asked.
Sam flopped himself around in her lap. "Scratch my front," he said. "My front itches, too."
Anastasia lifted him down to the floor. "I can't," she told him. "I have to start dinner. What vegetable do you guys want? Corn okay?"
"Sure," said her father. "Good thing I remembered to take some meat out of the freezer."
"Yeah," said Anastasia. "I was halfway down the back steps before I remembered to—what do you mean,
you
remembered?"
Her father went to the pantry and came back with a plate full of something, which he set on the table.
"Chicken breasts," he announced. "I remembered just before I went out to warm up the car this morning."
Anastasia looked at the chicken breasts in dismay. She took her own package of meat from the side of the sink. "But I thawed out hamburger!" she wailed.
Sam looked at both of them. Then he trotted off to the small counter beside the refrigerator, the one where the toaster stood. He reached up, pushed aside the toaster, and took down a package.
"Hot dogs," he announced. "I did hot dogs."
Anastasia stared at the hamburger. Then she stared at the chicken breasts. Then she stared at the hot dogs.
"Well," she said flatly, "make my day."
"Actually," her father replied, "I think what we have to make is a new schedule."
Sam sat down on the kitchen floor and began to cry. "Make me stop itching!" he howled. "I itch
all over!
"
4
Anastasia opened her eyes sleepily when her father called "Seven o'clock!" up the stairs to her third-floor bedroom. She groaned. Why was it so hard to get up in the morning?
Frank, her goldfish, was swimming in circles, chasing his own tail around his bowl. Frank was always wide-awake and cheerful in the mornings. He was the kind of guy who would go jogging at dawn, if he had legs.
Groggily, she reached over to the fish-food box and tapped some into Frank's bowl. If only she could do
all
the household chores without getting out of bed.
"You and I have very little in common, Frank," Anastasia said, yawning, "except that we both like to eat."
Frank stared out at her with his bulging eyes through the side of the bowl. He flipped his tail.
Down on the second floor, she could hear sounds: the shower running, her father's feet squeaking in the bathtub, and Sam—Anastasia groaned and got out of bed. Sam was crying again. Ordinarily Sam
never
cried; once she had seen him fall right over the railing of the back porch, head over heels, into a prickly bush. Then he had climbed out of the bush, covered with scratches, brushed himself off, remarked, "Ouch," and gone scampering off to find his tricycle.
But last night he had cried and cried. He hadn't eaten any dinner—even though there were several choices—and he had complained about a hundred different things. His head hurt. His toes itched. His nose ached. His belly button felt too tight.
Finally he had fallen asleep on the hard linoleum floor of the kitchen while Anastasia and her father ate.
"What a hypochondriac," Anastasia had said, whispering, so that he wouldn't wake up and start wailing again.
"He just misses his mom," Dr. Krupnik had pointed out.
They had both looked at Sam curled into a sleeping ball on the floor. "Should we wake him up for his bath?" Dr. Krupnik had asked.
Anastasia had shaken her head. "He's not that dirty. And if we wake him up he'll just start missing Mom again, and crying. Let's just put him to bed with his clothes on."
Dr. Krupnik had frowned. "He'll wet the bed if we don't take him to the bathroom."
It was true. They had both thought about that. "Well," said Anastasia finally, "I think I'd rather change his sheets tomorrow than listen to him howl anymore tonight."
Her father had nodded. "Me too," he agreed. Carefully, he had scooped Sam up and carried him upstairs to his bed. "By morning, after a good night's sleep," he had said when he came back down, "he'll be fine. It's just a difficult adjustment."
But now it was morning, and Sam was howling again. Anastasia sighed
Sam flopped himself around in her lap. "Scratch my front," he said. "My front itches, too."
Anastasia lifted him down to the floor. "I can't," she told him. "I have to start dinner. What vegetable do you guys want? Corn okay?"
"Sure," said her father. "Good thing I remembered to take some meat out of the freezer."
"Yeah," said Anastasia. "I was halfway down the back steps before I remembered to—what do you mean,
you
remembered?"
Her father went to the pantry and came back with a plate full of something, which he set on the table.
"Chicken breasts," he announced. "I remembered just before I went out to warm up the car this morning."
Anastasia looked at the chicken breasts in dismay. She took her own package of meat from the side of the sink. "But I thawed out hamburger!" she wailed.
Sam looked at both of them. Then he trotted off to the small counter beside the refrigerator, the one where the toaster stood. He reached up, pushed aside the toaster, and took down a package.
"Hot dogs," he announced. "I did hot dogs."
Anastasia stared at the hamburger. Then she stared at the chicken breasts. Then she stared at the hot dogs.
"Well," she said flatly, "make my day."
"Actually," her father replied, "I think what we have to make is a new schedule."
Sam sat down on the kitchen floor and began to cry. "Make me stop itching!" he howled. "I itch
all over!
"
4
Anastasia opened her eyes sleepily when her father called "Seven o'clock!" up the stairs to her third-floor bedroom. She groaned. Why was it so hard to get up in the morning?
Frank, her goldfish, was swimming in circles, chasing his own tail around his bowl. Frank was always wide-awake and cheerful in the mornings. He was the kind of guy who would go jogging at dawn, if he had legs.
Groggily, she reached over to the fish-food box and tapped some into Frank's bowl. If only she could do
all
the household chores without getting out of bed.
"You and I have very little in common, Frank," Anastasia said, yawning, "except that we both like to eat."
Frank stared out at her with his bulging eyes through the side of the bowl. He flipped his tail.
Down on the second floor, she could hear sounds: the shower running, her father's feet squeaking in the bathtub, and Sam—Anastasia groaned and got out of bed. Sam was crying again. Ordinarily Sam
never
cried; once she had seen him fall right over the railing of the back porch, head over heels, into a prickly bush. Then he had climbed out of the bush, covered with scratches, brushed himself off, remarked, "Ouch," and gone scampering off to find his tricycle.
But last night he had cried and cried. He hadn't eaten any dinner—even though there were several choices—and he had complained about a hundred different things. His head hurt. His toes itched. His nose ached. His belly button felt too tight.
Finally he had fallen asleep on the hard linoleum floor of the kitchen while Anastasia and her father ate.
"What a hypochondriac," Anastasia had said, whispering, so that he wouldn't wake up and start wailing again.
"He just misses his mom," Dr. Krupnik had pointed out.
They had both looked at Sam curled into a sleeping ball on the floor. "Should we wake him up for his bath?" Dr. Krupnik had asked.
Anastasia had shaken her head. "He's not that dirty. And if we wake him up he'll just start missing Mom again, and crying. Let's just put him to bed with his clothes on."
Dr. Krupnik had frowned. "He'll wet the bed if we don't take him to the bathroom."
It was true. They had both thought about that. "Well," said Anastasia finally, "I think I'd rather change his sheets tomorrow than listen to him howl anymore tonight."
Her father had nodded. "Me too," he agreed. Carefully, he had scooped Sam up and carried him upstairs to his bed. "By morning, after a good night's sleep," he had said when he came back down, "he'll be fine. It's just a difficult adjustment."
But now it was morning, and Sam was howling again. Anastasia sighed
Similar Books
Tackling Summer
Kayla Dawn Thomas
Ravenwood
Nathan Lowell
Falling
Anne Simpson
The Falcon's Bride
Dawn Thompson
Gap Creek
Robert Morgan
Little Boy Blues
Mary Jane Maffini
The Saint of Dragons
Jason Hightman
From a Distant Star
Karen McQuestion
Find, Fix, Finish
Aki Peritz, Eric Rosenbach