Secret #1: Once, I threw my vitamin pill in the garbage and nobody found out!
Secret #2: I have a secret bag of cookies! Under my bed, shhh!!
Secret #3: Sometimes I pretend Mommy is coming! She’s coming on the train to Pineapple Street, and I meet her at the station for a big surprise!!
Secret #4: Helen Cooper is a brat.
Secret #5: I wish I didn’t have to go to room 245 for fourth grade. In seventeen days it’s the first day of school, and I wish I didn’t have Mrs. Bailey for fourth grade. I only want Miss Meadows. I love, love, love third grade.
Annie’s thoughts turn over and over . . . to the last day of third grade . . . and her report card . . . and the back of her report card, where Miss Meadows wrote all those nice things about Annie, words she knows by heart.
Just before the final bell, Miss Meadows put her address on the board. “Keep in touch, boys and girls. Write me a letter! Even a short one! I would love to hear from you this summer.” Suddenly it was three o’clock and just like that, third grade was over. The kids in room 107 screamed and cheered. Annie screamed and cheered, too, but she was only pretending to be happy about the last day of third grade. Miss Meadows gave everyone a hug on the way out the door. When it was her turn, Annie tried to say, Have a nice summer, Miss Meadows. But when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. She simply couldn’t say goodbye to Miss Meadows.
Annie had every intention of writing a really catchy letter to Miss Meadows on the first day of summer vacation. Unfortunately, she didn’t get around to it that day, or the next, or the one after that. By the end of the first week of summer vacation, she still had not written her letter. Annie and her father took the train — just the two of them this year instead of three — away from the hot city and opened the cottage on Pineapple Street. The sea was beautiful and cool, but Annie missed looking for seashells on the beach with her mother.
She did write two letters, though. One to Jean-Marie. (Jean-Marie did not write back.) And one to Mrs. Peterman. (Mrs. Peterman did write back.) Weeks passed. From time to time, Annie thought about writing that letter to Miss Meadows. Dear Miss Meadows, she would write. I miss you so much and I love you so much because you are nice and my mother was nice and I wish . . . but the thought of writing all that made her too sad . . . and Annie was trying her best not to be sad. Anyway, there was always something else to do. There was swimming to do; or finding new books at the library; or talking to Sam, her favorite lifeguard; or playing with Al and Helen; or having an ice cream in town with her father. Then one day, just last week, and for no particular reason, Annie sat down on the beach and wrote a letter to Miss Meadows. She wrote carefully, in her best penmanship. Later she read it out loud as she walked to the post office with her father, and they both agreed it was a very catchy letter.
Annie drapes one leg over the side of the hammock. (She needs to slow down the rocking in order to think and calculate.) A whole week — plus two days — since she mailed her letter. That’s nine days, and Miss Meadows still hasn’t written back! “What in the world is taking so long?” she mumbles to Al.
Al barks something to Annie.
“What’d you say, Al? You think there’s a letter from Miss Meadows? Waiting at the post office now?”
Al barks again.
“That’s what I thought you said!” Annie tumbles off the hammock.
Al tumbles, too, and they charge down the beach to Annie’s father. “Can we go to the post office?” she calls as she runs. “Miss Meadows wrote me a letter, and I can’t wait to read it!”
“Yes, yes. Good idea.” He is crossing something out with his fat red pen. “We’ll go a little later, Annie, right after lunch.”
“Well, I might go now.” Annie watches Al romp in the choppy sea, stirring up the sea.
“What was that, Annie?”
“I might walk to town.” Annie knows perfectly well she isn’t allowed to walk to town without a grownup, but it’s fun saying, “I might walk to town,” to certain people who don’t pay attention when you talk.
“You know perfectly well you aren’t allowed to walk to town without a grownup.” Her father sounds just slightly irritated. “We’ll go after lunch,” he repeats.
“Helen is allowed to go to town without a grownup.”
“Is that so?” Professor Rossi frowns. “Well, I don’t happen to approve,” he says. “Nonetheless, Helen’s parents make the rules for Helen, and I make the rules for you.”
“You have too many rules.”
Just then Al runs out of the water. He runs straight for them, barking at her father as usual. Professor Rossi, as usual, pays him no mind.
Al continues to bark.
“Make him stop, Annie.”
“He’s just trying to be friendly,” Annie points out.
“What he’s trying to do is annoy me.”
“If you were just a teeny bit friendly,” Annie says, “he wouldn’t have to bark so much.”
Professor Rossi drums his fingers on his notebook. Then he picks up a stick and throws it, hard, toward the water, calling, “There you go, Al! See?” he says to Annie. “I’m friendly.”
“You’re only trying to get rid of him,” Annie says, as Al comes galloping back with the stick in his mouth. “That’s a little bit rude, Daddy.”
“He’s a dog, Annie! You can’t be rude to a dog.” (Sadly, Professor Rossi doesn’t understand anything at all about dogs.) “Now, could you and Al kindly amuse yourselves? Just a little longer, Annie. I’m trying to write something here.”
“Are you getting ready for the first day of school, is that what you’re doing?”
“No, Annie.”
“Are you writing a letter?”
“No, Annie.”
“Are you making a list of your favorite foods? I love making lists like that . . . and I always put ice cream at the top of my list . . .”
“Annie, please!”
“It’s not fair! You never tell me anything, and I always tell you everything I write . . . and I bet what you’re writing is boring!” Annie turns on her heels, squeaking both feet in the hot sand. “Come on, Al. Let’s have fun with that baby.”
For the second time this morning, Annie and Al peer through the Coopers’ screen door. This time, though, Annie has brought along her father’s camera, and she is holding it behind her back.
“Anybody home?” she calls into the dark house. “It’s Annie and Al!”
“Hi.” For the second time this morning, Helen appears on the other side of the door. “I just gave James a bath.”
“All by yourself?” Annie can’t believe the good luck some people have.
Al begins to scratch at the door and whimper.
“My mother helped,” Helen says. “But just a little.”
Annie tries her best not to think about the fact that certain people have a mother in the house and certain other people do not. But it’s hard when certain people go around saying “my mother this” and “my mother that” every minute of the day.
“Anyway, I did most of the work,” Helen is saying. “I’m an excellent baby bather.”
“Anyway, I have a surprise,” Annie says to the baby bather.
“Is it candy?” Helen whispers.
“You’ll see.” Annie hopes she looks terribly mysterious through the screen. “But first, we have to come in.”
Helen opens the door a crack. “Is it cupcakes?” Helen slips outside before Al can slip inside. There’s a dog biscuit in her hand, and she gives it to Al.
“No,” Annie says. “This is even better than cupcakes. I’m going to take a picture of James!” And just to make sure her surprise is a big hit with Helen, she adds, “Then I’ll take a picture of you with James, and I’ll put it in my scrapbook.”
Helen walks to the edge of the porch and sits down. Annie sits beside her, and Al squeezes in the middle, chomping noisily on his biscuit. Helen puts her arm around Al. She kisses the top of his head. (Al pretends not to care ab
out the kiss, and Annie knows why: he is mad at Helen for not letting him play with the baby.)
“I could take the picture now if you want. I have time,” Annie says.
Helen shrugs the kind of shrug that means, Who cares?
“Maybe you should go get James,” Annie suggests, “now that he’s nice and clean.”
Helen shrugs again. Who cares?
Annie sighs loudly. Helen is so annoying . . . and what is she being so grumpy about? She’s the lucky one, the one with the brand-new baby brother in the house! Well, maybe it’s all that havoc her father was talking about. Yes, it could be Helen just needs to hear something funny, and then she’ll quit pouting . . . and then she’ll get James, and Annie can take a picture. “Okay, this is funny,” Annie says hopefully. “See, I really thought James was going to be a girl!”
“Me, too,” Helen says sadly. “I thought her name would be Jenny.”
“Well, I never knew a boy baby could be that cute,” Annie admits.
“Cute?” Helen shakes her head. “He’s not so cute when he’s crying.”
“All babies cry.” Annie hopes she sounds older than 8¾.
“Not as much as this one.”
“I wish I had a baby . . . a baby sister.” And she wouldn’t cry . . . and my mother and I would give her a bath. . . .
Helen looks off in the distance, then up at the sky. “My parents like him better,” she says to the sky.
Annie gasps. “Are you sure?”
Helen nods. She is sure. “Look, Annie!” Helen points to the ocean. “It’s really rough now. I hope there’s a big storm,” she says. “I love a big storm, don’t you?”
“And thunder and lightning!” As a matter of fact, Annie doesn’t care for big storms at all, and even the little ones scare her sometimes. But it is important to side with Helen — now that her parents don’t like her so much anymore.
“Maybe I’ll go away,” Helen says wistfully. “Nobody would even care.”
“We could go to town!” The words fly out of Annie’s mouth, and the very sound of them sends shivers of excitement up and down her spine. “We could walk to town.” She chooses her words carefully. “I’m expecting a letter from my teacher,” she explains in a rather wise tone of voice. “We’ll go to the post office for my letter.”
Afterward Annie thinks about all the things she might have done differently. First of all, she would have worn shoes on her walk into town, and no one would call her slowpoke. (Helen wore shoes.) She would have chosen a different sort of day, too — a day without thunder and lightning. A day without soaking rain. Of course, Annie had no way of knowing all those fast gray clouds overhead would burst just as she and Helen turned onto Main Street. How could she possibly know a thing like that? And had she known the rain would make her so cold, she would surely have taken a sweatshirt. A nice cozy one — extra-long to her knees — to wear over her bathing suit. (Helen wore her sweatshirt — extra-long — over her bathing suit.)
“Help!” Helen is the first one to shriek, with the first bolt of lightning.
Annie shrieks, too, but of course she isn’t nearly as frightened as Helen. Well, thank goodness for Al — good old Al, soaked to his bones. Annie smiles reassuringly at Al, so he knows everything will be okay. “Come on!” she calls. “Library!”
Annie and Helen and Al run to the other side of Main Street in the rain. They run up the library steps. The library has a tall green door. Annie has come and gone through this door many, many times in her life, but this is the first time she notices the sign: SHOES AND PROPER ATTIRE REQUIRED. NO BATHING SUITS! “We can’t go in.” Annie swallows. “It’s against the law.”
They huddle close on the steps outside the library. Annie’s teeth chatter and clack, and the rain pours down. Al is not used to huddling in the rain and doesn’t seem to like it one bit. He scuttles to his feet and barks his goodbyes. Then he runs down the steps and runs to the end of Main Street. Without looking back, he turns the corner and disappears.
“Don’t be scared.” Annie’s tone is brave. “I know what to do.”
“I’m not scared.”
Annie smiles a teeny little secret smile. Helen is lying, of course. Look who’s ten and oh-so-frightened! “If you play a game when you’re scared,” Annie tells Helen, “it helps.” (She says it loud, with her hands on her ears, in case there is more thunder.)
“I already told you, I’m not scared.” Helen’s sweatshirt covers her knees, and her knees aren’t shaking with cold like Annie’s. “What kind of game?”
“There’s a good one called secrets.” In fact, Annie has never actually heard of, or played, a game called secrets, but she likes the way it sounds.
“How do you play?”
“We have to tell each other a secret confession,” Annie explains, as if she has played this game hundreds of times.
“But why?” Helen’s sweatshirt has a hood, and her hair isn’t dripping wet like Annie’s.
“Because if we tell each other a secret confession, it will stop raining.”
“Okay. But you have to go first.”
So Annie begins. “When I get a dog”— pause —“her name will be Miss Phoebe!”
Then Helen. “Once I got sent to the principal’s office when I forgot my homework two days in a row!”
Annie again. “Once”— pause —“I ate eleven cookies in a row when my father wasn’t looking!”
And Helen. “I’m not allowed to walk to town without a grownup!”
Annie’s eyes widen. “Yes, you are. You told me you’re allowed.”
Helen shakes her head.
“Are you sure you’re not allowed?” Annie’s throat begins to tighten.
“They only care about James,” Helen says, “and I’m glad we’re running away from home.”
“But we’re not running away,” Annie whispers. Kids in books run away, not real kids — and especially not Annie. Why, she could never be a running-away-from-home kind of girl! Not really. She likes her home. Very much! Four hundred forty Riverside Drive, apartment 10B, is the best home in the world! And 45 Pineapple Street in the summer, that’s the best home, too! She couldn’t possibly run away from home! Because who will cook her dinner tonight? Or keep her company when she wakes up in the night? And how can she run away without her favorite book in the world? No sir, she would never go off — not even for a day — not without Remembering Mrs. Rossi. The more she thinks about it, the sadder she gets. Because while having one parent isn’t nearly as good as having two, she knows she has a nice father. No, not just nice. Very nice. Extremely, terribly nice (even if he is a little boring sometimes), and she loves him very, very much (even if he doesn’t pay attention to her sometimes), and how lonely he would be if she went away . . . all-by-himself lonely . . . Suddenly, Annie wants to go home. Now. This second. She is just getting up to go home, when Helen tells the saddest secret of all.
“I hope my mother never dies.” When she says it, Helen starts to cry. “I hope my mother never dies.” Helen says it again, and now she is sobbing loudly. This makes Annie mad. What is she crying for? Helen has a mother! Right back there on Pineapple Street! Annie is so mad — so terribly furious, in fact — that she starts to cry and sob, too. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy . . . why can’t you just come back? . . .
All at once, through her tears, Annie sees her father bounding up the street: running, running, looking this way, that way, running very fast, with Al at his heels, shouting Annie’s name in the rain and Helen’s.
“Here I am!” Annie flies down the steps. Barefoot but fast. Way faster than Helen, and when she reaches her father, she flings herself into his arms.
“Annie. Annie.” He keeps saying her name. “I’ve never in my life been so scared . . .” He is shaking and holding Annie. “The thought of losing you . . .”
“I’m sorry.” Annie can barely choke out the words. She made her father scared! She made him shake! Surely, she is the most terrible child on earth!
“Th
ere, there.” Meanwhile, her father has (quite sneakily) turned his attention to Helen. Pesty old Helen. “You’re okay now,” he goes on (a little too kindly). Bratty Helen. Why, she’s the one who started all the trouble today, and everything that happened is her fault, not Annie’s! Which Annie is just about to say . . . but then she remembers how fast he was running on Main Street . . . and how sad he was when he thought Annie was lost . . . and she changes her mind.
“Thank you for finding me, and I love you,” Annie whispers. She leans against her father in the rain, wishing a hug could last forever.
The storm goes on and on, all afternoon and into the night, and Annie sets the table for an early dinner: grilled-cheese-and-tomato sandwiches. She puts the cheese on the bread and layers the cheese with slices of bright red tomato. When the sandwiches are ready for flipping, she helps her father flip.
“They can’t be too dark,” she warns. “They can’t be too light. The cheese has to melt, but it can’t dribble, or you make a big mess in the pan.”
“Yes, yes, and yes.”
Annie is quiet a moment, and then she says, “I’m sorry I walked to town without a grownup.” Her lip quivers and she stares at her perfect sandwich. “I’m sorry I’m not perfect, and I’m sorry I made you scared, and I hope you don’t wish you had another little girl instead of me for your child.”
“A perfect Annie Rossi — how boring that would be!” Professor Rossi (as usual) laughs at his own good humor. “And as far as other little girls are concerned, forget about it, Annie. You belong to me — we belong to each other — and that’s all there is to it. On the other hand,” he goes on in a more serious way, “I don’t know what you were thinking.” (This is the third time, or maybe the fourth, Professor Rossi has said, “I don’t know what you were thinking.” As a rule, Annie doesn’t like when he says the same thing more than one or two times, but this time she knows she has it coming.)
Remembering Mrs. Rossi (9780763670900) Page 5
