by Lois Lowry
"It was a nice thing to do," Mr. Francisco said, a little ruefully. "I couldn't see that until I got older. But now I can. I did a dumb thing. He didn't let me get away with it. He punished me. And I learned. Understand, kiddo?"
Anastasia nodded. "Yeah. I sure understand about doing dumb things." She sighed.
"Hey! That's why I asked you to stay—that look on your face, like you lost your last friend. Is something wrong, Anastasia? I hate to see a pretty girl like you looking so sad all the time."
Although she wished she were wearing something other than the "Surf's up" sweatshirt that her mother had brought her from a trip to Los Angeles, Anastasia felt pleased. No grown man, except her father and uncle, had ever said she was pretty before. Well, actually, Joel, who trimmed her hair occasionally at the beauty parlor on Winchester Street, said so, but she wasn't sure that counted, first because Joel was gay, but also because she paid him thirteen dollars plus a tip for a haircut, so of course he wouldn't say anything insulting.
She smiled a little. Then the weight descended once again, and her smile disappeared. Mr. Francisco waited.
Finally Anastasia said, "I did a really dumb thing. I didn't mean to. But it was illegal, and nobody knows I did it, and now I don't know what to do." She could feel a small shimmer behind her eyes, as if she might cry. Quickly she bit her lip.
"Do you want to tell me what it was?"
Anastasia shook her head glumly. "I don't want to tell anybody," she whispered.
"Sounds to me as if you're going to have to," Mr. Francisco said. "But you know what?"
"What?"
"When you make up your mind to tell, and when you do tell, you're going to feel better. People always feel better if they do the right thing."
"You think so?" Anastasia, who had been staring at the floor, looked up at him.
"I know so. I promise."
Anastasia took a deep breath. She had made the decision at lunch, and now she renewed it in her mind. "Actually," she told Mr. Francisco, "I'm heading home right now. And I'm going to do it. I'm going to confess."
"Good for you." He walked her to the door. "When I see you in class tomorrow, you know what?"
"What?"
"You're going to be smiling. Betcha anything."
Anastasia nodded noncommitedly, and waved good-bye as she left the room. She headed down the deserted hallway. Smiling tomorrow? she repeated to herself. Fat chance, Mr. Francisco. I'm probably going to be in jail tomorrow.
But she headed home to do the right thing.
***
Anastasia Krupnik
VALUES
6. Suppose that by donating one of your kidneys, you could save the life of your brother or sister. Would you do so?
Absolutely. On some issues I am a wishy-washy person, but not this one. This one is easy. I would do it in a minute. For my brother, anyway. I don't have a sister. If I had a sister I would probably love her just as must as I love my brother. So I would donate my kidney to her.
Obviously if I had a brother and a sister, and they both needed kidneys, then it would be a problem. I read in a National Enquirer once about a guy who had seven kidneys, and so for him it wouldn't be a problem, he could give away several if he wanted to, but as far as I know I only have two, and I need one.
7
Anastasia leaned over the desk in her bedroom and looked at her answer to the sixth question. It had been, as she had just written, very easy. She went on to the next, even though Mr. Francisco hadn't specifically told them to.
Question seven was complicated and took her half an hour. Even then, she wasn't completely satisfied with her answer. Anastasia chewed on the end of her ballpoint pen and sighed. Maybe she would just sit here for the rest of the afternoon and do the answers to all the questions. It was very cozy in her room. And quiet. Sleuth was curled up at her feet, as he always seemed to be when she was home. Downstairs, Sam was puttering in his room, playing with his trucks and cars.
Her dad was at work, and her mother was folding laundry in the kitchen.
Of course she had promised herself that she would call the post office this afternoon, right after school. If she continued working on her Values questions, she wouldn't have time for the telephone call.
Anastasia sighed. "Sleuth," she said, "maybe I'll call them tomorrow, instead."
Sleuth looked up, yawned, and put his head back down on his paws.
"Or maybe I don't need to call them at all," Anastasia muttered. "What's the big deal? It's been almost a week. They've probably forgotten all about it.
"Maybe they never even noticed it to begin with."
Sleuth lifted his head and opened his eyes. Then he stood, turned completely around in a circle, lay back down, and closed his eyes again.
Anastasia read his mind. Of course they remember. You remember and I remember. They are the ones who called the police, and who took the mailbox away and haven't put it back, and you think they don't remember?
Come on, Anastasia, you are procrastinating, Sleuth was thinking. And you're making excuses. You're being wishy-washy.
The dog twitched an ear. And also, he was thinking, you are disturbing my sleep.
"All right," Anastasia said decisively, gathering her courage. She placed her paper in her looseleaf notebook and stood up. "I'm going to do it."
Her father's study was the best place in the house to make a private telephone call. Anastasia held the door open for the dog, who padded in and found a comfortable spot on the floor near the big green couch. Then she closed it tightly, went to her father's desk, sat down in his big chair, and picked up the telephone directory.
***
"Post office." The voice, a woman's, sounded very pleasant. Anastasia took a deep breath. She had rehearsed how to begin. But it was a little like rehearsing for the Dramatic Club play at school, in which she had recently had a small role. She had said her few lines so well to her parents, and to the mirror in her bedroom, that she thought she might even be called to Hollywood or Broadway if there happened to be talent scouts sitting in the junior high auditorium for the performance. But somehow, on opening night, when the curtain came up and she could feel the presence of a lot of people sitting out there beyond the footlights, she lost her nerve—and her voice, too. She croaked her few unimportant lines sounding like a frog on a lily pad, and then trudged off the stage to take off her makeup and watch the rest of the play from the wings, feeling her theater career completely ruined.
And now she could feel it happening again. The self-confidence, the sardonic tone of voice, the sophisticated amusement at the dumb thing she had done: all of that was what she had planned and rehearsed for.
"Ah, hello," Anastasia said, and— darn it! —it was the frog on the lily pad again.
She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. "Could I talk to somebody about, ah, mailboxes, and what happens if you maybe put something into one that you didn't intend to?"
"What is your address?" the woman asked pleasantly.
Anastasia told her.
"Just a moment, I'll connect you to your carrier."
"No, wait!" Anastasia croaked. She wasn't certain what carrier meant, but she suspected that it meant Lowell Watson. Lowell Watson was the very pleasant middle-aged black man who delivered mail to their house every day, and who had taken the time to make friends with Sleuth by giving him a biscuit after asking the Krupniks' permission. "So that he doesn't have to waste his energy barking at me when I come by," Mr. Watson had explained. "He needs to save up those barks for a burglar. Right, Sleuth?" Then he had scratched Sleuthie behind the ear and handed Anastasia's mother the mail.
Anastasia didn't want to confess to Lowell Watson what she had done. It was too gross, and he was too nice a man. He was on a bowling team, and had run the Boston Marathon once, when he was younger. And he taught Sunday School, too. How could you talk about dog poop to a person who teaches Sunday School?
"Excuse me?" the woman's voice asked.
"
Um, I don't want to talk to the guy who delivers my mail," Anastasia explained, "because I'm not talking about this address. I'm talking about a public mailbox. I put something awful into a public mailbox." She blurted it out. She hadn't intended to say it exactly that way.
The door to her father's study opened, and Sam stood there with his thumb in his mouth, listening.
"Go away," Anastasia whispered loudly, holding her hand over the receiver.
Sam stood very still, watching her.
"GO AWAY!" Anastasia said angrily to her brother forgetting that she was no longer covering the receiver. "Quit listening to me!"
"Excuse me," the woman said, and her voice was slightly less pleasant than it had been. "What exactly is it you want?"
Sam came into the study and stood beside the couch. He looked fascinated.
"I'll call you back," Anastasia said hastily into the telephone. She hung up.
"You rat, Sam," she wailed. "You wrecked my whole conversation! I was finally decisive and said I'd donate my kidney, but now I've changed my mind! I wouldn't give you my kidney if it was the last kidney on earth! Who told you you could come in here? Who told you you could eavesdrop?"
Sam took his thumb out of his mouth. "I was just walking around," he said in an innocent voice. "What's a kidney?"
Anastasia sighed. It wasn't really Sam's fault, she knew. "Never mind," she said to her brother. "It's okay. But I want you to leave now. I have to call this person back and it's a very private phone call."
"Secret?" Sam asked with interest. Sam loved secrets, though he was no good at all at keeping them.
"Well, yes, it's secret," Anastasia explained. "So you go on now. Go someplace else. I'll play Chutes and Ladders with you later, after I'm finished with this."
It was the ultimate sacrifice and bribe. Anastasia hated playing Chutes and Ladders more than almost anything else in the world. The last time she had played it with Sam was when he was in the hospital recovering from an operation and she thought he might die. Actually, he had recovered just fine, and Anastasia regretted that she had played the dumb game with him. She took a vow never to do it again unless it was a real crisis situation.
Now, apparently, it was.
"Okay," Sam said agreeably. "I'll go up to my room and get it out of my toy shelf." He headed for the door of the study. In the doorway he turned just as Anastasia lifted the receiver and prepared to dial the post office phone number again.
"What awful thing did you put in the mailbox?" he asked. "I want to tell Mom about it."
Anastasia put the receiver back down. "Sam," she commanded, "get back in here and close the door. Close it tight."
"Sam, it's not funny. Quit laughing," Anastasia scolded him. Her brother was sitting on the couch in the study, and she had described her problem to him.
It made her mad that he was laughing. For almost a week she'd been living in the throes of guilt, terror, and despair; and her own brother found it amusing, for pete's sake.
Sam giggled. "Dog poop," he said.
"Yes, dog poop. And it's not funny. I have to call the post office, Sam, and tell them," Anastasia said. "And I want you to be absolutely silent. Can you do that?"
"Okay. I'll zip my lips." Sam made a zipping gesture, the way he'd been taught in nursery school by his teacher, Mrs. Bennett. When Mrs. Bennett wanted twelve three-year-olds to be quiet, she simply announced, "Time to zip!" and the children all zipped their lips and sat still.
"Ready?" Anastasia asked. "If I dial now, and talk, you won't interrupt? You'll sit quietly, without laughing?"
Sam nodded, solemnly, his lips still zipped closed.
"And after that, it's our secret, yours and mine. Okay?"
Sam nodded.
"Promise? You won't tell anyone? Especially not Mom or Dad?"
Sam nodded.
"Okay. And in return, I'll play Chutes and Ladders with you any time you ask me to." Anastasia promised it reluctantly, but it was the price she had to pay, she knew, for Sam's silence.
Sam grinned, and nodded. He came back to the couch, climbed up, and sat with his feet dangling. Beneath Sam's little sneakers, Sleuth slept on.
Anastasia dialed the number again.
"This is me again," Anastasia said politely when the same woman answered the telephone. "I'm sorry I had to hang up so quickly, but I had an emergency."
"How may I help you?" the woman asked.
"Could I please speak to the head guy there? Whoever's in charge?"
The woman hesitated. Finally she said, "Please hold for a moment. I'll connect you to the supervisor."
Music began to play. Anastasia recognized the same classical FM station that her father listened to when he was home.
"I'm waiting for the head guy to come on the line," Anastasia explained to Sam. Sam nodded solemnly.
After a moment, a man answered. "This is Austen Overholt. What exactly seems to be the problem here?" His voice was a little gruff. Anastasia bit her lip. She wanted very much to hang up. They didn't know her name. She could still hang up. It was tempting.
Then she remembered that she had given her address to the woman earlier. They could track her down. It was too late.
And also, Anastasia reminded herself, thinking of Values, it's the right thing to do. The right thing to do should always he easy.
And she wanted to set a good example for Sam, who was watching her with interest.
"I called to confess, Mr. Overholt," she said in a firm voice. "I tampered with the mail."
"I beg your pardon?" Austen Overholt replied. "Would you give me your name, please?"
"Anastasia Krupnik." She could tell that he was writing it down. Probably she should tell him that there was no "c" in Krupnik. A lot of people thought there was a "c".
"And what exactly did you do?"
Anastasia cringed. She had practiced and practiced how to describe what she had done. But even after practice, it wasn't easy. She had decided to start with a broad overview of the deposit and then narrow down to the specific details of the actual contents.
"It was last Thursday morning, early, before seven o'clock," she began.
"Last Thursday? The eleventh?" Austen Overholt repeated tersely.
Anastasia thought. "I don't remember the date," she said, finally. "I could count back. What's today? The sixteenth? Or is it the seventeenth?"
"It was last Thursday morning we're talking about?" Mr. Overholt asked. "Last Thursday was the eleventh."
"Yeah. It was that morning. And I was at the corner of Chestnut and Winchester, at the mailbox there—"
Mr. Overholt interrupted her. "Stop. Don't say any more."
Puzzled, Anastasia stopped talking.
"We have your address here. You are the one who called before, right?"
"Right."
Mr. Overholt read her address back to her.
"Yeah, that's right," Anastasia said.
"Krupnik? Does that have a 'c' in it?"
"No." Anastasia spelled Krupnik for him.
"And you are at that location now?"
"Yeah, it's my house. I'm sitting right here in my fath—"
"Stay right there. It will be to your advantage not to leave. Someone will be right over. Do you understand?"
Anastasia was a little annoyed. She hated it when people said "Do you understand?" as if they were speaking Chinese to her. Of course she understood.
"Yes," she said with an impatient sigh.
Mr. Overholt hung up without saying good-bye.
"That was weird, Sam," Anastasia said. "He didn't even give me a chance to describe the dumb thing that I did. I was going to explain about how it was my first early-morning walk with Sleuthie, and I was sleepy. Actually I thought he might possibly see that there was a little bit of humor to the whole thing."
Sam was listening with interest, but he didn't respond.
"You can unzip, Sam," Anastasia told him.
Dramatically Sam unzipped his lips and took a deep breath.
"Anyway, Sam, he said someone was coming over. Can you believe that?" She stood up, went to the window, and pulled aside the curtain so that she could see the street. "He wouldn't even take my confession over the telephone."
Sleuth stood up, stretched, yawned, and came over to stand beside her. He reached his front paws to the windowsill and stood on his back legs, looking out through his fringe of hair. Sam got down from the couch and trotted over, too.
The three of them watched the street silently from the window.
"Anastasia," Sam whispered.
"What?"
"After they leave, please will you give me your kidney?"
But before Anastasia could answer Sam, Sleuth woofed at a noise from the driveway. Two police cars were pulling in.
Anastasia Krupnik
VALUES
7. Suppose that you got home from the grocery store and discovered that the clerk had accidentally given you a twenty-dollar bill instead of a one-dollar bill in change. Would you go back to the store and return it?
Well, I guess I would, if the store was close by and it wasn't pouring rain. And if the clerk had been nice. Like at the grocery store we go to, the cashier is a woman named Muriel with gray hair and she always gives my brother a lollipop, after asking my mom if it's okay. So I'd give the money back to her because I wouldn't want her to get into trouble and maybe lose her job. I think she has a disabled husband, too...
But sometimes we go to this other store? A big supermarket? And there's a guy who works there, I don't know his name, but he's really rude to everybody. One time he yelled at my mom and made her feel really embarrassed because she had twenty-two items and she was in the twelve-or-under line, but she had done it by mistake, she didn't notice the sign. And once when Sam was standing beside me in the line, he looked down at Sam with a really glaring look and he said to me, "Don't let that kid touch the gum."
So if he gave me a twenty-dollar bill by mistake, I wouldn't give it back. Maybe I'd give the twenty-dollar bill to a homeless person, though.
