Ann Martin - Mary Anne And The Secret In The Attic

"Face-painting is fun," agreed Dawn. "But it doesn't have much to do with the history of Stoneybrook. We should do something historical."

"Like what?" said Mal. "I was thinking of a bake sale. I suppose we could bake stuff from colonial recipes — "

"Too much research," said Jessi. "Let's keep it a little simpler."

"I know," said Stacey. "Last time I was in New York, I saw these people with big cardboard cut-out figures of people like the President and Bart Simpson. They'd take your picture with the figure, and it would come out looking like you had posed with the real person. It was cool!"

"I love it!" said Claud. "I'm sure we could make our own cut-outs."

"It sounds like fun," said Kristy. "But Bart Simpson and the President don't have much to do with Stoneybrook. Who else could we make?"

"How about figures from the history of

Stoneybrook?" said Mal. I nodded. That sounded like a great idea. Even I couldn't help feeling a little excited about a new BSC project. I wasn't ready to participate exactly, but at least I was paying attention.

"Like maybe Old Hickory?" said Jessi.

"Yeah!" said Kristy. "And maybe Sophie. Remember? The girl in that old painting we found in Stacey's attic?"

"How about George Washington?" said Claud. "And Martha, too. I don't know if he was ever in Stoneybrook, but there's a big sign in Greenvale saying 'George Washington slept here' — and Greenvale's only thirty miles away. That's close enough, isn't it?"

Stacey looked excited, but just as she was about to get into the discussion, the phone rang and she grabbed it. She talked for a minute before hanging up, while everybody else kept offering suggestions for our cut-outs. "That was Dr. Johanssen," she said. "She feels awful, but something came up and she can't take Charlotte to the parent-child picnic. Mr. Johanssen can't go either. Charlotte was kind of hoping I could take her, but I can't. I already have a job that day. Who else is available?"

I checked the book, without having to be reminded this time. "I guess I'm the only one," I said.

"You don't sound very enthusiastic," said

Stacey. "Are you sure you're okay, Mary Anne? You've barely said a whole word the whole meeting."

"I'm fine," I replied, for what felt like the thousandth time. "And I'll be glad to take Charlotte to the picnic." I was even gladder that it was six o'clock by then. Our meeting was over, and I could go back to my room and stop having to pretend to be fine.

Chapter 9.

As I rode my bike home from the meeting, I thought how strange it had been to be with my Mends — and yet not to be with them. It was as if I'd been observing my friends; as if I were some kind of anthropologist. Do you know what that is? We learned about anthropologists in my social studies class. They are scientists who study people's behavior. Some of them visit tribes who live deep in the jungle, and observe the way they live their lives. The anthropologists document the way the tribes-people bring up their children, how they behave when they're in love or at war — that kind of stuff. Anyway, at the BSC meeting I'd felt like an anthropologist observing the ways of the typical American teenage baby-sitter.

You probably think I am pretty strange.

I was even beginning to think I was strange. I realized that it was time for me to rejoin the human race — as a member, not just as an

observer. And I knew that the only way to do that was to tell someone what I'd been going through. Maybe if I shared it, got it out in the open, I could start to deal with it.

I decided to call Logan. I knew he must be wondering what was going on, since I hadn't talked to him in days. I hadn't been fair to him.

As soon as I got home, I headed for the den. Dawn had gone on to the Pikes' to help Mal sit for her brothers and sisters. Dad was making dinner in the kitchen, and Sharon was doing something upstairs. I didn't know how long I'd have the den to myself, so I picked up the phone right away and dialed Logan's number. I was feeling pretty nervous about talking to him, but as the phone rang at his house I kept telling myself that I was doing the right thing.

"Hello?"

Oh, no. Logan hadn't answered the phone. It was his mother, instead. "Hi, Mrs. Bruno," I said. "This is Mary Anne. Is Logan there?"

"Hi, honey," she said. (Mrs. Bruno has this great Southern accent, just like Logan's. The Brunos moved here from Louisville, Kentucky.) "No, I'm sorry, he's not. He's just out doing an errand for me, though. He should be back any minute."

"Could you ask him to call me when he gets

in?" I asked. "If s — it's kind of important."

"Okay," she said. "I'll pass on the message. I'm sure he'll be glad to hear it."

"Thanks," I said. After I hung up the phone, I rubbed my sweaty palms on my pants. I hadn't been so nervous about talking to Logan since we first started to go out! I sat right there on the couch, waiting for the phone to ring. Mrs. Bruno had said that Logan would be back any minute. I picked up a magazine and flipped through it, but I couldn't concentrate.

I rehearsed what I would say to Logan when he called. "Logan, I'm sorry I've been so distant recently. it’s just that I found out the most terrible thing. My own father gave me away when I was a little girl!" Logan would ask a million questions. He probably wouldn't believe me at first, and I'd have to tell him about the letters. Then he'd want to know why I hadn't stayed with my grandparents. "I don't know," I'd say. "I guess my father decided he wanted me after all. But my grandparents wanted me, too — and maybe they still do. I might have to move to Maynard, Iowa!"

Logan would probably be just as upset as I was, but I was sure he'd find something soothing to say. And maybe he could help me figure out what to do next, now that I knew about the Big Secret of my past. I sat there, biting my nails and waiting for

the phone to ring. Where was Logan? His mother had said he'd be back any minute. I checked the clock. That had been seven minutes ago. Maybe he'd gotten into some kind of trouble on his way home. Maybe he was hurt. I shook my head. I knew I was getting carried away. Then I had another thought. What if he was already home, and he wasn't calling because he was mad at me for not speaking to him lately? My stomach felt like it was tied in a big knot. Maybe I should call him again, and apologize really quickly before he could hang up on me. I reached for the phone.

Just as I touched the receiver, the phone rang. I nearly jumped out of my seat. I grabbed the phone, thinking quickly about what to say to Logan. But before I could say anything, I heard my father say, "Hello?" He must have picked up the extension in the kitchen. I was just about to say, "It's for me, Dad," when I heard a tiny, creaky voice at the other end. "Richard?" it said. "Is that you?"

That didn't sound like Logan. I should have hung up right away — I know it isn't right to listen in on other people's conversations — but I was curious. Who belonged to that voice? It was one I'd certainly never heard before. My father sounded as if he didn't recognize

the voice, either. "This is Richard Spier," he said. "Who's calling, please?"

"Richard, this is Verna Baker."

My father didn't say anything for a second. I wondered if he was as shocked as I was to hear that name. I almost dropped the phone. I had to put my hand over the receiver so that neither of them could hear my breathing, which was suddenly kind of loud. Verna Baker! My grandmother.

"Verna," said my father finally. "Well. It's been a long time."

"Yes, it has," she answered. "A very long time. Mary Anne must be — how old now? Twelve?"

"She's thirteen," said my dad.

"Thirteen years old," mused my grandmother. "I can't imagine what she looks like."