Ann Martin - Mallory Pike, No.1 Fan

Bookshelves lined the back wall of the office from floor to ceiling. The top three shelves were all books by Henrietta Hayes. "That's where I keep my author's copies of my own work," Ms. Hayes explained, when she saw me staring at the books. "The next three shelves contain books written by friends of mine, and below that are books I love to reread from time to time." "Wow! You know Amelia Moody!" I exclaimed, noticing her copy of Nitty Gritty Meatballs on the fifth shelf down.

"Amelia is a dear friend of mine," said Ms. Hayes. "She visited me just last week." "Gosh," I murmured. I wondered how many other wonderful, famous authors would be dropping by to visit Ms. Hayes. Maybe I would be here when they dropped by. The thought of it gave me goosebumps.

Next to Ms. Hayes's desk was a very large willow basket cluttered with official-looking papers and fat typewritten manuscripts. Ms. Hayes picked it up. "This is the first thing I'll need you to do," she said. "These desperately need to be filed. I can't cram another thing into this office so I keep the filing cabinets in a different room. Come with me." I followed Ms. Hayes back out into the hall. We went down three brown-carpeted stairs to a large room with a stone fireplace. The sliding glass doors set in the far wall looked out onto the woods. A long wooden table stood not far from the door. Behind it were three wooden filing cabinets. Ms. Hayes set the basket on the table.

"The best way for you to proceed, Mallory, will be to make piles here on the table. Sort everything by project title, which you'll almost always find somewhere on the paper. If you can't tell where something belongs, put it in a 'Don't Know' pile and I'll look at it later. If the phone rings, please answer it and take a message. Or let my machine pick it up. I don't speak to anyone during my writing time." As she spoke, I noticed a small room off the family room we were in. The door was ajar and I could see in. It appeared to be a girl's bedroom. Pink ruffled curtains hung on the window. They matched the pink bedspread on the twin bed. "Is that your daughter's room?" I asked.

Ms. Hayes's pale skin took on an almost gray color. "My daughter?" "That just looks like a girl's room so I thought. .

Ms. Hayes whirled around toward the door. She stared into the room for a moment, then pulled the door shut firmly. "The cleaning lady must have left that open," she said, annoyed.

"I didn't mean to be nosy or anything," I began, my voice coming out all trembly.

"No, it's all right. It's fine," Ms. Hayes said sharply. She took a few breaths to compose herself. "I apologize if I seem agitated. Yes, that room belonged to my daughter, Cassie. She's dead now." Dead! I had that same feeling you get when someone hits you hard in the chest with a snowball that you didn't even see coming. It's a combination of shock, hurt, and anger. I was angry at myself for opening my big mouth. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Hayes," I said.

Ms. Hayes waved her hand briskly as if to make the subject go away. "Thank you. But I'd rather not talk about it. It's too . . . I just never do talk about it." "Sure," I said.

"At any rate, this filing should take you about two hours, I would think. When you're done, please come and get me in my office." "All right," I agreed.

After Ms. Hayes left, the room suddenly seemed extremely quiet. In my house, quiet is something you never hear. Even at night the refrigerator hums, the old hall clock ticks, and occasionally a car passes on the street. There are always doors opening and shutting as someone makes a trip to the bathroom or to the kitchen. But at that moment, there in Henrietta Hayes's home, there was complete, absolute silence.

Which was why I almost jumped out of my sneakers when the phone rang. I leaped to answer it, not wanting Ms. Hayes to be disturbed.

"Hello, is Henrietta there?" a man on the other end asked.

"No . . . urn . . . this is . . . um. . . her assistant . . . her new assistant, Mallory. Can I take a message? Ms. Hayes doesn't wish to be disturbed right now." "Oh, right, I forgot," said the man. "I usually get her answering machine at this time. Well, tell Henrietta that George Delmore called, and I love her idea for an Anderson Family reunion book. Tell her I want to talk to her about it as soon as possible." "Oh, my gosh! You're doing an Anderson family reunion!" I cried happily. "That is so great!" "Yes, we thought it was a good idea," George Delmore said.

"It is, it's a great idea," I agreed. "I'll tell Ms. Hayes you called." "Yes, please do. Tell her we're all very excited about it and we're going to want this fast." "I'll tell her. 'Bye." When I hung up, I was so excited I completely forgot what Ms. Hayes had said about not wanting to be disturbed. I ran out of the room, up the steps, and down the hall. "Ms. Hayes," I said excitedly, bursting into her office.

Ms. Hayes sat there with a framed picture in her hands. My eyes darted to the picture. It showed a pretty teenaged girl with long brown hair and large brown eyes. Ms. Hayes put the picture down quickly on her lap. "Yes, Mallory?" "Oh, I'm so sorry to bother you. I forgot "That's all right. What is it?" I told her what George Delmore had said. Ms. Hayes smiled. "That was the inspiration you gave me yesterday. I knew George would like it. It's a good idea. Now, Mallory, we'll have to come up with some thoughts about what happened to Alice for the rest of her life. Did she marry? Become a movie star? And what about Lars and the rest? If you have any ideas let me know. George wants everything fast." "Yes, he said that," I recalled.

"He always does," Ms. Hayes laughed. "So, I'm serious about being open to any suggestions you'd care to offer. I don't want to steal your ideas, of course, so only give them if you don't mind my using them." "Mind?" I cried. "It would be an honor. That's all I'll be thinking about. Alice Anderson is so real to me I feel as if I'd be influencing the life of a real person." "It does feel that way sometimes," Ms. Hayes agreed with a smile. "Characters have a peculiar way of taking on lives of their own. It's a strange, almost magical process. After awhile, an author becomes as fond of her characters as if they were real friends." "But the characters really are real, so they do have a life of their own," I said.

"In a way," replied Ms. Hayes.

"Well, I'd better get back to work," I said, backing out of the study. Ms. Hayes had been right. It took me about two hours to finish the filing. She appeared in the doorway just as I slipped a letter to her editor into the correct file.

"It's starting to get dark so early," she said. "I insist you take a cab home." "I have my bike," I reminded her.

"The driver can put it in the trunk. Would you care to join me for supper? I've made my special beef stew tonight." "I'd love to," I said. "Can I call home?" "Of course." Mom said it was all right for me to stay since I'd be driven home. Ms. Hayes had made a delicious stew. I wondered where her husband was. I figure I'd asked enough nosy questions for one day, though. As we ate, we discussed things that might have happened to Alice. I hadn't quite finished Alice Anderson's Greatest Challenge yet. I was up to the part where Alice gets a great role in a movie, but on the same day she receives a letter from Lars saying that their mother is sick. "Does Alice stay in Hollywood or go home?" I asked Ms. Hayes.

Ms. Hayes broke off a piece of bread and laughed. "I'm not going to spoil the end of the book for you. We'll talk more after you finish it." That evening, I felt very special as I was driven down Slate Street in a cab. As I climbed out, I looked around quickly, hoping people were watching me and wondering what Mallory Pike was doing arriving in a cab. I'd only worked for Henrietta Hayes one day, and already I felt like a different person - a more important, more talented, and intelligent person.