Anastasia's Chosen Career (5 page)

He had been a wimp even when he was five, even though he didn't have his briefcase then. He had had a little plaid bookbag in kindergarten, filled with pencils that had his name printed on them.

He had always brought nutritious lunches to school, little salads in plastic containers and vitamin pills. He had brought nose drops—
nose drops!
—to school because he had allergies, and three times a day, for seven years, Anastasia had had to watch Robert Giannini sit at his desk, throw his head back, and stick a medicine dropper in each nostril. Talk about gross.

He had always offered to be Monitor. Crayon Monitor, Paper Monitor, Hall Monitor: anything that needed a monitor, Robert Giannini had always volunteered. In fourth grade, in a science book, there had been a picture of a monitor lizard, and after that everyone had called Robert Giannini "Monitor Lizard" behind his back.

In fourth grade he got his briefcase, which he had carried ever since. Each year he had become more and more of a wimp until, in sixth grade, he was a world-class wimp, no question.

He wore orthopedic shoes.

He wore galoshes when it rained.

He watched Channel 2, the educational channel, every single night, and then gave oral reports in class on the programs he had seen, for extra credit. Once—Anastasia could hardly bear even to think about this—he had given a report on human reproduction. Right in front of the entire sixth-grade class, Robert Giannini had stood up and talked about human reproduction, actually saying the words "sperm" and "ova"
out loud.
It was the most embarrassing thing that ever happened in sixth grade.

But since she had started seventh grade, junior high, in a whole different town, Anastasia had assumed that she would never see him again. She had
vowed
she would never see him again.

Yet here he was, clutching his leather briefcase, shoving aside a chair so that he could—she looked up—yes; he was actually about to sit down next to her.

Anastasia had spent her entire age-thirteen life, four months so far, trying to forget that she had ever known a jerk like Robert Giannini.

And now Robert Giannini had enrolled in modeling school.

"Now that we're all here, let's introduce ourselves," Uncle Charley announced in his booming voice from the front of the room. "You already know me and Aunt Vera. And you'll be hearing a lot from us this week. So let's hear a little from you. Your name, a little about yourself, and what you hope to get out of the course. Okay? We'll start with you, honey, right here in the front."

The dark-haired girl who had been staring at her lap jumped. She looked up nervously. "Me?" she whispered.

"Yep. Tell us your name. I have it written on my list, of course, but the other kids don't know you yet."

The girl whispered something. Anastasia couldn't hear what she said.

"Sweetie," Aunt Vera said, "try speaking up a little louder."

"Helen Margaret Howell," the girl said, blushing.

"Good. How old are you, Helen?" asked Aunt Vera.

"Helen Margaret," the girl whispered.

"Oh. Well, Helen Margaret, how old are you?"

"Twelve," Helen Margaret whispered.

"And what would you like to tell us about yourself?"

Helen Margaret shook her head. "I don't know."

"Well," Aunt Vera said, "what interesting things have happened in your life lately?"

Helen Margaret said nothing. She stared at the floor.

Aunt Vera nodded cheerfully. "You're a little nervous, honey. You'll get over that. Next? You?" She pointed to the redheaded girl.

"My name's Bambi, like the deer, but it's spelled with an "e"—Bambie," the girl said in a loud voice. "Bambie Browne—the Browne has an V too. I'm fourteen, and I'm planning a career in the entertainment field. I was on
Community Auditions
last year. I did a monologue. And I do a lot of beauty pageants. My coach said I ought to take this course to pick up some pointers. I won Miss Cranberry Bog when I was ten. My dress was made-to-order and it was the only one in the contest that wasn't cranberry-colored. I had green, see, because of my hair. My hair color's natural. And—"

"Thank you. Next?" Aunt Vera looked toward Henry.

"My name's Henry Peabody and I'm thirteen and I came because I wanted to learn something about maybe being a model. My aunt—that's my real aunt, not no fake aunt—said maybe I could be a model because I'm tall and thin. And if I could be a model I could earn enough money to go to college." She paused. Then she added, "My hair color's natural, too. So's my skin." She grinned.

Anastasia squirmed in her chair. She knew it was her turn next and she didn't know what to say. Aunt Vera smiled at her.

"Well, ah, my name's Anastasia Krupnik. I'm thirteen, same as Henry. And I'm tall and thin, too, same as Henry, but I guess I wasn't really thinking about actually being a model. I think I'm going to be a bookstore owner. I was just sort of hoping to, I don't know, maybe get more self-confidence."

"Good. Bobby?"

Robert Giannini stood up.
Typical,
Anastasia thought. Nobody else stood up, but Robert Giannini stood up. "That's Robert," he said, "not Bobby. I've never been called Bobby. I'm thirteen but I haven't achieved my full growth yet so I appear younger. I'm expecting a growth spurt anytime."

Anastasia put her head in her hands.
Growth spurt.
What a Robert Giannini-like thing to say.

"I enrolled," Robert went on, "just out of general interest. I haven't chosen a career yet. I'm considering metallurgy. I don't think of myself as a potential entertainer or anything, although there are several magic tricks that I do quite well. But I like to explore all kinds of possibilities. If I find that I photograph well, then of course television would be one of my options—"

Anastasia could tell that he was going to go on and on. Apparently Uncle Charley could tell that, too, because he interrupted Robert.

"Good," said Uncle Charley. "Now that we know each other, let's get started."

"You wanta go to McDonald's for lunch?" asked Henry."Or do you want to just walk over to the park and throw up?"

Anastasia giggled. They had just left Studio Charmante for their lunch break and were standing together on the windy street corner. Back at the studio, Robert Giannini had cornered Uncle Charley to discuss camera angles. Bambie Browne had disappeared someplace, probably to the ladies' room to repair her mascara, and Helen Margaret was sitting all alone in the waiting room, opening a paper bag of sandwiches that she had brought with her.

"I can't," Anastasia told Henry apologetically. "I have to meet someone for lunch. I'm sorry."

Henry's eyes lit up. "Some guy?"

"No, nobody interesting. A woman. But I'll see you back here at one o'clock, okay?"

"Okay. I'm going to get me a Big Mac and then I want to hang out at the record store. Maybe I'll listen to a little Shakespeare for this afternoon," Henry said, laughing. "I'll practice a few gestures."

Anastasia laughed too, said goodbye, and headed off in the opposite direction.

It had been a weird morning. So far, Uncle Charley had videotaped three of the kids—all but Henry and Anastasia; he would do them after lunch.

"Now, try to be natural," he had said. "This is just for the 'Before' part. At the end of the week, we'll do the 'After,' and you'll see what a difference has taken place. Let's start with you, Helen Margaret. I want you to stand up here in front and simply talk about yourself a little. Look toward the camera."

Helen Margaret walked to the front of the room as if she were made of wood. She stood in the place Uncle Charley indicated, looked at the floor, and was silent.

"Okay, sweetie," Aunt Vera said, "the camera's rolling. Tell us about yourself. Look up. We won't bite."

Helen Margaret, with her head still down, peered up through her straggly dark bangs. "I don't know what to say," she mumbled.

"You got any hobbies?" Uncle Charley called from behind the camera.

Helen Margaret bit her lip and shook her head. "No," she whispered.

"How about a boyfriend?" asked Aunt Vera.

"No."

Anastasia wanted to point out to Aunt Vera that she wasn't asking open-ended questions. But she decided that maybe it was a little early in the course to start correcting the head person. So she kept quiet.

The interview—or lack of interview—went on for ten minutes, with Helen Margaret mumbling one-word answers to questions while she looked at the floor. Anastasia felt sorry for her. I'm not going to
like
it when it's my turn, she thought, but at least I can stand up straight and say something. I can tell about my family and stuff.

Bambie went next. She posed in the front of the room and began her performance before Uncle Charley got the camera started. "Hold it," he called. "Start again."

Bambie tossed her head, smoothed her hair, and waited until the camera was on. "I'm doing the monologue that I did for
Community Auditions,
" she announced. "This is Juliet's death scene."

Next to Anastasia, Henry groaned quietly. Anastasia squirmed in embarrassment as Bambie gestured with her hands, holding up an imaginary vial of poison. "'Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, to whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,'" she intoned dramatically, "'and there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?'" She pretended to drink from the imaginary poison and began to sink to the floor. Mid-sink, she called to Uncle Charley, "Is the camera getting this? I don't have to go all the way to the floor. I could collapse across a chair. I practice it both ways."

Uncle Charley turned the camera off. "We got enough, sweetheart," he said.

"Robert?" Aunt Vera suggested. "How about you next?"

Robert Giannini picked up his briefcase and carried it to the front of the room. I wonder what he
keeps
in that briefcase, Anastasia thought.

I wonder what he's going to
say.

If he makes his speech on Human Reproduction, I'm leaving. I'll forfeit my whole $119 if I have to, but I will never again in my life sit still and listen to Robert Giannini say, "Out of ten million sperm, only one will reach the ovum."

Robert cleared his throat, adjusted his tie, and began, "I am going to speak about the United States Space Program."

"Zzzzzzzzz." Henry faked a snore.

Anastasia sighed, remembering the morning, as she headed across the Boston Common toward Beacon Hill. Modeling school wasn't really what she had anticipated. Henry Peabody was the only good thing about it.

Walking, she tried to think of some open-ended questions for the bookstore owner. But her mind kept wandering instead, revising her paper on My Chosen Career.

Anastasia Krupnik

My Chosen Career

Sometimes, in doing the necessary preparation for your chosen career, you will encounter people that you wish you hadn't encountered.

Maybe they will be people from your past—people you hoped you would never see again under any circumstances ever.

Sometimes they may be people you have never met before, the kind of people who recite Shakespeare with gestures and then do a disgusting curtsy at the end.

I think there is probably no way to avoid this happening. Moving to an entirely new town doesn't seem to be the solution.

Maybe moving to another country would help.

Anastasia made her way through the Common, averting her eyes from the wino who sat slumped on a bench, slurping booze out of a bottle concealed in a paper bag. She stopped briefly to pat a tall, thin dog who came to her with a stick in his mouth and his tail wagging furiously, until the dog's master called, "Come, Sheba," and the dog reluctantly but obediently trotted away.

She walked around the State House with its glistening golden dome and found the street she was looking for. Here, on Beacon Hill, it was quieter, less crowded. The streets were narrow, lined with brick sidewalks, trees, and gaslights. There didn't seem to be any stores here, just tall brick houses close to each other.

Her father had told her that once, in the last century, these were all private homes. Now, though, most of them had been divided into apartments. Only a few people still owned entire houses on Beacon Hill.
Rich
people.

Anastasia checked the numbers and began walking downhill. She had a horrible thought. What if the bookstore, Pages, was actually in someone's home? A
rich
person's home? What if the bookstore owner, Ms. Barbara Page, was old, rich, and grouchy?

She looked down at her legs and feet. Her hiking boots were coated with gray slush and the bottoms of her jeans were soggy.
Great.
She had a sudden, horrible vision of an old, rich, grouchy bookstore owner staring at her with hatred as she stood dripping on the polished floor of the bookstore.

She pictured a newspaper headline that said: JUNIOR HIGH STUDENT THROTTLED TO DEATH BY ENRAGED BEACON HILL BOOKSTORE OWNER.

She pictured a smaller headline underneath: "
SHE GOT SLUSH ON MY RARE VOLUMES," EXPLAINS BARBARA PAGE.

And finally, Anastasia pictured a third, smaller, sadder newspaper caption: Justifiable homicide, says judge.