-nuts heah — eat ’em while they’re hot!”

  We visited a camera store and a bookstore. We bought chocolates at Godiva (Stacey settled for a soft pretzel from another vendor). We wandered into St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

  Finally, we reached the Plaza. It’s a pretty glamorous-looking place, with flags lining the front and people climbing in and out of limos. Just across the street from it are the low stone walls of Central Park.

  “Hey, let’s skip the hotel and check out the park!” Kristy said. “We have time.”

  “Over my dead body!” Miss Rutherford said.

  “It’s the coolest place!” Stacey said.

  “Way coolest,” Victoria agreed.

  “I will agree to take you girls for tea at the Plaza,” Miss Rutherford said. “But that is as far as we shall go.”

  “Oh … gross,” Victoria said.

  Actually, tea at the Plaza didn’t sound bad to me at all. We trudged up the stairs and inside the main corridor.

  Victoria gasped. “This was where the boy in Home Alone 2 stayed, wasn’t it? I saw that in London, you know.”

  Miss Rutherford was admiring the windows of the shops that line the Plaza’s lobby. “Lovely,” she said.

  As she wandered around to the left, melting into the crowd, Victoria shot away to the right.

  Kristy went after Victoria, and I turned to call for Miss Rutherford. But Stacey grabbed my wrist hard. “Ssshh,” she whispered. “She’s the one wandering away. We’re not supposed to look after her.”

  “Stacey!” I said. “We can’t just let her go. That’s not right!”

  “Look, you’re supposed to be a companion to Victoria, not Miss Rutherford. Besides, we said we’d meet at the statue if we separate, right? And we have to be there in a little while, anyway.” With a big grin, Stacey pulled me in the direction Kristy had gone. “In the meantime, let’s have some fun!”

  Until I read that, I hadn’t realized how guilty Stacey had felt about leaving Miss Rutherford.

  She sure didn’t seem that way as she explained to Kristy and Victoria what we’d done. Victoria’s reaction?

  “Waaaay cool!” (Of course.)

  “The Central Park Zoo’s open until five,” Stacey went on. “Want to go?”

  “A zoo!” Victoria shouted. “Gross! No, that means bad. I mean, cool — oh, I have them mixed up. Yes, let’s go!”

  I looked over my shoulder. Miss Rutherford was nowhere to be seen. I had to run to catch up with Stacey, who was leading Kristy and Victoria out a side door of the Plaza.

  At the corner, we crossed the street and walked into Central Park. It was crowded with families, and we wound our way through them.

  “It’s a small zoo,” Stacey said. “But it’s great.”

  She’s right. I’ve been to that zoo a few times, and I never grow tired of it. I loved the tropical house, which felt li
ke an indoor jungle in the middle of Manhattan. I enjoyed watching monkeys scamper around outdoors. Victoria loved the sea lions, but she was most fascinated by a polar bear who kept swimming the same pattern back and forth across a small pond.

  “Poor thing,” Stacey said. “I read in the newspaper that he’s seeing an animal psychologist.”

  I thought that was pretty hilarious. I imagined the bear stretched out on a couch.

  Victoria wanted to go into the penguin house but Stacey had other plans. “To Schwarz!” she announced.

  FAO Schwarz is right across the street from Central Park. Victoria enjoyed that even more than the zoo. Especially when a life-sized toy-soldier model turned out to be a real person who burst out into song!

  We were upstairs, watching an enormous electric train set, when Stacey cried out, “Yikes! It’s four-forty! Time to go.”

  “Ohhhh, can’t we just live here?” Victoria asked.

  “Bring it up with Miss Rutherford,” Kristy said.

  We raced out the door. The tour had been short, but a lot of fun.

  As we approached the statue, though, my heart was in my mouth. What we’d done was kind of stupid. Miss Rutherford would probably be frantic. What if she’d had a heart attack worrying? What if she’d called the police, or Victoria’s parents?

  George was standing outside his limo, right near the statue. “Heyyyy!” he called out. “You guys are right on time. Where’s Miss Rutherford, taking a jog around the park?”

  Stacey’s eyes were focussed on the front doors of the Plaza. “I don’t think so …”

  Miss Rutherford was bustling down the steps, flanked by two policemen and a dark-suited man holding a walkie-talkie.

  “Oh, dear,” Victoria murmured.

  “Yo! Miss Rutherford!” Kristy cried out.

  Miss Rutherford stopped in her tracks, then started talking a mile a minute to the men.

  Then they began walking toward us. I could see the words Plaza Security stitched onto the dark-suited man’s jacket. “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “Yup,” said George. “Thank you for finding Miss Rutherford.”

  Miss Rutherford gasped. “Finding me? Why — of all the — how —?”