minutes to make a decision.
She could go back home, she realized. But she would miss lunch with the bookstore owner, and she would miss her interview with the bookstore owner, and her school project would be wrecked. And she would have to explain to her parents, and to Sonya, and it would be so humiliating.
She could—but her thoughts were interrupted when the door behind her opened. Anastasia jumped and turned, terrified, prepared to face a mugger, a murderer, a person demanding spare quarters.
But it was a girl her own age: a pretty black girl wearing jeans, sneakers, a bright red jacket, and a disgusted look. She was holding a paper in her hand, the same paper that Anastasia held.
"This sure don't look like no modeling school," the girl said loudly. "It looks like Cockroach City."
"I know," Anastasia replied. "I was scared to go up.
"Appears to me we got choices," the girl said. "My choice is, I go upstairs and check things out for a week in this here slum, or else I go back home and babysit for my sister's kids, with everybody laughing at me for being such a fool."
Anastasia nodded. "Me, too," she said glumly. "I don't have a sister, so I wouldn't have to babysit for a sister's kids. But everybody would probably laugh at me, too, if I go back home."
"You got your hunnert and nineteen dollars?" the girl asked.
"Yeah." Anastasia patted her pocketbook, where in a zippered compartment she was carrying the cash for the modeling course. "It's my life's savings."
"Mine, too. I earned it last summer, babysitting." The black girl stared at the hideous staircase. "Wonder how far we could get on a bus, with all that money. You wanta go over to the Trailways station and see? Maybe we could have us a weekend in Atlantic City or something."
"I don't think so," Anastasia said. "My parents are expecting me home for dinner."
"Mine, too. I was only kidding. What's your name?"
"Anastasia."
"That's cool. Mine's Henry."
"
Henry?
"
"Short for Henrietta. But if you call me that, you die."
"Oh. Okay." Anastasia laughed nervously.
"Only kidding," Henry said. "Hey, I'm going up. You coming?"
"Yes," Anastasia said decisively. "If you will, I will."
Together, they started up the stairs to Studio Charmante. In her mind, Anastasia began to revise the opening paragraphs of her school project.
Anastasia Krupnik
My Chosen Career
Sometimes, in preparing for your chosen career, you have to do some scary stuff. Like, if you want to be a doctor, you have to look at dead bodies.
And if you want to be a lawyer, sometimes you have to go to a prison and talk to ax murderers.
To be a bookstore owner, and to develop poise and self-confidence, maybe you might have to go up a dark staircase where there is a dead cigar maybe smoked by a criminal, lying on the third step.
But you have to be brave as you set out on your chosen career.
4
Soft lighting? Wrong. It was bare bulbs with pull chains hanging from the ceiling.
Thick beige carpeting? Wrong. It was dirty linoleum, green and white rectangles, with a mashed cigarette butt in one corner.
Long couches with bright cushions? Wrong. Three plastic chairs.
Glamorous receptionist at a curved desk with a bank of telephones? Wrong. It was a metal desk with an ancient typewriter, and an overweight woman talking loudly on the single black phone.
"So I told him this joke," she was saying, "about the two Europeans who went hunting and got eaten by bears, and when the forest rangers killed the bears, they said, 'The Czech's in the male?' But he didn't think it was funny. So I said, 'Well, the check
is
in the mail. I mailed it myself two days ago,' but he—listen, Selma, I gotta hang up. Someone's here. I'll call you back, okay?"
She put the telephone down, turned to the girls, and smiled. There was lipstick on her front teeth.
"Krupnik and Peabody, right?" she asked, looking down at a piece of paper.
Anastasia nodded. So did Henry. The woman checked off their names on the paper.
"Which one's
She could go back home, she realized. But she would miss lunch with the bookstore owner, and she would miss her interview with the bookstore owner, and her school project would be wrecked. And she would have to explain to her parents, and to Sonya, and it would be so humiliating.
She could—but her thoughts were interrupted when the door behind her opened. Anastasia jumped and turned, terrified, prepared to face a mugger, a murderer, a person demanding spare quarters.
But it was a girl her own age: a pretty black girl wearing jeans, sneakers, a bright red jacket, and a disgusted look. She was holding a paper in her hand, the same paper that Anastasia held.
"This sure don't look like no modeling school," the girl said loudly. "It looks like Cockroach City."
"I know," Anastasia replied. "I was scared to go up.
"Appears to me we got choices," the girl said. "My choice is, I go upstairs and check things out for a week in this here slum, or else I go back home and babysit for my sister's kids, with everybody laughing at me for being such a fool."
Anastasia nodded. "Me, too," she said glumly. "I don't have a sister, so I wouldn't have to babysit for a sister's kids. But everybody would probably laugh at me, too, if I go back home."
"You got your hunnert and nineteen dollars?" the girl asked.
"Yeah." Anastasia patted her pocketbook, where in a zippered compartment she was carrying the cash for the modeling course. "It's my life's savings."
"Mine, too. I earned it last summer, babysitting." The black girl stared at the hideous staircase. "Wonder how far we could get on a bus, with all that money. You wanta go over to the Trailways station and see? Maybe we could have us a weekend in Atlantic City or something."
"I don't think so," Anastasia said. "My parents are expecting me home for dinner."
"Mine, too. I was only kidding. What's your name?"
"Anastasia."
"That's cool. Mine's Henry."
"
Henry?
"
"Short for Henrietta. But if you call me that, you die."
"Oh. Okay." Anastasia laughed nervously.
"Only kidding," Henry said. "Hey, I'm going up. You coming?"
"Yes," Anastasia said decisively. "If you will, I will."
Together, they started up the stairs to Studio Charmante. In her mind, Anastasia began to revise the opening paragraphs of her school project.
Anastasia Krupnik
My Chosen Career
Sometimes, in preparing for your chosen career, you have to do some scary stuff. Like, if you want to be a doctor, you have to look at dead bodies.
And if you want to be a lawyer, sometimes you have to go to a prison and talk to ax murderers.
To be a bookstore owner, and to develop poise and self-confidence, maybe you might have to go up a dark staircase where there is a dead cigar maybe smoked by a criminal, lying on the third step.
But you have to be brave as you set out on your chosen career.
4
Soft lighting? Wrong. It was bare bulbs with pull chains hanging from the ceiling.
Thick beige carpeting? Wrong. It was dirty linoleum, green and white rectangles, with a mashed cigarette butt in one corner.
Long couches with bright cushions? Wrong. Three plastic chairs.
Glamorous receptionist at a curved desk with a bank of telephones? Wrong. It was a metal desk with an ancient typewriter, and an overweight woman talking loudly on the single black phone.
"So I told him this joke," she was saying, "about the two Europeans who went hunting and got eaten by bears, and when the forest rangers killed the bears, they said, 'The Czech's in the male?' But he didn't think it was funny. So I said, 'Well, the check
is
in the mail. I mailed it myself two days ago,' but he—listen, Selma, I gotta hang up. Someone's here. I'll call you back, okay?"
She put the telephone down, turned to the girls, and smiled. There was lipstick on her front teeth.
"Krupnik and Peabody, right?" she asked, looking down at a piece of paper.
Anastasia nodded. So did Henry. The woman checked off their names on the paper.
"Which one's
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