“Also as you can see, someone is not wearing boring old school clothes today. Someone is wearing her good dress for your birthday.”
“Yes, I noticed right away. And your good shoes, too.”
“Did you notice anything else,” Annie asks modestly, “such as two chocolate milks on the table? Because someone made them before, when you were in the bathroom shaving.”
“Well, someone must be a mind reader. Because if there’s one thing I’m in the mood for, it’s chocolate milk.” Professor Rossi takes a long and surprisingly noisy drink. “Outstanding!”
“You may now tell me all about our Yankees.” From time to time — even when it isn’t her father’s birthday — Annie pretends to be interested in baseball. She likes to pretend she is a big Yankee fan. (Her father, a genuine Yankee fan, seems to appreciate this.)
“Unfortunately”— big frown as he scans the headline —“our Yankees managed to lose again last night.”
“Oh dear.” Annie drags her chocolate milk through a straw, inch by inch, to make it last.
“It all fell apart at the bottom of the ninth.” Professor Rossi shakes his head and begins to explain exactly how it fell apart. “With bases loaded, the last thing you want, Annie, is a high pop toward center field —”
“Okay, Daddy, now we should talk about something happy.” Annie cuts him off, but in the brightest possible way. “And I know just the thing that makes everybody happy — birthday presents!”
“You’ve got to watch out for sloppy hitting,” her father informs Annie.
“Daddy, we already stopped talking about baseball,” Annie reminds him sweetly. “Now, I’ve been thinking”— extra-sweet —“a dog makes a good birthday present, and I bet you want a dog!” (In fact, she has already practiced saying these very words — several times — in front of the bathroom mirror.)
Professor Rossi slowly lowers the paper until it is face-down on the table.
“I know a lot about dogs,” Annie rushes in. “If you want, I could even help you pick one out!”
“Annie. Must we have this conversation again?” He sighs. “We’ve had it so many times already. Dozens of times over the years . . . no, hundreds.”
“A dog is fun,” Annie says.
“Yes, but —”
“A dog is your friend,” Annie says. “Some dogs are brave!”
“Yes, but some people aren’t that comfortable with dogs, and, as you well know, I happen to be one of them.”
“That’s not fair!” Annie bangs her elbows on the table. “You never like my good ideas!”
“Don’t pout, Annie.” Professor Rossi spreads extra jam across his toast and takes two big bites.
“Everyone has a dog.”
“Everyone does not have a dog, and you know it.”
“Well, the super’s boy — that boy in Mommy’s class — he got a puppy, and I got to hold the puppy in the lobby. Did you know that?”
“I seem to remember a nice long story about a puppy with silky ears.” Professor Rossi smiles.
Annie does not smile back. He’s supposed to want a dog for his birthday! He’s supposed to be nice, not mean! “Your birthday’s not fun anymore”— Annie jabs at her toast —“and you’re not fun.” She had cut all the toast into beautiful triangles for his birthday, and he didn’t even notice.
Suddenly, Annie is tired of her father’s birthday, tired of chocolate milk, and tired of being in charge. It seems to her she’s just no good at it, and why couldn’t her mother be in charge of birthdays like always? Everyone has a mother, and she wants one, too. She wants her very own mother, now! “Mommy’s fun,” she blurts out, “and Mommy had a dog when she was a little girl — did you know that?”
“A dog?” Professor Rossi seems quite surprised.
“Yes,” Annie says in her know-everything tone of voice.
“A dog?” he repeats. “Are you sure? Because I thought I knew everything about Mommy, and I never heard about —”
“I know everything about Mommy. And I know she had a dog. A dog named Miss Phoebe, and I even have a secret picture to prove it!” (Annie doesn’t actually mean to say that about the picture. Because now her father is going to say, “Where did you find this secret picture, Annie?”)
“Where did you find this secret picture, Annie?”
Annie bites off a corner of her toast. She chews carefully, taking her time, so she doesn’t have to say, “I found it in Mommy’s top dresser drawer.” If she says that, she might wind up saying, “Also I found big sunglasses there, and her lipstick is there, and I look pretty in Mommy’s sunglasses . . . and once I tried on her lipstick and you didn’t know, so ha-di-ha to you!”
“What a curious development,” her father is saying. “I sure would like to see that picture sometime. . . .”
Annie folds her arms across her chest and pinches her lips into a straight line. It’s her picture. She found it. Why should she show it to a mean old father who doesn’t want a dog?
“Oh, here comes the long face! A long face on my birthday!”
He is trying to make her giggle but too bad! Annie pinches her lips a little more. She is not about to giggle, or smile, or show him her secret picture. Then again, it’s such a good picture . . . and one teeny part of her (the part that simply cannot keep a secret) wonders if — maybe — one quick peek would be okay. Only, she has to be in charge . . . See this little girl hugging her dog? This one, Daddy, with a flower in her hair. See, she has short hair like me! And freckles like me! But her eyes are green and mine are brown, and that’s how you know she’s Mommy! And now, look here. Because here in the corner, someone wrote: Thelma (Age 10) with her dog, Miss Phoebe . . .
“Okay, fine.” Annie pushes back her chair. “Fine,” she repeats. “I’ll show you the picture of Mommy.”
She finds it in her sock drawer between two pairs of white summer socks. The window is open and the day is bright, and a breeze blows in the window. Down in Riverside Park, a boy and a lady run with a dog. Is that your mother, little boy? Hey! What’s your dog’s name, little boy? Annie smiles but it’s a sad little smile because the boy has a dog to play with and she does not. The boy has a mother . . . and no one feels lonely down there.
Annie turns from the window and plants a little kiss on the picture of her mother. “I love you,” she whispers, “and I love Miss Phoebe . . . and Daddy is mean.” Annie sits on the floor to pack up her things for school, including her spelling notebook, with her picture tucked safely inside — a picture she no longer intends to share with a mean old father who doesn’t like dogs!
Later that morning in room 107, Miss Meadows puts ten long-division problems on the blackboard. “Quiet down, people! It’s time to practice our long division, so take out your math notebooks, please!”
Annie reaches into her desk for her notebook. Long division, phooey.
“Carefully copy each problem, and do not rush, boys and girls. When we rush, we make careless errors.”
Annie turns to a clean page in her math notebook and copies the first problem at the top of the page. (340 ÷ 17). She writes neatly and sits back to admire her neat numbers but wishes it were spelling time instead. Annie happens to be an excellent speller, and spelling, in her opinion, is an important third-grade subject. (Arithmetic, in her opinion, is not important at all.) Every week Miss Meadows puts fifteen new words on the board, along with the homework assignment:
While Annie is not a big fan of homework in general, she doesn’t actually mind this homework. As a matter of fact, she puts a big effort into her fifteen sentences each week. Sometimes, after an especially big effort, they come out sounding like a story . . . and Miss Meadows says, “Well done, Annie! Now, how about reading your story to the class!”
“This is not a test, boys and girls.” Miss Meadows walks up and down the aisles. “But we must do our best at all times.”
Annie likes to do her best at all times. On the other hand, you can’t always be in the mood for long division.
With that thought in mind, she reaches inside her desk. (A good spy like Annie never gets caught!) Inch by inch, she pulls out her spelling notebook and puts it on her lap, where Miss Meadows can’t see. (The good spy finds her secret picture.) Hello again little girl who looks like me! We don’t like long division, do we? Hello, Miss Phoebe!
Annie quickly puts back the picture. (The good spy did not get caught). She still isn’t in the mood for long division, though, and just for the fun of it, she reads over last night’s spelling sentences, all of which please her very much. Well done, Annie. Take a bow! Why, no one in her class writes better sentences than she does! No one in the whole third grade — the whole school, and perhaps she should be an author one day when she’s a grown-up lady!
Until this very moment, Annie has always assumed she will be a famous movie star one day. But an author! Why, authors get to make up sentences every day. They get to make up whole stories every day! Annie the author! How exciting! She will need a lot of red notebooks, of course, fountain pens, too — and a dog! Yes, indeed, an important author like Annie absolutely needs a dog.
“Number seven, Annie?”
Annie looks up. Seven. Seven what?
“Could you please tell us the answer to problem number seven?” Why is Miss Meadows looking at her like that? Annie closes the book on her lap, and maybe she stops breathing. You could hear a pin drop in room 107.
Miss Meadows is walking slowly up the aisle. “We’re waiting.” Closer! Closer! And now she is here! Right here at her desk!
Annie swallows, throat dry, and why is her face so hot? Burning hot!
“I’m disappointed in you, Annie,” Miss Meadows says in a faraway voice.
Disappointed! Annie’s stomach flops over. She looks down, down: Miss Meadows’s feet in blue shoes.
“Now, may I please have that notebook?” Miss Meadows is saying. “The one on your lap.”
With shaky hands and without looking up, Annie hands over her spelling notebook. Don’t cry! Don’t cry! Don’t cry!
“Under the circumstances, Annie, recess is out of the question today. You can devote that time to your long division.” Miss Meadows walks crisply to the front of the room. “You can collect this at three o’clock,” says Miss Mean. She puts the notebook (and Annie’s picture!) on her desk, underneath her Daily Lesson Planner.
“I’m disappointed in you, Annie.” Miss Meadows’s words don’t go away as the morning drags on. Miss Meadows stole her spelling notebook! She stole her mother’s picture . . . and what if she never gives it back? Then what? Annie will just have to tell on her, that’s what. She’ll tell the police, and Miss Meadows will go to jail! Too bad for you, Miss Mean. . . .
Instead of going outside for recess, Annie goes to the school office. And there she sits, all by herself on a hard bench, unappreciated and slaving away at stupid long division while everyone else in room 107 is having fun. Anyway, who cares about stupid old school! Maybe she’ll quit school! Miss Meadows will cry and cry. Annie, we miss you so much! Look, we have your trophy! See what it says? MOST APPRECIATED THIRD GRADER, MISS ANNIE ROSSI!
Afterward, after the worst recess in the history of her life, Annie slides into her seat in the third row. Jean-Marie holds up a tiny little sign in her own boxy print that says: RECESS IS NO FUN WITHOUT YOU. Annie loves the sign. But she refuses to look at Miss Meadows. Excuse me, Miss Mean, have you heard my good news? I am quitting school! Most days Annie raises her hand quite a lot in school, but for the whole rest of this day, she decides not to raise her hand — and something else she decides: no smiling. No sir, she’ll never smile again in room 107 — no matter what. The afternoon drags on . . . 2:05 . . . 2:10 . . . 2:14 . . . On the dot of three, Annie runs out of the classroom. She does not say, See you tomorrow, Miss Meadows, on her way out the door. Nor does she “collect” her spelling notebook.
Nowadays Mrs. Peterman picks up Annie after school. They take a slow walk home, stopping here and there to look in shop windows on Broadway. Rainy days they huddle close under Mrs. Peterman’s red umbrella. As a rule, they discuss two things on their walk: first, Annie’s day at school and, second, what to have for a snack. Mrs. Peterman waits in the same place in the schoolyard for Annie every day . . . and every day, in a private little place in her heart, Annie hopes and prays someone else might be there. If only — even once — her mother would be there, waving to Annie and blowing kisses across the schoolyard. If only.
Today, because she has had a very bad day, Annie does something highly unusual in the schoolyard. She throws her arms around Mrs. Peterman at the waist. Mrs. Peterman hugs Annie tight for a while. “I’m glad to see you, too,” she says.
“We will not talk about school today,” says Annie.
“Not one juicy story?” Mrs. Peterman looks surprised.
“Nope.” Annie shakes her head.
So they walk uptown and don’t say a word about school. They discuss instead the warm spring day. They count baby carriages on Broadway. Annie tries very hard not to think about the third grade, but now and then she hears herself sigh a sad little sigh that means: Miss Meadows doesn’t like me anymore. . . . As they approach the corner of 109th Street, though, she is momentarily distracted by the sight of cupcakes in the window of Carmen’s Diner.
“Mmmnn.” Annie licks her lips. “Yummy cupcakes.”
“I’m a big fan, too,” admits Mrs. Peterman. “Cupcake. Just say the word and I’m first in line — morning, noon, night. Halloween, Christmas, birthdays . . .”
Birthdays? All at once something terrible occurs to Annie. TODAY IS HER FATHER’S BIRTHDAY . . . AND NOBODY MADE HIM A CAKE!
“Mrs. Peterman.” Annie looks up. “Today is my father’s birthday.”
Mrs. Peterman nods, as if she already knows.
A birthday with no cake, why that’s the saddest thing in the world! And it’s all her fault, because she didn’t bake him a cake! Then again, she doesn’t know how to bake a cake . . .
“Did you hear what I said, Annie? Because I’ve just come up with a fine idea.”
No, she did not hear. Why, why, why didn’t she bake her father a cake?
Now Mrs. Peterman is repeating her fine idea: instead of going home today as usual, why not visit Annie’s father in his office?
“But he’s working, Mrs. Peterman. We can’t interrupt him at work.”
“Sure we can.” Mrs. Peterman flicks her hand in the air. “Birthdays are just as important as work, don’t you think so, Annie? Why, even important teachers at important universities need to find a reason to celebrate from time to time.”
“Mrs. Peterman.” Suddenly, Annie brightens. “We could bring cupcakes, if you want. To my father’s office, if you want . . . for a big surprise!”
“Like I always say”— Mrs. Peterman puts her arm around Annie as she leads her inside, to the takeout counter at Carmen’s —“great minds think alike.”
By the time they get to the university gates (with three chocolate cupcakes in a box with yellow ribbon), Annie is nearly in a good mood. By the time they get to Sherman Hall, she is in a good mood. And by the time they find her father’s book-lined office (room 202), she is absolutely giddy. They walk right in and yell, “Surprise!”
Professor Rossi is so surprised he nearly jumps out of his chair! “Well, look who’s here! How about this! I’ve got company! The best company in the world!” He keeps scratching his head in confusion. “To think you two innocents cooked up such a sneaky little plan!”— he laughs —“And here I was, thinking just this minute, If only I had something to eat, preferably chocolate!”
Afterward — after they eat the cupcakes and sing the happy birthday song, and after Professor Rossi blows out pretend birthday candles — Mrs. Peterman taps her wristwatch with two fingers in a gesture that means it’s time to go home. “Come along, Annie.” Her tone is pleasant but has an edge of authority. “We have to let your father get back to work now.”
“I better stay here, Mrs. Peterman.” An
nie’s tone is pleasant, too. She smiles at Mrs. Peterman.
“Now, Annie . . .”
“My father shouldn’t be lonely on his birthday.” As the words slide sweetly off her tongue, Annie hopes everyone in the room will recognize what a nice girl she is — a girl who chooses to keep her father company on his birthday, instead of watching TV! (Annie would prefer keeping him company at the playground, of course, or perhaps in a movie theater, but her father has already explained — several times — about his teaching responsibilities here at Columbia University, including his 4:30 responsibility, which has something to do with creative writing.)
A few minutes later, having successfully persuaded the grownups to let her stay, Annie makes herself at home at her father’s important-looking desk. She sits in his big black chair, feeling terribly important herself as she watches him pack up for his 4:30 class. “By the way,” she says casually, “I’m quitting school, Daddy. You’ll never talk me out of it, so don’t even try.”
“Quitting school is serious business,” he responds in a not-too-serious tone of voice. “I would be remiss if I didn’t at least try talking you out of it.”
Annie leans forward on her knees and types her name on his old-fashioned typewriter. But typing is hard and it comes out anine. It seems to her (except for the cupcakes) this whole day is hard.
Grownups! They spoil everything! A father who doesn’t want a dog for his birthday. A teacher who says, “I’m disappointed in you, Annie,” and steals your picture of your mother . . .
Annie prints Annie was here on her father’s desk calendar on today’s page. She makes a picture of a dog on tomorrow’s page, then another dog, right next to the first one, and now no one is lonely.
A few minutes later, they are clattering down the stairs. In light of the perfect spring day, Professor Rossi has made arrangements for his 4:30 class to meet outside today, under a tree.
“Do you want to know why I’m quitting school?” Annie asks as they walk across the grass.
Remembering Mrs. Rossi (9780763670900) Page 3
