Ann Martin - Mary Anne And The Secret In The Attic

"Oh, no!" I cried. I grabbed the paper towels

that were still sitting by Logan, and started to wipe up the mess. Some of it dripped onto my shorts, but I cleaned most of it up by the time Dawn started another tape. She turned up the volume even higher than before, and danced back to us.

"Okay, let's get to work!" she shouted, over the music.

For the next half hour, we painted steadily without any major incidents. The music was loud, and the beat kept us going.

"I love this portrait of Sophie!" yelled Jessi. "You guys did a great job with it."

Claud and Mal grinned. "She does look good, doesn't she?" asked Mal. "Just like the original portrait." Mal had a dab of green paint on her nose, and Claud pointed it out. Mal rubbed it, but only smeared it onto her cheek. She shrugged. "It'll come off later," she said, smiling.

Logan reached for the jar of blue paint that I'd been using, and gave it a vigorous stir. So vigorous that it splashed all over my legs. "Hey!" I said. I picked up my brush and flicked it at him. It made red spots across his shirt.

That's when the paint fight began.

Soon the eight of us were covered with streaks and spots and drips. Claud had yellow paint in her eyebrows. Stacey had a red streak

in her hair. Jessi had pink toes. What a mess. Logan got the worst of it: his shirt was nearly covered with paint. "This is ridiculous," he said. "Every time I move, I get more paint on me." He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off.

"Woo!" said Kristy.

Logan blushed.

So did I. I've seen Logan with his shirt off before, since we've been swimming together. But somehow it was different when he was sitting right there in my den. "I'll get you one of my dad's shirts as soon as I finish painting this," I said. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you borrowed one." I couldn't even look at Logan as I said that; I was feeling very shy around him all of a sudden.

"You know what?" said Mal. "I'm starving. I brought over stuff to make cookies with. Okay if I make them now?"

"Sure," said Dawn. "Go for it."

Mal headed for the kitchen, changing the tape as she passed the cassette player. She turned it up even louder so that she'd be able to hear it while she was baking.

I looked around the room. "Boy, I hope Sharon and Dad don't come home anytime too soon," I said to Dawn. "This place is a mess." Bits and pieces of cardboard were scattered over the table and the rug. Paint was splattered everywhere. And my friends and I looked as if we'd been in a paint-factory accident.

Mal walked back into the room, holding two eggs. "Hey, Mary Anne," she said. "How do you turn on your oven?"

I got up to help her, and just then Tigger dashed out from behind the couch. Mal sidestepped to avoid him, and dropped the eggs. "Uh-oh," she said. "I'll go get some paper towels." She ran back to the kitchen, and I started to follow her.

The doorbell rang. "I'll get it!" I yelled. I turned around and slipped in the broken eggs, but caught myself before I fell. Mal ran up behind me, paper towels in her hand, arid started dabbing at my shoes. "It's okay," I said to her. "Just try to get up the stuff on the floor."

I opened the front door, wondering who our visitor could be.

"Hello," said the woman on the front porch. "Is this the Spier-Schafer residence?" She was dressed in a navy-blue suit, stockings, and pumps. She had a little string of pearls around her neck. And she was carrying a clipboard.

I stood there with my mouth hanging open. Who was this lady? "Uh, yes. Yes, it is," I replied. "Can I help you?"

"I just have a few questions to ask," she said. She peered over my shoulder, as if to get

a better view of the pandemonium inside.

All at once, with a horrible, sinking feeling, I knew who she was and what she wanted. She was a social worker, and she was checking up on my father and me. She had come at the worst possible time.

"Um, my father isn't home," I said. "I mean, he knows I have friends over, and he'd never let things get out of hand like this if he were home, but he's not home right now. He'll be home any minute, I'm sure. He never leaves me alone for very long." F was babbling, and I knew it.

The woman looked at me curiously. "This will only take a few minutes," she said.

"Fine, fine," I said, edging out the door. I was hoping that if I kept her outside on the porch, she wouldn't see what was going on.

"Most of the egg is cleaned up now," yelled Mal over the loud music that was blasting through the hall and out the door. "You guys can come in, if you want. I don't think you'll slip."

"That’s okay, Mal," I yelled back. I turned to the woman. "Just a little accident," I said. "She was going to bake some cookies — some nutritious cookies, and — "

"What’s up, Mary Anne?" asked Logan from behind me. The woman gaped at him. He still wasn't wearing a shirt, he was barefoot, and his hair, full of yellow paint, was standing straight up.

"Logan," I hissed. "Everything's fine. Go on inside." I practically shoved him inside and slammed the door behind him. Now I was alone on the porch with the social worker. 'If s not usually like this," I said, talking quickly. "If s just that all my friends — who are very responsible — are over to work on a project. it’s for Heritage Day, the one that the Historical Society is putting on. So this is educational."

Now the social worker looked incredibly confused. "Perhaps I could come back another time," she said. "It seems as if you're busy right now. I'll call for an appointment with your father."

By then I was sure we were in trouble, but I tried to hide my panic. "That’ll be fine," I said. "He'll be glad to talk to you. He has nothing to hide."

With another funny look, the woman said good-bye, and walked off carrying her clipboard. I sat down on the porch. I started to cry as soon as she was out of sight.

Logan slipped outside and sat next to me. He was wearing one of my father's shirts. Dawn must have gotten it for him. "What’s the matter?" he asked.

"Oh, Logan," I sobbed. He put his arm

around my shoulders and listened while the whole story came pouring out. "And now she's going to file a report with the authorities," I finished, still sobbing, "and I'm going to be sent off to Maynard, Iowa!"

"What’s this about Iowa?" asked Stacey, who had joined us on the porch.

I didn't have the energy to tell the whole story again, so Logan repeated it for everyone. By then we were all clustered on the porch, and my friends were looking stunned.

"Mary Anne," said Jessi. "Don't you think you should talk to your father?"

"That's what I thought," said Dawn. "She just has to confront him about it. He's got some explaining to do."

"I can't!" I wailed. "I can't do it. What if he tells me something I don't want to know?" He'd given me up. Maybe he'd never really wanted me — even though he did fight to get me back. Maybe if I started causing trouble he'd give up on me and send me away.

"At least think about it," said Logan. He gave me a squeeze. "I hate to see you so unhappy. Now, how about if we go inside, and clean up?"

Chapter 12.

Charlotte gripped my hand tightly as we walked toward the picnic tables, which were surrounded by people. "I'm glad you came with me, Mary Anne," she whispered, looking up at me. "Look how many people are here."

"I know," I replied. "I feel a little shy, don't you?" I was sure she did, and I knew it would help if I admitted that I did, too.

We were at the parent-child picnic, which was being held on the grounds of the Historical Society. It was a beautiful day, with puffy white clouds sailing through a blue sky. I was planning to concentrate on making sure Charlotte had a good time; that way, I figured, I could forget about my own troubles for awhile. "Look at the stream, Charlotte. Isn't it pretty?" I pointed to a tumbling brook edged by weeping willow trees. "Maybe we can go wading later." By then we'd reached the picnic tables,