by Lois Lowry
Yes, I would. Absolutely. Just as a coincidence, you asked this question at the exact same time that I happen to be a witness to a crime. And I've already talked to the police, and I wasn't even scared. The police were really nice, and so were my parents.
So were you, Mr. Francisco. Thank you.
P.S. Don't ever donate your old Harvard sweatshirts to the Salvation Army. It causes a whole lot of embarrassment. My dad gives his to my mom to use for cleaning rags. And sometimes my mom wears them as a nightgown. Maybe your wife needs cleaning rags, or nightgowns.
9
"Make up your mind, Anastasia," her mother said, turning from the telephone to consult her. "Do you want to go public or not? Be famous or not?"
"I don't know," Anastasia groaned. "I guess it would be okay—"
"She says she wouldn't mind." Mrs. Krupnik spoke into the phone.
"No, wait, Mom! Do you think the kids at school would make fun of me? I don't want everybody to laugh!"
"Just a moment, please," Katherine Krupnik said to the person on the telephone. She turned to Anastasia. "Why would they laugh?"
"You know. Dog poop. It makes people laugh."
"Oh, I see. Yes, I suppose you're right. Let me see if I can—hello?" She spoke into the receiver again. "She'll agree to an interview if you'll agree not to mention the, ah, the dog excrement." She waited while the person replied. "Fine. We'll see you then."
Anastasia sighed. She wasn't certain that she wanted to be famous, under the circumstances.
"They're sending a photographer, too," her mother said after she had hung up the phone. "Maybe you should go change your clothes, and comb your hair."
"Oh, great," Anastasia grumbled, and headed for the stairs that led up to her room. Behind her, the dog followed.
It was Wednesday evening. They had acquired Sleuth exactly one week before. Already it seemed as if he had always been a part of their family.
Tomorrow morning, Anastasia realized, it would be exactly one week since the morning she had made the mistake with the mailbox. In one way, it had been the best week of her life: the first week of having such a loving and loyal dog; but in another way, it had been the worst: all those days of guilt and indecision, planning her future in a cell block, her lifetime as a convicted criminal.
Anastasia pulled off her sweatshirt and dropped it on a chair. She looked in her closet for a clean blouse.
"Frank," she said to her goldfish, "I envy you your uneventful life. Here." She tapped a little food into his bowl, and he swam gracefully to the surface. "Oooo," he shaped with his mouth, and gulped the food.
Buttoning her blouse, Anastasia could hear footsteps on the stairs. She recognized Sam's sneakers.
"Hi, Sam," she said, smiling, when her brother appeared. Then she looked at his mournful face. "Oh, dear. What's wrong?"
Sam climbed onto Anastasia's unmade bed and sat there, his expression sad, his feet dangling. "Mom did something terrible," he said.
"Mom?" Anastasia asked in surprise. "Don't be silly, Sam. Mom never does anything terrible."
"Yes, she did. She really, really did. I can't tell you what."
"Please?" Anastasia was curious.
Sam shook his head. "It would make you too sad."
"Give me a hint, then."
Sam thought. "Well," he said finally, "she did it to Sleuth."
Anastasia looked down. The dog was curled up on the floor. As usual, it was hard to tell which end was which; but she identified his ears, then his tail, and finally reached down and scratched his head. "He seems just fine, Sam," she reassured her brother.
"Wait till you find out what she did," Sam said. "You're going to be really, really mad."
Anastasia chuckled and began to brush her hair. She looked in the mirror over her dresser, straightened the collar of her blouse, and smiled at herself, practicing for the photographer who would be arriving soon. Pretty nice smile, she said to herself, hoping it wasn't a conceited thought. Mr. Francisco had said the same thing to her when she entered his classroom that afternoon. He had noticed her smiling, and had winked as if they shared a secret.
Won't be a secret for long, Anastasia thought, just as she heard the doorbell ring downstairs. The newspaper people had arrived.
***
"No," Anastasia told the reporter. She was trying hard to sound grown up and poised, and thought she was doing pretty well. "It wasn't a difficult decision to come forward with the identification. It was the right thing to do, and the right thing is always the easiest. Don't you think so?" she added.
The reporter, a young man with ballpoint inkstains on his fingers as well as his corduroy trousers, was busy taking notes. He looked up. "What I think doesn't matter," he said politely. "You're the one who was responsible for the apprehension of the Mad Bomber.
"Now, could you tell me this?" he went on. "How did you happen to be in the vicinity when he placed the bomb?"
"Well, I was walking my dog." Anastasia nodded toward Sleuth, at her feet.
"And the dog's name is?"
"Sleuth."
"What breed?"
"He's a nonallergenic—"
"Wait a minute. Nanalagic. Okay; got it. I'll check the spelling later. Handsome dog; we'll get a photo." The reporter leaned over, patted Sleuth's rump timidly, ruffling the hair, and said, "Very intelligent face."
"That's not his face end. That's his tail end," Anastasia said politely.
"Yes, right. Now back to the Mad Bomber. Did you actually see him plant the device? Did he know you were watching? Did you feel yourself to be in danger?"
Anastasia shook her head. "No, actually most bomb-planters aren't violent toward individuals. See, they plant devices with timers so that the actual explosion will take place later, after they're gone. They're kind of cowards, to tell the truth." Detective McElwain had told Anastasia that.
"So I was probably not in any real danger," she went on, "although even if I had been, I'm absolutely certain I would have turned him in, because doing the right thing is something you can't ever be wishy-washy about, if you know what I mean."
The reporter furrowed his brow and wrote rapidly. "I'm not sure that I do," he said, "but our readers probably will.
"Now maybe you could tell me something that's sort of a human interest thing," he said. "We know, of course, that the Bomber had a real thing about the post office. What are your feelings about the United States Postal Service?"
Anastasia sighed, and thought. It was a question she hadn't anticipated. "Well," she said, finally, "I hate the Elvis Presley stamp."
"Over here," the photographer, a young woman with very curly hair, suggested. "By this window would be good."
Anastasia stood patiently while they adjusted the lights. She licked her lips and tried to flatten her hair a little with one hand so that it wouldn't look too messy. She hated having her picture taken even if it was j ust her dad taking snapshots at Sam's birthday party. But this, with a newspaper photographer, was really embarrassing. She hoped the picture wouldn't turn out too gross.
"Let's get the dog in," the reporter suggested to the photographer. "Come here, Stooge."
"Excuse me?" Anastasia said, offended. "His name is Sleuth."
At the sound of his name, Sleuth trotted over and sat by her side.
The photographer focused, then sighed. "It won't work. The dog has no face."
The reporter groaned. "I really want the dog in. The dog growled at the Bomber, and it's kind of the main thrust of the story."
Anastasia's mother was watching from the corner of the living room. She stepped forward. "Ah, I don't mean to interfere," she said, "but I can solve the face problem."
Sam, who was sitting on the couch watching, covered his own face with his hands. "Oh, no!" he exclaimed. "It's the bad thing, Anastasia!"
"What?" Anastasia was mystified.
Her mother came forward. "Stay, Sleuth," she said, and knelt beside the dog. "I'm sorry, Anastasia," she whispered. "I figured this ou
t this afternoon, because I had to get those illustrations done."
From the pocket of her jeans, Mrs. Krupnik took two blue plastic barrettes. Carefully she clasped Sleuth's hair up off his face.
Anastasia looked down at her dog. He was clearly mortified. But he sat obediently and looked at the camera while the photographer adjusted the lens.
Anastasia read his mind. I am a noble dog, Sleuth was thinking. I am descended from a long line of dogs who have served royalty, who have bestowed good fortune on monasteries, who have protected the weak, located the lost, comforted the abandoned, and fought cruelty and injustice. My forebears include Rin Tin Tin and Lassie. Therefore I am above folly. I can sit here and look noble and pretend that I do not have this asinine and ridiculous hairdo.
"Great," the photographer said. "Now, Anastasia, put your hand on the dog's head, and I want you to try to look, oh, you know, brave and mature. Think you can do that?"
Anastasia tried. She took her cue from Sleuth, who continued to sit erect, with a haughty, dignified look on his newly exposed face.
I am Anastasia Krupnik, she told herself. I come from a long line of Krupniks who have told the truth, who have done their homework, who have eaten their vegetables, fed their goldfish, and been kind to their younger brothers. My forebears include Myron, who was once nominated for the National Book Award, and Katherine, who illustrated a Caldecott Honor Book about elves. Therefore I am above embarrassment. I can stand here proud and tall, ignoring the fact that I am also a wishy-washy thirteen-year-old eighth-grader who threw dog poop in a mailbox.
She touched Sleuth's head.
"Ready?" The photographer's hand was on the shutter.
"Absolutely," Anastasia said.
* * *
Lois Lowry can be seen early on weekday mornings walking the streets near her home in Cambridge, Massachusetts, with her very shaggy dog. On weekends she does the same thing near her other home on a dirt road in rural New Hampshire.
She has four children, four stepchildren, two grandchildren, three step-grandchildren, five granddogs and two step-granddogs.
In her spare time she writes books for young readers.
* * *
