Ann Martin - Mallory Pike, No.1 Fan

"Yeah, that's just what all of you need. Jumping jacks." As the stage behind me thundered with the sound of jumping, I stared into the glaring eyes of my brothers and sisters. "I can make little changes," I told them. "I'm still making small corrections here and there. I can't change you guys altogether, your characters, I mean. Otherwise it wouldn't be coming from my true experience An author's work must be autobiographical." "That bucket thing isn't true," Nicky argued.

"No, but you're always getting stuck in stuff. You got your head stuck in the banister once, and you got stuck in the clothes hamper. Do you remember that?" I shot back.

"But not a bucket," said Nicky, folding his arms stubbornly.

"The bucket is just a way of showing all those times rolled into one." I defended my work. "You are the sort of character who gets stuck in weird stuff!" "We may seem like these characters to your sick mind," said Vanessa in a voice so anger-filled that it shook. "But it isn't how we are. I'm going to write a poem called 'Seven Sweet Kids and Their Lying, Selfish, Stuck-Up Oldest Sister.' And I'm going to have it printed in the school paper. See how you like that!" "Vanessa," I pleaded. "Try to understand." Vanessa was now red-faced with fury. "If you put on this play, Mallory, we are going to picket the performance. We're going to hand out papers telling everyone it's just one big lie by an untalented nut." "You would not," I said.

"Oh, yes we would!" cried Adam.

Together, they turned their backs to me and stomped up the aisle.

"That's enough," I heard Kristy tell the kids on the stage. "Take a break." She hopped down off the stage to join me.

"What a mess!" I wailed, flopping into a chair.

Kristy rubbed the back of her neck thoughtfully. "They were pretty ticked off, huh?" "They're going to picket the play!" "Why don't you just change their parts? I didn't see all of the play, but from what I did see, it seems a little . . . I don't know . . . a little insulting." "What about artistic freedom?" I argued. "Why don't you talk to Ms. Hayes about it?" Kristy suggested.

"Ha!" I laughed scornfully.

"What does that mean?" "It means Henrietta Hayes won't be any help at all!" Kristy was confused. "Why not?" she asked.

"Because Henrietta Hayes does not write from her own, personal experiences, but I do. I won't change my play no matter what!" "I don't know," Kristy said. "I don't think I agree with you." "You're entitled to your opinion," I replied stiffly.

I was sure I was right. Only, I thought you were supposed to feel good inside when you did the right thing. So why did I feel so rotten?

Chapter 8.

The next day, I arrived at Ms. Hayes's house feeling pretty tense. I was angry at her for lying in her books. Still, when she came to the door, my anger melted a bit. Ms. Hayes wasn't someone I could easily be mad at. It's hard to stay mad at your idol.

"Hello, Mallory," she said with a smile. "It's always so good to see you, like a ray of sunshine coming into this shady house." (How could you be mad at someone who said stuff like that?) Part of me wanted to stay mad, though. Nice as she was, Ms. Hayes was a fake.

"Is something wrong, Mallory?" Ms. Hayes asked.

"Why? What makes you think that?" I asked, probably sounding pretty distressed.

"I don't know, you look rather. . . upset." "I do?" Why couldn't I just come out and speak my mind? This was certainly 104 ~ the moment to do it. But I couldn't.

I chickened out on the direct approach. Instead, I chose an indirect path. "Ms. Hayes, I need to ask you a few more things to finish up my report. Like, um, what about the Alice Anderson TV movie? What happened to that?" "It was never made," Ms. Hayes replied. "I didn't like the way they wanted me to change Alice's character, so I backed out of the deal." That took guts, I thought. Admiring Ms. Hayes's integrity about the TV movie made it even harder to be mad at her.

"Is there anything else you want to know?" Ms. Hayes asked.

"Well, yeah," I replied.

Ms. Hayes checked her watch. "All right. I have about fifteen minutes before George Del-more calls. We're going to talk about the Anderson Family reunion book. Did you come up with any more ideas?" "Uh, no, not really," I admitted. I'd been too disgusted - and confused - to think about it. But I saw an opening for voicing my complaint. "I mean, I figured, why bother thinking up ideas about the Anderson family? You already know what happened to the Anderson family. Don't you? Their story is your story, isn't it?" Ms. Hayes frowned. She looked confused herself. "Of course it's my story, but the reunion book hasn't been written yet." "Well, maybe not on paper, but you know what happens," I said.

"I have some ideas, yes." Ms. Hayes looked at me as if I'd gone a little crazy. "Why don't we go in the kitchen. You can ask me your questions while we have some hot chocolate." I nodded and followed Ms. Hayes into her kitchen. "What do you need to know?" she asked, filling her bright blue tea kettle with tap water.

"I need to know more about your family life," I said as I sat at the kitchen table.

Ms. Hayes had turned toward the stove, so I couldn't see her face. Her shoulders tensed, though. Then she relaxed them slightly and turned to face me. "What part of my life?" "We could start with your childhood. Was your childhood like Alice Anderson's?" "No," Ms. Hayes replied sadly. "Not at all. I had only one younger brother, but he died in a fire along with my parents. From there I went to many different foster homes. Some were pleasant, others not so pleasant." "Then I guess Alice Anderson was like your daughter," I said.

"Mallory, I told you, I don't like to talk about my. . . about Cassie," said Ms. Hayes quietly.

"Well, what about Mr. Hayes?" I pressed.

"Hayes is my name. I never changed it. My husband - my ex-husband - is Gregory Rogers, the author. He and I have been divorced for over ten years now." I pretended to write in my notebook, but I really just scribbled. I knew all this. Why was I asking these cruel questions? Did I want to torture Ms. Hayes or something? "What I'm trying to figure out," I said, "is what part of your life is in the Alice Anderson books." "What do you mean?" Ms. Hayes asked.

"I mean . . ." I began shakily. I had to tell her. I just couldn't hold it in~ any longer. "I mean you're not being fair to your readers. Your books don't tell anything about your life. They're all made up! They're lies!" By the time I reached the word "lies," my voice was shaking.

Ms. Hayes gave me that blank look I'd seen before. Then she drew her shoulders back, suddenly looking taller. "Mallory," she said in an even, cool voice, "I have not lied. My books are not meant to reflect my life. They are novels. Fiction. I suggest you look up the definition of those words in the dictionary before you go about hurling accusations." The phone rang then. "Excuse me, that's probably George, calling ahead of schedule," Ms.' Hayes said in a formal voice.

With a final icy stare, Ms. Hayes went toward her study.

I sat a moment, trying to absorb what she'd said. Was it true? No, it wasn't. I knew what fiction meant. You didn't have to report every fact, as if you were writing a newspaper article, but the heart of your story had to be true.

How could she write about happy families if she didn't know what it was like to be in one? It was as simple as that to me, no matter how she tried to weasel out of it. Yet I liked her books so much! I really did! This was confusing. And what would it do to my project? It was way too late to change it now. Still, I knew there was only one right thing for me to do.

I tore a piece of paper from my spiral notebook and began to write.

Putting the letter in the middle of the table, I stood up and walked outside. It was beginning to get dark. The trees rustled overhead, sending a light shower of brown and red leaves to the ground. I took my bike from the side of the house and began walking it down the path.