"Hi!" said her mother. "How was the party? You went to bed so fast last night that I didn't have a chance to ask you. You must have been exhausted."
"I was." Anastasia poured some milk over a bowl of Cheerios and began to eat. "The party was okay."
Someday she would have to tell them the truth about it. Not now, though. Maybe when she was thirty or something.
"I have to go over to Mrs. Bellingham's pretty soon and collect my pay."
Sam looked up from his truck. "Can I come?"
"No," said Anastasia. But then she began to think. Maybe it would help, having Sam along. Maybe Mrs. Bellingham wouldn't say too much if Sam was there.
"Well, maybe," she said. "Mom, may I take Sam with me? Did the doctor say Sam could go out?"
Her mother hesitated. "He can go out. But not on the back of your bike, Anastasia. It's too risky. We're supposed to keep him from bumping his head."
"
Mom,
I haven't had a wreck on mv bike since I was
nine.
"
"I know. But still, it's just too dangerous."
"Well, I'll walk. It's only a mile or so. I'll take Sam in his stroller, okay?"
"Yeah," said Sam. "In my stroller! Can I go? Can I?"
"Well," said his mother. "Okay. If you're careful."
"I will be," said Sam. "I'll be careful. I told Mrs. Flypaper I'd be careful."
Anastasia, her mother, and her father all groaned. They were sick of hearing about Sam's imaginary friend.
Sam just grinned and went off to find his Indian feather.
***
As they approached the gate to Bellmeadow Farm, Anastasia detached the feather from Sam's head.
"You can't wear that here, Sam," she said, "because I want the lady to think we're very respectable. I won't be able to explain to her about Bald Eagle. She wouldn't understand."
"Okay," said Sam agreeably.
"Now, when I introduce you to her, I want you to shake her hand. Okay?"
"Okay," said Sam.
"And say 'How do you do, Mrs. Bellingham.' Can you say that?"
Sam giggled. "How do you do, Mrs. Bellybutton," he said.
"S
AM
! Don't you dare! I'll clobber you if you say that! Now say it right."
"How do you do, Mrs. Bellingham," Sam said dutifully.
Anastasia pushed the stroller to the back door, lifted Sam out, and rang the doorbell. "Now, don't forget," she whispered to her brother.
Mrs. Bellingham came to the door herself.
"Good morning, Anastasia," she said.
"Good morning. This is my brother, Sam. Sam, this is Mrs. Bellingham." She watched Sam carefully to be sure he behaved properly.
"How do you do," said Sam, and held out his little hand. Then he looked up and stared at Mrs. Bellingham. His eyes widened. Anastasia nudged him. "How do you do,
Mrs. Bellingham,
" she reminded him in a whisper.
But he wasn't listening. He was grinning at Mrs. Bellingham. And she was grinning back at him.
"It's brave Bald Eagle!" she exclaimed, and reached down to pick Sam up. "Where's your feather, Chief?"
"Mrs. Flypaper!" cried Sam happily, and threw his arms around her neck.
***
Good grief, thought Anastasia. This is what I thought it would be like, being Mrs. Bellingham's Companion. Here I am, sitting in her study, like a real human being instead of a maid, drinking iced tea brought in on a tray by Mrs. Fox. And there's Sam, drinking orange juice out of a silver cup, which I won't have to polish.
And there was Mrs. Bellingham, stirring sugar into her tea with something that looked very like a bockle, and smiling like a real human being, too.
"You see, Anastasia," she was explaining, "I work as a volunteer in the pediatric ward of the hospital. I never know the children's last names, because I don't read their charts. That's why I didn't know Sam was your brother.
"All the volunteers wear pink smocks," she went on. "I wear a name tag on mine, but of course a lot of the youngsters aren't old enough to read..."
"
I
am," said Sam smugly. "I can read 'airplane.'"
"So some of the little ones just call me Pinky. It's easier to remember than Mrs. Bellingham."
"Mrs. Bellybutton." Sam giggled.
"
Sam!
" hissed Anastasia.
But Mrs. Bellingham was laughing. "Good old Sam," she said. "He doesn't like to do what everyone else does. When I suggested that he call me Pinky, he made a face..."
Sam scrunched up his nose and eyebrows. He stuck out his tongue. It was one of his standard yuck-I-don't-want-to-do-that faces.
"Right." Mrs. Bellingham laughed, watching him. "It was that face exactly. Then he said that he would call me Mrs. Flypaper. Don't ask me why."
"Because you made one for me," Sam explained. "You zoomed it across the room."
For a moment Mrs. Bellingham looked puzzled. Then she brightened. "The paper airplane! I made him a paper airplane!"
"Yep," said Sam. "A flypaper. I zoomed it right into your behind, remember?"
Mrs. Bellingham blushed. "I believe it was my
hip
you hit, Sam, not my—ah, my behind."
She looked at Anastasia, who had been watching the two of them in amazement. "
Sam
isn't afraid of me," she said. "Are you, Sam?"
Sam was busy folding an envelope he had found on Mrs. Bellingham's desk. "Nope," he said. "Because I love you."
"Mrs. Bellingham," said Anastasia, "Daphne loves you, too. I know she does. It's just that she's growing up. And it isn't
easy
to grow up. Life gets very complicated when you're thirteen."
"Yes," said Daphne's grandmother thoughtfully, "I guess that's true. Daphne and I will have to work things out. We'll have to talk.
"Anastasia," she added, "I haven't told your parents about last night. I had to tell Daphne's, I'm afraid. But I'll leave it to you to tell your own."
"I will," said Anastasia. When I'm thirty, she thought.
"Look!" said Sam suddenly. "I made a flypaper all by myself!" He launched the folded envelope and it sailed across the room, coming to rest on top of the set of Henry James.
"Anastasia," said Mrs. Bellingham, "that was your pay that just zoomed by your nose."
***
Later that afternoon, while Sam was taking his nap, Daphne called.
"Anastasia," she said dramatically, "this is the last time you'll hear my voice until school starts next week."
"Why?"
"Because I'm practically in solitary confinement. I got permission to make one phone call—even criminals get to make one phone call before they go to prison.
But after this I'm restricted to the house. And no phone calls. No nothing, until school."
"Because of last night?"
"Of
course
because of last night. I practically ruined my grandmother's reputation and everything."
"But, Daphne," said Anastasia, "you told me that your parents were very forgiving. They let you do anything!"
"Yeah, that used to be true. But my father really blew his stack over this. They almost sent me off to reform school."
"
Reform school?
"
"Well, boarding school. Same thing. But I cried so much they changed their minds. And I said I was sorry, and promised to do well in school this year, and everything."
"Were you acting when you said it?" asked Anastasia.
Daphne hesitated, as if she was thinking. "Actually, no," she said finally. "I really was sorry. And I really do want to do well in school for a change. Trouble is, I'm not sure I remember how. I'm so used to making trouble."
"What happens if you get into more trouble?"
"Boarding school for sure." Daphne moaned. "Probably one with bars on the windows."
"Well, Daph," said Anastasia, "I'll tell you what. I'll be your watchdog when school starts. I'll keep reminding you all the time to stay out of trouble."
"You will? Promise?"
"Sure. And I'll bug you to join the Dramatic Club and to try out for plays, okay?"
"Okay. And, Anastasia..."
"What?"
"If I start thinking up sinister schemes or anything,
stop me.
Will you do that?"
Anastasia laughed. "Atcher service," she said.