Anastasia at Your Service

Decorations by Diane de Groat

Houghton Mifflin Company Boston

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Lowry, Lois.
Anastasia at your service.

Summary: Twelve-year-old Anastasia has a series of
disastrous experiences when, expecting to get a job as
a lady's companion, she is hired instead to be a maid.
Sequel to "Anastasia again."
[l. Servants—Fiction. 2. Friendship—Fiction]
I. De Groat, Diane, ill. II. Title.
PZ7.Lg673Amd 1982 [Fic] 82-9231
ISBN 0-395-32865-9 AACR2

Copyright © 1982 by Lois Lowry

All rights reserved. For information about permission
to reproduce selections from this book, write to
Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company, 215 Park Avenue
South, New York, New York 10003.

Printed in the United States of America
EB 20

For Ben and Grey

"Groan," said Anastasia Krupnik feebly, and kicked the living room couch with one sneaker. She was lying on the living room floor. She was terribly depressed. She was so depressed that she had been acting out all the deathbed scenes she could think of. Beth, in
Little Women.
(A few small coughs, and then, weakly, "Farewell, my dear sisters.")

Juliet. (A gulp of poison, a horrible face because poison probably tasted terrible, and then, sadly, "Sorry things didn't work out, Romeo.")

Charlotte, in
Charlotte's Web.
(No final words, because spiders couldn't talk. But a few writhes. Probably spiders would writhe, dying. Then all eight legs—or six? Anastasia couldn't remember—straight up in the air.
Tough to act that one out, when you had only two legs.)

She wondered what would happen if her parents found her dead on the living room floor. Probably her mother would say, "For Pete's sake, I just cleaned this room yesterday, and
now
look at it."

She groaned again. "Groan." Feebly, still, but a little louder.

There was no response from anywhere. Deathbed scenes weren't any fun at all without an audience.

"G
ROAN
," she roared, finally.

Her mother appeared in the doorway with an orange potholder mitten on one hand.

"Did you call me?" she asked cheerfully. "I thought I heard someone call 'Mom.'"

"I was groaning, for Pete's sake," said Anastasia. "Can't you even recognize a groan when you hear one?"

"Do it again."

"G
ROAN
," roared Anastasia. Then she went on, dramatically, "I am dying. I have clasped an asp to my bosom."

"Must have been a heck of a disappointment for the asp. You hardly even
have
a bosom."

"
Mom!
" Anastasia sat up and threw a cushion at her mother.

"Sorry. That
was
a rotten thing to say. You've got the groaning wrong, though, incidentally. You don't
say
'groan' when you're groaning. A good groan sounds like this: 'Arrgghh.'"

"Hey, that's pretty good."

"You try it."

"Arrggghhhh."

"Not bad. I would have come right away if I'd heard that. Do it again, louder."

"A
AARRRRGGGGHHHHH.
"

"Terrific. Wait a minute while I get my cup of coffee and then I'll ask you what's wrong."

Anastasia followed her mother to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of Kool-Aid.

"Now then," said her mother as she stirred her coffee, "what seems to be the problem?"

"Severe depression." Anastasia sighed.

"Well, I can
see
that. What's causing the depression?"

Anastasia thought, while she sipped her Kool-Aid. "Boredom," she said. "And also poverty. Extreme poverty."

"I can relate to that," said her mother. "At least to the poverty part. Your dad and I have never been rich. We never
will
be rich. English professors don't make very much money, and he's always going to be an English professor, because he loves it. And I'm always going to be an artist, because that's what I love, and artists never make much money."

"Mom," said Anastasia patiently, "I'm not talking about that kind of poverty. I'm talking about twelve-year-old, extreme, desperate, two-dollar-a-week-allowance kind of poverty. If I really
did
want to kill myself with an asp, I wouldn't be able to, because I wouldn't be able to
afford
an asp."

"True," said her mother. "Asps don't come cheap in Massachusetts."

"And as for the boredom..."

"Yes. Tell me about the boredom. I can't remember ever being bored. Also, Anastasia, I can't remember
you
ever complaining of boredom before. Just last week you were in and out of the house all the time, with a million things to do. You were playing tennis every day, and you were off riding your bike, and when I wanted you to help with the dishes I could never
find
you. Now I can
always
find you, because you're always lying on the floor saying, 'Farewell, cruel world.' What's happened?"

"Steve Harvey." Anastasia sighed. "The only person I
know
in this town. At least the only person my age. My tennis partner. My bike-riding companion. My only
friend,
for Pete's sake."

"I'm your friend," said a very small voice. Anastasia's brother, Sam, padded into the kitchen, with his shoes untied, and climbed into a chair. "I want some Kool-Aid. I want my friend Anastasia to pour me some Kool-Aid, please," he said.

"Oh, for Pete's sake," said Anastasia. She poured some Kool-Aid into Sam's plastic clown cup. "Here. Don't spill it."

"You're right, Sam," said her mother, smoothing his curly hair. "You are Anastasia's very dear friend. But right now she's not talking about two-year-old friends. What's happened to you and Steve, Anastasia? Did you have a fight?"

"No, of course not. But he's the only person my age that I've met since we've moved here. And he was going to introduce me to other kids before school started. He
was going to have a big cookout at his house. He was going to have it next
week,
in fact..."

"And now he isn't?"

"Now, for Pete's sake, he's g
one
all of a sudden. Somebody called his father, some big-deal sports figure, and asked if Steve would like to go to a basketball camp in New Hampshire. They gave him a full scholarship, for Pete's sake. Nobody's ever offered me a full scholarship anywhere, except that time Dad offered to buy me a one-way ticket to reform school."

"He was only kidding, Anastasia."

"No, he wasn't. He was really mad."

"Well, yes, that's true, he
was
really mad..."

"Because I left his dumb Billie Holiday records on the radiator and melted them."

"But he didn't mean it about reform school."

"I know." Anastasia sighed. "Watch it, Sam. You're going to spill that if you're not real careful." Sam had picked up the pitcher of Kool-Aid and was pouring himself another cup.

"No I won't," said Sam sweetly. Then the pitcher slipped out of his hand. Grape Kool-Aid poured over the kitchen table and into Anastasia's lap. Her best jeans. Her favorite shirt. Purple. And sticky. And
cold.

"A
ARRRGGGGHHHH
," said Anastasia.

Sam climbed out of his chair quickly. "I'm going out to play," he said. "I'm going to play in the yard." He scooted through the back door.

Her mother grabbed two towels and a sponge and began to mop the table.

"A
ARRRGGGGHHHH
," said Anastasia again, holding her purple, cold, sticky shirt away from her body.

"Sam," called her mother through the kitchen window to the back yard, "while you're out there, look around in the bushes, would you? See if you can find an asp for your sister!"

"Ha, ha," said Anastasia, dripping sarcasm along with Kool-Aid.

***

Anastasia loved suppertime. Especially when they had lasagna, as they did tonight. Her mother was the best lasagna-maker in the whole world. If ever there were a National Lasagna Bake-Off Contest, her mother would win, she was quite certain.

She had told her mother that once. But her mother had made a terrible face, with her eyes crossed and her tongue sticking out. Apparently her mother didn't want to win a National Lasagna Bake-Off Contest. Anastasia could understand that. Probably the prize would be an apron or something.

Even when they didn't have lasagna, Anastasia loved suppertime, because the whole family, all four of them, were there, and they talked a lot. Often they talked about their problems, and it was absolutely amazing, Anastasia thought, how problems seemed less monumental if you talked about them while you ate lasagna. Or even pot roast, or tuna-fish casserole.

When she was older, and her spelling had improved a bit, Anastasia planned to write an article for the
Journal of the American Psychiatric Association.
In it, she was going to tell all the psychiatrists in America that if they served dinner to their patients, preferably lasagna (though pot roast or tuna-fish casserole would be okay), their patients would be cured of all their problems much faster.

("Oh, Doctor," Anastasia imagined a psychiatric patient saying, "I see purple leopards lurking behind the furniture. I will commit suicide if they don't go away."

"Hmmmm," the doctor would say. "Would you like some grated cheese on your lasagna? Tell me more about the purple leopards."

"Leopards? Were we talking about leopards? Funny, I don't remember anything about purple leopards. I would like more salad, though. And would you pass the rolls, please?")

"Dad," asked Anastasia as they ate, "do you have your notebook with you?"

He looked surprised. "Of course I have my notebook. I
always
have my notebook with me. Every writer does. You never know, if you're a writer, when you might have to take notes on the human scene." He took his small leather-bound notebook out of his pocket.

"No kidding. What does that mean: notes on the human scene?" asked Anastasia.

He thought for a minute. "Well, I eavesdrop and observe people. Then I make notes about what I see and what I overhear. After a while, I use some of that stuff in poems."

That was fascinating to Anastasia. She had tried and tried to be a writer, but somehow she had never succeeded very well. Yet her father, when he was not busy being an English professor, was a pretty successful writer of poetry. She had never figured out just how he did it. And now it turned out to be so simple. Notes on the human scene.

"Read me some," she suggested.

He put down his fork and flipped through the pages of his little notebook. "Well," he said, "here's what I wrote just this morning. 'Sam looks like his mother when he sleeps.'"

Anastasia's mother smiled. Sam smiled.

"'They both sleep with their mouths open, and their bottoms sticking up in the air,'" he went on.

Anastasia's mother stopped smiling. "Myron!" she said. "If you
ever
use that in a poem, I will sue for divorce!"

Dr. Krupnik grinned. "Just observations," he explained. "Notes on the human scene. Why did you ask if I had my notebook, Anastasia?"