Ann Martin - Mallory Pike, No.1 Fan

"I don't think she could miss that letter," Jessi laughed as she saw me put the letter in the box.

"I hope not," I said. "Can you believe she lives right here in Stoneybrook?" "That's pretty cool," Jessi agreed.

During English, I asked for a pass to go to the library. I returned Alice Anderson's Big Break, and took out Alice Anderson's Greatest Challenge. I also found two more plays by Henrietta Hayes, "The Happiest Day," and "Frog Pond Vacation." In the same section I found a book entitled, The Basics of Playwriting. I grabbed it from the shelf and took it over to a table along with my other books.

I opened The Basics of Playwriting, interested in what the author had to say. The writer Ernest Hemingway was not a playwright, read the opening lines of the introduction. But his idea that authors should write about what they know is valuable for playwrights as well as novelists. Sticking to familiar material enables a writer to imbue his or her work with a realistic quality which might otherwise be missing. Many successful modern writers have taken Hemingway's advice. The beginning writer, too, would do well to heed this suggestion.

There it was! I'd been right. It was just as I'd said to Claudia the other day. Most people write about themselves. It made me so eager to know more about Henrietta Hayes. What a happy, funny person she must be! Would she ever write back to me?

I sighed so loudly that the librarian shot me a warning glance.

Well, there was no sense worrying about it. Instead, I had to make the best use of my time while I waited. The best thing I could do was start writing my own play. What would I write about, though?

I looked again at the book open in front of me, quickly rereading the opening paragraph. That's when it hit me. Like Henrietta Hayes's address, the perfect subject was right in my own home. The Pike family! Chapter 5.

A sick feeling churned in my stomach four days later as I stood in my front hall and read the words in front of me. Dear Reader, Thanks so much for your lovely letter. .

What did it take to get through to this woman?

No wonder she replied so fast. She didn't even read her letters! If she'd read my letter she'd have known I was getting desperate! I'd nearly finished reading Alice Anderson's Greatest Challenge. As in the previous books, Alice never let anything defeat her. Last night I had read a chapter in which Alice storms into a producer's office and demands to be allowed to audition for the role in a big movie. The producer is so impressed with her spunk that he agrees.

With Alice in mind, I ran upstairs and grabbed a notebook. I also snapped up the questionnaire I'd prepared in order to be ready the very moment Ms. Hayes contacted me. I put them in my pack and hurried back downstairs.

"Where are you going?" Mom called to me from the kitchen as I pulled on my jacket and headed for the front door.

"To Morgan Road," I replied firmly.

"What's on Morgan Road?" Mom wanted to know.

"I'm going to find Henrietta Hayes," I called over my shoulder as I swung out the door.

In the garage, I grabbed my bike and pedaled to the street. A few minutes later, I turned onto Burnt Hill Road. I spotted Mary Anne in her yard, raking leaves.

"Hi," she called to me. I really didn't want to be delayed. (I worried I'd lose my nerve.) I just waved and kept going. When she realized I wasn't stopping she called out, "Where are you going?" "To meet Henrietta Hayes," I called back.

"Good luck!" she shouted. At the last BSC meeting I'd told my friends about Henrietta Hayes living on Morgan Road. Mary Anne had told me then that 312 had to be all the way at the end of Morgan Road since the house nearest Burnt Hill Road was only number 80.

Burnt Hill Road is some hifi! I breathed hard as I pumped past the old barn behind Mary Anne and Dawn's house. (There's a secret pas56 sage which leads from Dawn's bedroom out to the barn. Isn't that cool?) By the time I reached the top of the hill, I was panting like crazy. (I told you I'm not exactly a super athlete.) I still had a way to go. Luckily, the rest of the road curved downhill.

Well, not exactly all downhill. There were small ups and downs along the way.

Morgan Road was the fifth left turn off Burnt Hill Road. It was winding and hilly, too. Eventually, though, I reached 310 Morgan Road. It was a big, fancy house. So was 314, the next house I came to. What had happened to 312?

Then I spotted a narrow dirt path which led into a cluster of trees. I peered in, trying to see what lay behind the trees. The trees were too close together, though. On a hunch, I turned my bike down the path.

Soon, I entered the line of trees. There, in the woods, stood 312 Morgan Road. Henrietta Hayes certainly didn't live in a castle. But I liked her house. It was a cozy-looking onestory, mostly brown wood except for a stone chimney up the side. A screened-in porch on the right led to a wooden deck with several bird feeders on it.

I got off my bike and I walked it up the stone path leading to the house. For a second, I almost lost my nerve, feeling more like chicken Mallory Pike than indomitable Alice Anderson. Breathing a gulp of air for courage, I pressed on to the front door.

I didn't see a doorbell anywhere, so I pulled open the screen door and knocked hard on the heavy wooden insidedoor. Then I quickly shut the screen door and stepped back. I didn't want Henrietta Hayes to think I was walking right into her house or anything like that.

I waited. . . and waited. Finally, I decided that Henrietta Hayes wasn't home. I took my questionnaire from my pack. I'd leave it inside her screen door, along with a note.

I leaned up against her house and began writing my note. At that moment, the door opened. Dropping my pad, I jumped back, startled.

"Can I help you?" asked the short, petite woman in the doorway. She wore brown-framed glasses with thick lenses, which made it hard to see her eyes. Her pale face would have looked young except for the fine wrinkles lining it. She had thick gray and brown hair which was cut to her chin, and a bit on the messy side. She was dressed simply, in a gray sweater and black slacks. I guessed her age to be somewhere in her fifties. It was hard to tell exactly. I've never been too good at guessing how old adults are.

"I'm Mallory Pike," I said, sure that my name would be familiar to her after three letters.

An amused smile formed on Ms. Hayes's lips. I hoped I hadn't sounded stupid. "How can I help you, Mallory?" "Didn't you get my letters?" I blurted out. Ms. Hayes looked at me, and her expression didn't reveal anything.

She thinks I'm a maniac, I told myself, losing hope. My idol now thinks I'm a complete nut case. I've ruined everything.

"I can't say I remember your letters at this very moment." Henrietta Hayes spoke slowly. "But since you're here, why don't you come in?" My tight, anxious shoulders relaxed. I should have known it took more than one awkward eleven-year-old fan to unnerve the author of Alice Anderson. "Thank you," I said as graciously as I could manage. I picked my notebook up off the ground, fumbled my questionnaire back into my pack, and stepped inside the home of the world's greatest living author. (The greatest in my opinion, anyway.) I liked her simply furnished home. The couch and chairs were wood-framed with cushions in deep, rusty shades of brown, gold, and red. On her golden brown walls hung large works of art. Some were prints by artists I recognized, such as Van Gogh and Renoir. Others were original paintings and sketches by artists I didn't know.

"Would you like some tea?" Ms. Hayes offered.

"No, thanks," I said, not wanting to be a bother.

"Some hot chocolate then?" I didn't want to be rude, either, so I agreed. "That would be nice, if it's not too much trouble." "No trouble," said Ms. Hayes. She left the living room and went into her kitchen, across the hail. I wasn't sure if I should follow her or stay put. I took a chance and followed her into a country kitchen with white cabinets and a yellow and white tile floor.