Mary Anne Saves the Day by Ann M. Martin Read Free Book Online

for Sunday afternoon. Mr. Prezzioso and I have been invited to a tea.”
    â€œWhat time does it start?” I asked.
    â€œFour o’clock. I should think we’d be home by six or six-thirty.”
    â€œOkay, I’ll be there.”
    â€œThat’s wonderful, dear. Thank you. I’ll see you at four. Good-bye!”
    I hung up the phone thoughtfully. The afternoon at the Prezziosos’ could be pretty interesting.
    On Sunday afternoon I rang the Prezziosos’ doorbell promptly at 3:30. Jenny came flying to answer it. I could hear her calling hello and fiddling with the locks. After a few moments, she pulled it open — but the chain was still attached.
CRACK!
    â€œJenny!” a voice exclaimed behind her. “Did you ask who was there before you opened the door?”
    â€œNo, Mommy.”
    â€œWell, what are you supposed to do when the doorbell rings?”
    â€œSay, ‘Who is it?’ ”
    â€œThen please do that.” The door closed. The locks slid back into place.
    â€œMary Anne,” Mrs. Prezzioso called, “would you mind ringing the bell again, please?”
    I sighed.
Ding-dong.
    â€œWho is it?” asked Jenny’s voice.
    â€œIt’s me, Mary Anne Spier.”
    â€œAre you a stranger?”
    â€œNo, I’m your baby-sitter.”
    â€œNow can I let her in, Mommy?”
    â€œYes, sweetheart. That was very good.”
    At last the door opened. I stepped inside and took off my coat. Both Mrs. P. and Jenny were all dressed up. Mrs. P. looked exactly as if she were off to a fancy tea. But Jenny seemed a bit overdressed for an afternoon of stories and games and fun. She was wearing a frilly white dress trimmed with yards of lavender lace and ribbon, matching lavender socks, and shiny black patent leather Mary Janes. Her hair had been curled, and was pulled back from either side of her face by barrettes from which long streamers flowed. Really, her mother ought to just pose her in a display case somewhere.
    â€œHello, Mary Anne,” Mrs. P. greeted me.
    â€œHi,” I replied. “Hi, Jenny.”
    Jenny looked wistfully at the blue jean skirt I was wearing. “I like your skirt, Mary Anne,” she said.
    â€œNow, Jenny,” Mrs. P. said briskly, “it’s a very pretty skirt, I’m sure, but not as pretty as my little angel in her brand-new dress!” She pulled Jenny to her and covered her with loud kisses. “Who’s my little angel?” she asked.
    Jenny’s face was smushed up against her mother’s arm. “Mmmphh,” she said.
    Mrs. P. tried again. “Who’s my little angel?”
    Jenny drew away from her. “I am, Mommy.”
    â€œAnd what are you made of?”
    â€œSugar ’n’ spice ’n’ all that’s nice.”
    Gag, gag. I remembered another nursery rhyme. That one went, “There was a little girl who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead; when she was good, she was very, very good, and when she was bad she was horrid.”
    â€œIsn’t our angel pretty today?” Mrs. Prezzioso asked me.
    Our
angel? “Yes, she sure is,” I replied.
    Jenny smiled sweetly.
    â€œAll right, I’m ready, Madeleine,” boomed a voice from the stairs. Mr. P. came thundering down from the second floor.
    â€œOkay, angel, you be a good girl for your sitter. Will you promise me that?” He tossed Jenny in the air and she squealed with delight.
    â€œOh, be careful!” cried Mrs. Prezzioso. “Her new dress … and your new ascot. Nick, please.”
    (What’s an ascot?)
    Mr. P. returned Jenny safely to the ground. “Well, let’s go. Thanks for coming over, Mary Lou.”
    â€œMary
Anne
,” Jenny corrected him.
    Mrs. P. stood in front of her husband. She straightened his tie, adjusted his jacket, and arranged the handkerchief in his pocket so that it was absolutely straight and the monogram was perfectly