Anastasia Again! by Lois Lowry Read Free Book Online

wandered into the kitchen for a peanut butter sandwich, "and you are looking at someone who is suffering."
    "Suffering from what?" asked Anastasia, as she spread peanut butter on a slice of whole wheat bread.
    "Angst. And sore feet. And heat stroke."
    "And the heartbreak of psoriasis?"
    "No. The heartbreak of not being able to find anything. Have you seen a pitcher? Can you tell me how to make iced tea, which I desperately want, without a pitcher?"
    "No." Anastasia licked the edges of her sandwich to even them off.
    "
Damn.
" Her mother stood up and began to look through a half-unpacked carton.
    Her father came into the kitchen, wiping his face with a handkerchief. "Did you make the iced tea?" he asked.
    "I don't want to talk about it," said her mother tensely.
    "I'm not asking you to talk about it. I'm asking you to pour it."
    Her mother glowered at him.
    "She can't find a pitcher," Anastasia explained. "Here," she said to her mother, handing her a saucepan. "Use this."
    Her father sat down in the rocker, leaned his elbows on his knees, and looked at the floor.
    "What's wrong, Dad?" Anastasia happened to know that her father was not at all interested in floors. Whenever he stared at the floor, it meant that something was wrong.
    "I was unpacking the records," he said, "and I can't find the Verdi Requiem. I think the movers stole it."
    "Dad," said Anastasia patiently. "Those movers never even
heard
of the Verdi Requiem. Those movers were the sort of people who would only steal Peter Frampton."
    Her father wasn't paying any attention to her. He was only paying attention to the floor. "Also," he said, "I hate the car. And the car hates me. It backfires at me. It keeps running after I turn the ignition off, even after I get out, and as soon as I am
behind
it, it backfires at me."
    "I don't hate the car," said Anastasia cheerfully. "I thought I would, but I don't. I'm glad you got an old beat-up car instead of a gross Cadillac or something."
    "Here," said her mother, and handed them each a glass of iced tea. "If it tastes like aluminum, it's not my fault. I think the movers stole all my pitchers."
    She sat down in a chair across from Anastasia's father, took a sip of tea, and made a face. Then she put her elbows on her knees and stared at the floor.
    "You people are both suffering from Post-moving Depression," announced Anastasia.
    "For pete's sake, where did you come up with
that
idea?" asked her mother.
    "
Cosmopolitan
magazine."
    Her father set his glass on the table with a thud that almost broke it. "Anastasia Krupnik," he said, "we have subscriptions to at least seven magazines in this household, all of them with some intellectual content. Why do you insist upon spending your allowance to buy that garbage?"
    "It tells me stuff."
    "
What
stuff?"
    "Well, one issue had an article about lopsided breasts, how to disguise them, and also an article about wives who get fed up with things and run away. Those might be useful bits of information to me someday."
    Her father made a noise like a horse exhaling. He stood up and stomped out of the kitchen.
    "Post-moving Depression," said Anastasia to her mother. "It will only last a few days."
    Sam padded into the kitchen. "I stood in every closet," he said.
    "Sam," said his mother. "Where are your sneakers? You're going to get splinters if you don't keep your shoes on." She slid her own feet back into her sandals.
    Sam thought. "One sneaker is in one closet," he said, "and one is in a different closet. I forget where." He sat on the floor and examined the soles of his feet. "I
like
splinters," he said happily.
    "Sam's not depressed," pointed out Anastasia. "Neither am I. I wonder why the neighbors haven't come to visit, though. Neighbors are supposed to drop in and bring a chocolate cake or something, when you move to a new place."
    "I wish someone would drop in and bring a pitcher," muttered her mother. "This tea tastes terrible."
    Sam looked up suddenly. "A witch lives next door," he