Ann Martin - Mallory Pike, No.1 Fan

Back in my room I sat at my desk and stared at the blank pages in front of me. What had I learned?

There was a rap on the door and Mom came in. She held the play in her hand. "This version is much better," she told me as she handed it to me.

"Do you really think so?" "I think it's a much better play than it was," Mom said. "It's funnier and more touching. It seems like your writing improved when you paid more attention to writing a good play and a bit less attention to trying to show an accurate portrayal of our family. I think it's now a very good play." "Thanks," I said thoughtfully.

Mom smiled and patted my shoulder. After she left, I went back to staring at the blank paper in front of me. In a moment I started writing.

I wrote honestly about my experiences with The Early Years. As I wrote, I came to see more clearly how I'd concentrated too narrowly on my family life. In writing my second version, I tried to write an interesting story with interesting and realistic characters. When I did that, the entire picture changed. And the second play was better.

Then I came to the compare and contrast part. What about Henrietta Hayes? Had she had any experience from which the truth of a happy family could have come? Now that I thought about it, I hadn't given her a chance to tell me. I'd been kind of harsh, really. I probably owed her the chance to tell me what she'd been thinking. After all, I'd been given another chance by the people who didn't think I'd told the truth in my writing.

Glancing out the window, I saw that although it was late afternoon, there was an hour or so of daylight left. I could probably make it to Ms. Hayes's house and back before dark.

I picked my jacket up off the bed, and headed out of the house. As I pedaled my bike toward Morgan Road, I wondered if Ms. Hayes was angry at me. Would she even want to talk to me? Why should she? But I felt as though I had to try, so I kept on going.

I reached her house, and walked my bike through the trees. Approaching her door, I felt as nervous as I had the very first day I'd come there.

I knocked on the door, and Ms. Hayes answered quickly. "Mallory," she greeted me, obviously surprised to see me. "Come in." Luckily, there was warmth in her voice and a welcoming look on her face. If she'd been cold I might have bolted out of there, too nervous to go on. "Ms. Hayes, I'm sorry for the way I ran out last week," I apologized sincerely.

She nodded, that blank look coming over her face. I realized that was her thinking look. What was she thinking now? "I'm very glad you're here," Ms. Hayes said. "Sit down, and we can talk." I took a seat on the couch. Ms. Hayes sat in a large cushiony chair by the end of the couch. "I intended to write you a letter," she said. "A real letter," she added with a quick smile, "because I've given a great deal of thought to what you said the other day. You know, in some ways, I think you're right." "You do?" "And in many ways I think you're wrong. Mallory, you know a story doesn't have to be autobiographical. It's a story that you, as an author, make up. It can be the story of someone else's life, or a story of your own fantasy. Yet, here's where I think you're correct. What you write should tell things that you honestly know to be true of the world. And I have tried to always do that in my books. You've enjoyed my books, haven't you?" "I love your books!" I said sincerely.

"I think you responded so well to them because you sensed the emotional truth in the stories." "That makes sense," I agreed.

"Good writing has more to do with perfecting your artistry as a storyteller and sharpening your skill with words than it has to do with the raw material of your life." "But did you know someone like Alice Anderson?" I asked.

"Yes, I did," said Ms. Hayes. "When I was eleven I spent a year with a foster family on a small farm in upstate New York. Their names were the Larsons, but they became the Andersons in my books. Alice was modelled on Linda Larson. She was a wonderful girl, and her brothers were wonderful, too. I wished I could have stayed there and lived with them forever, but that's not how the foster care system works." "So what you wrote was true. I'm so sorry," I said, feeling like an idiot.

"I didn't write about them exactly as they were," Ms. Hayes said. "They had their problems and their human failings, as all of us do. But they still seemed like a very happy family. With all their problems, I would have chosen to belong to that family rather than be all alone, the way I was." "So their story is almost true," I said, still trying to understand.

"There's a great deal of truth in it," Ms. Hayes said. "I wrote the first Alice Anderson book right after Cassie died and..." "You don't have to talk about it," I interrupted.

"It's all right. I will this once. Cassie and I never got along smoothly. During her last two years in high school we argued a lot." Ms. Hayes took off her thick glasses and wiped tears from her red-rimmed eyes. "The last time I saw Cassie alive we were exchanging bitter words. I'll have to live with that forever." "That must be hard for you," I said, imagining or trying to imagine - how awful she must feel.

"It was hard." Ms. Hayes smiled a little sadly. "You know, Mallory, talking to you has gotten me thinking about my childhood. Maybe I will write a book about my childhood - a nonfiction book. But, before I think about that, I need to finish The Anderson Family Reunion. I have to submit a final outline to George in two days. Are you still interested in helping?" "I'd love to," I said. "I'll have to call home and ask if I can stay after dark." "Naturally, I'll call a cab to take you home." I called and Dad said it would be all right. I really should have spent the evening working on my project, but after all the help Ms. Hayes had given me, how could I refuse to help her? Besides, this was something I really wanted to do.

This is excellent work, Mallory, really excellent," Mr. Williams said to me in front of the whole class on the following Wednesday. He'd read our projects over the past two nights. Mine was the last one he returned.

"Thank you," I said. "But that's only half of it." "I know that," Mr. Williams said. "I'll be in the auditorium this afternoon to see your play, and then I'll grade the entire project." Jessi caught my eye and gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

"Anyone who'd like to see Mallory's first play is welcome to go to the elementary school auditorium after school," Mr. Williams told the class.

I was already nervous about the play. The thought of the entire class showing up made me even more nervous. Our final rehearsal, just yesterday, had been spotty -131 some parts smooth, some parts not-so-smooth. There were a lot of forgotten lines because of the script changes. I'd just have to keep my fingers crossed and hope for the best. I really wanted it to be good. Besides the fact that my grade depended on it, I'd invited Ms. Hayes to come see my play.

When I arrived at the elementary school that afternoon, I spotted my friends from the BSC. "How long is this play?" Kristy asked me, checking her watch.

"Don't worry," I said. "It's not more than an hour. We'll be done in plenty of time for our meeting." "Good." Mary Anne smiled and rolled her eyes at Kristy. "Good luck with the play," she said to me.

"You changed it, didn't you?" Stacey asked anxiously.

"Yes. My brothers and sisters think it's all right now," I told her.

"Oh, yeah? Are you sure about that?" Claudia asked skeptically. She was looking at something over my shoulder, so I turned to see what it was.

"Oh, no!" I groaned. My brothers and sisters were arriving in disguise! Byron, Adam, and Jordan each wore one of those crazy-looking nose and mustache things attached to black-rimmed glasses. Vanessa had on dark sunglasses and a too-big man's fedora. Margo had on a scarf and dark glasses. Nicky wore a ski mask. They'd even brought Claire along. She was wearing her Minnie Mouse mask from Halloween.