Anastasia at This Address (An Anastasia Krupnik story)
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moment. "Yeah, he looks flat," Sonya said at last. "But he always was flat. I don't think he's changed any." "Good," Anastasia said. "Maybe he's okay, then. What's the big problem, Meredith?" "Well, first there's just a small problem," Meredith said. "A decision. Which of these do you like best?" She reached into the pocket of her jeans, pulled out three squashed-looking pink things, and tossed them onto Anastasia's desk. Sonya, Daphne, and Anastasia all stared at them. "Yuck," Daphne said
wonder if Japanese people read Time magazine from front to back." "Well," said her father, wrinkling his nose to adjust his glasses, "we'll have to ask a Japanese person sometime." He looked back down at the Boston Globe. "I read some things in little jumps," Mrs. Krupnik said. Anastasia's father looked up again. "Little jumps?" he asked. Mrs. Krupnik nodded. "Like War and Peace," she explained. "I only read the peace parts. I jumped from one peace part to the next. I never read the war
were they supposed to do: name their kids after planets? Was she going to have a son named Pluto? Anastasia agreed with her completely, though she couldn't understand why someone would get involved with someone else romantically without knowing that person's middle name. She herself planned to ask Septimus his middle name the minute their relationship began to jell. But she was desolate, for the two days that Kirsten's fury lasted, thinking of a called-off wedding, thinking of her beautiful
this'S.W.A.K. this person puts on the back of the envelopes?" (Anastasia was quite certain that it wouldn't be very long before the correspondence reached the every-other-day, S.W.A.K. stage.) So she had slyly prepared her parents. "Funniest thing," she said casually at dinner one evening. "I have a nickname, at school. Everyone calls me by my nickname." "Oh?" her mother replied. "What is it?" "Ah, Swifty," Anastasia said. "Cute, huh?" "Swifty?" her parents said in unison. "Yeah. Swifty. I
against her shoulder and held it there with her head while she dried her hands. "It's for me," she told her father. "It's Meredith Halberg." She listened to her friend's voice for a minute. "She what?" Anastasia said in gleeful amazement. "Really? She's not just kidding?" She tilted her head toward her father, who was putting the final plate into the cupboard. "Guess what! Meredith's sister, Kirsten? She wants—wait a minute, Dad—I have to get more details. "Meredith? When is it? Where is it?