Anastasia's Chosen Career by Lois Lowry Read Free Book Online Page A

surgery. I think maybe a record album would be a better choice, at least until her eyes are stronger. I know she loves Bach. Why don't you get her a recording of
The Magnificat
?"
    And finally, to the third caller, she said, "Gosh, that's been out of print for years. But I bet anything you could find it at the library, Mrs. MacDonald. Or if you want to
own
it, you could try a secondhand bookstore."
    After the last phone call, Anastasia said, "I don't mean to be rude or anything, but how do you make any money? I mean, my dad said that you gave forty-seven people wine and cheese and only sold three books, and now you tell me that you let people return books with coffee spilled on them, and you tell them to buy records, and you send them to other bookstores, and I don't see how—"
    Suddenly Anastasia looked around, through the door into the bookstore itself. It looked exactly the way a bookstore
should,
in Anastasia's opinion, look: walled with ceiling-high bookcases, vivid with the colorful jackets of novels, and in one corner she could see a child-size table and chairs beside the shelves that held children's books. A lavishly illustrated book lay on the bright yellow table, open to a page that showed rabbits in jogging shoes running along a country road.
    But something was missing.
    While Barbara Page watched, Anastasia adjusted her glasses, frowned, and peered through the door, trying to figure out what was missing.
    Finally she turned back to the bookstore owner. "There aren't any customers," she said, puzzled.
    Barbara Page shrugged, smiling. "Sometimes there are," she said. "Never very many, though, I'm afraid."
    "But how do you make a living? How do you pay the rent?" Anastasia asked.
    A man's voice interrupted their conversation. "Barb?" he called down the back stairs.
    "What, honey?" the bookstore owner called back.
    "Where's yesterday's
Wall Street Journal?
" the man called.
    "On your desk. You left it there last night," Barbara Page replied. Then she turned back to Anastasia with a sheepish grin. "
That's
how I pay the rent. There isn't any rent. We own the whole building—my husband and I."
    "Oh."
    "You look disappointed."
    "No," Anastasia said, "not disappointed. Just confused. I mean, I'm glad you have a husband—he sounded like a nice guy—and I know lots of professional women have husbands. My mother does, for example."
    "Why are you confused, then?"
    "Well, what if when I grow up and start my chosen career, I don't have a husband who owns a building that I can put my chosen career in?"
    "Then," Barbara Page said decisively, "you work hard and become successful and you buy your own building. I bet you could buy two or three buildings eventually, Anastasia. You look like a hard worker. Here—have some potato chips."
    Anastasia took one and munched. She thought about it. It was true that she was a hard worker. She probably
would
be a successful bookstore owner. Heck, she could probably end up owning skyscrapers.
    But it might
help,
she realized, to marry someone who
also
owned buildings.
    "You know what?" she said to Barbara Page. "I think I have to leave my options open."
    "What do you mean, exactly?"
    "Well, I want to be an independent person and all that, and a hard worker, and a successful bookstore owner who buys skyscrapers, but—"
    "But what?"
    "But if I happen to fall in love with a very rich man along the way, I want to be prepared. I want to have poise and self-confidence and good posture and a sense of fashion, because a rich husband-to-be probably wouldn't get real turned on by these blue jeans and these dumb socks that don't match, right? But I'm already taking a course—I didn't tell you about this yet, but I'm taking a course in—oh, good grief, what time is it?" Anastasia pushed the sleeve of her sweat shirt back and looked at her watch. "It's almost one o'clock already! I have to go! Rats!"
    "Hey, this was fun, Anastasia. I'm glad your dad sent you over. It gets lonely in here sometimes. I'm