"Oh," said Anastasia. "Is it fun?"
Daphne shrugged. "When I have a special project, it is," she said. "And now I do. Revenge on my grandmother."
That made Anastasia nervous. "Don't do anything to your grandmother because of me, Daphne. I did mash the silver thing, after all. I do owe her the money."
"But she's making you be a maid, for heaven's sake. Don't you hate her for that?"
"Well, yes, I guess I do."
"So. I happen to hate her for another reason, at the moment."
"What's that?"
For a moment Daphne didn't want to tell. She looked very angry. Then she whispered, "She gave me a doll for my birthday."
"Oh," said Anastasia, feeling sympathetic. "Oh."
"You see? Revenge is definitely in order. Listen, we'd better get back. But I'll call you tonight. I'll get your phone number from Grandmother. And we'll plot something fiendish. Really sinister. I'm very good at that."
Anastasia had no doubt of that. But she liked Daphne. "Okay," she said, and grinned.
"Now," whispered Daphne, as she opened the door, "be careful when you pass stuff at lunch. Stand up straight, or your bosom will fall in again, and I don't know if I can rescue you a second time. You're on your own, kid."
"Thanks," said Anastasia, and she headed for the kitchen, where Mrs. Fox was waiting.
5
Daphne called that very evening. By then, Anastasia was back to her normal appearance. She had ridden home, put her bike into the garage very quietly, watched from the back yard until she was certain her mother wasn't in the kitchen, and then crept as stealthily as a spy through the back door and up the back stairs to her third-floor room.
"Hi!" she had called from her room, after she had taken off her mother's bra, thrown the pantyhose into her wastebasket, wiped off the eye make-up, and brushed the powder out of her hair. "I'm home!"
"Hi there!" Her mother's voice came from the second floor. "How did it go?"
"Better today," Anastasia called back. "And I worked five hours, so I'm twelve-fifty less in debt!"
"Can I come up?" asked Sam's little voice from the foot of Anastasia's stairs.
"Sure. How was your visit to nursery school?"
Thu-dump, thu-dump, thu-dump. Sam's sneakers came up the stairs carefully, and he appeared in Anastasia's room, grinning. He was still holding Volume One of the encyclopedia.
"I can read." Sam beamed.
"Liar," said Anastasia.
"Look," said Sam. He put the book on her bed and turned to the section that he loved, the section with the airplane pictures.
Meticulously he inched his chubby finger along the lines of print until he came to the word "airplane."
"Airplane," he said solemnly. "That says 'airplane.'"
"Right. It does."
"Now look." His finger went along the lines again until he found the same word a second time. "Airplane."
"Right," said Anastasia.
"Everyplace it says 'airplane,' I can read it." Sam turned the page and his finger searched the lines. "Airplane," he pointed out triumphantly. "The lady at the school showed me."
So he hadn't been humiliated. Anastasia was glad. Two and a half was too young to be humiliated, actually.
Sam closed the book happily. "When nursery school starts for real, I'll take Volume Two. Then I can learn to read 'boat.' Volume Two has boat pictures in it."
"Don't they have things to play with at the nursery school? Blocks? Swings? Toy trucks? Didn't they show you those things?"
Sam thought, with his thumb in his mouth. "Yeah," he said after removing his wet thumb. "But those are for the babies. I'm only going to do books."
Anastasia groaned. Sam was such a weird brother. Probably he would be admitted to Harvard when he was nine. Probably he would still be wearing Pampers.
Later, at dinner, he wanted to bring Volume One to the table. He wanted to read "airplane" while he ate.
"No," said his mother. "Absolutely not. You can't read the encyclopedia with food on your fingers. It's against the rules of this house."
Sam's face puckered up, and he began to whimper.
"I have an idea," said his father. "Here, we'll set your highchair aside and put you on a real chair. And you can sit on Volume One to make you high enough."
Sam thought about that. "Okay," he said. He pushed another chair to the table and put his encyclopedia volume on it.
"Hold it," said his mother. "Your pants aren't wet, are they? No wet diapers allowed on the encyclopedia."
"Against the rules of the house?" asked Sam.
"Right. Against the rules of the house."
Sam felt his overalls. "No," he said triumphantly. "Not wet."
He sat on top of the thick volume, with his legs dangling. "Now I can only read 'airplane,'" he said. "But when I can read 'boat' I'll sit on two books. When I can read all the words, I'll be up to the ceiling."
"If you ever ever wet your pants on those books," said his mother, "I won't forgive you."
"I won't," promised Sam, swinging his legs cheerfully.
"I met a girl today," said Anastasia, "whose parents forgive absolutely everything. Probably if she burned their house down, they would forgive her."
"No kidding," said her father. He was carving a chicken.
"Even if she melted her father's Billie Holiday records, he would forgive her," said Anastasia pointedly.
"He sounds like a very strange sort of person," said her father as he passed her a plate of chicken. "Certain things are unforgivable in my book."
"My book," murmured Sam happily, and stroked Volume One.
"He's not strange," said Anastasia. "He's the minister of the Congregational Church. That's why he forgives everything."
Her mother passed the mashed potatoes. "The Congregational Church? That's right in the next block. It's that pretty brick church on the corner, Anastasia. The rectory's next door."
"No kidding! Hey, that's neat. I have a new friend who lives in the next block!"
"I'm not sure," said her father, "that I'd be in favor of a friend who would melt her father's Billie Holiday records."
"Dad, I didn't say she had. Or that she was going to. I just said that if she did, he would be very forgiving. Unlike other people's fathers."
"Well," said her father, "I may not be a minister, but I hold some things sacred. Original recordings by Billie Holiday are one."
Anastasia sighed. She was sorry she had brought up Billie Holiday. She hadn't meant to melt the records, anyway. She had simply stacked them on the radiator.
"What does it mean, hold things sacred?" asked Sam, with his mouth full of chicken.
"That you love them dearly," said his mother.
"That you respect them enormously," said his father, who seemed to be sulking a little bit, remembering his Billie Holiday records.
"That you wouldn't ever do anything to harm them," said Anastasia, reaching for a little piece of chicken skin. "Unless, of course, it was an absolutely unavoidable accident," she said meaningfully, looking at her father, "and then, of course, you shouldn't be held responsible."
Sam sucked his thumb dreamily for a moment. "I hold my airplane book sacred," he said.
***
When the phone rang, after dinner, Daphne Bellingham didn't even say hello when Anastasia answered. She said instead, "'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,'" in a sinister voice.
"What?"
"It's a quotation from the Bible," Daphne explained, giggling. "I know lots of Bible stuff because I've gone to Sunday school every Sunday since I was born, practically."
"Oh. I don't go to Sunday school. My parents said when I grow up I can choose whatever religion I want. I'm thinking of becoming a Buddhist."
"I think you have to be a vegetarian if you're a Buddhist," said Daphne. Then she giggled again. "But that would be okay. I notice you like deviled eggs."
"Daphne."
"Sorry. I won't ever mention it again, honest. Anyway, I've
been thinking about vengeance. I'm making a list of possible revenges on my grandmother. Can you come over? Where do you live?"
Anastasia told her.
"We're practically neighbors! Come on over. It'll take you about two minutes to get here. We're the brick house right next door to the church. There's a Nazi swastika mowed into the front lawn. I did it when I was supposed to cut the grass yesterday. My father forgave me, of course. But I have to mow it out tomorrow."
Anastasia promised her parents she'd be home by nine, and she went upstairs to change her clothes. She had already changed her clothes when she came home from work, but she didn't think ordinary jeans and shirt would be appropriate for visiting crazy Daphne Bellingham. She thought she should wear something outrageous.
Trouble was, she realized when she poked through her closet, she didn't own anything outrageous. Once she had wanted to buy a tee shirt that said BOOGIE TILL YOU PUKE. But her mother had said no. Actually, what her mother had said was no, absolutely not, not under any circumstances, over my dead body, that is final, the answer is No.
It had sounded fairly definite, so Anastasia had given up on the tee shirt. But now she wished she had it.
"Mom!" she called down the back stairs. "I don't have any clothes at all!"
"That's odd," her mother called back. "I didn't notice that you were nude at dinner."
Typical. It was tough to get sympathy from a mother. Anastasia finally pulled on her Mona-Lisa-with-a-mustache sweatshirt, some old jeans with paint on the knees, and a pair of sneakers.
"See you at nine," she told her parents, and grabbed a peach to eat on the way. "Night-night, Sam. I'm glad you learned to read 'airplane.'" Sam was sitting on the kitchen floor in his pajamas, reading his encyclopedia again. He blew her a kiss.
***
Daphne's house looked quite ordinary from the outside. Brick and square, with shutters. Anastasia liked her own house better, with its odd porches and unexpected shapes, and the tower bedroom, which was hers. The only thing unusual about Daphne's house was the swastika in the lawn, and even that was barely noticeable, and also very crooked.
"Look!" cried Daphne, when she opened the front door. "How do you like them?"
"Like what?" asked Anastasia. Daphne was wearing bright red lipstick. It went way outside her own lips, like a clown's mouth.
"My Joan Crawford lips, of course," said Daphne. "And my Joan Crawford shoulders."
Anastasia looked more closely. She had been so startled by the lips that she hadn't noticed the shoulders. Daphne had put something inside her sweatshirt shoulders so that she looked like a football player.
"What do you think? If I can find some platform shoes, will I look just like Joan Crawford, or not? The shoulder pads are made of my father's ski socks."
"I guess it's okay. The mouth looks kind of like a clown, though."
"Yeah, I was afraid of that. I tried to make a crimson gash. Well, win some, lose some. Come on up, and I'll wipe it off. I'm bored with it already, anyway."
Inside, Anastasia could see that the house was very proper, very pretty. Furniture that matched, and no dust. Her own house was not as pretty but much more interesting, and messier.
But Daphne's room was different. The walls were painted black, and there was a huge obscene poster of two dogs tacked up between the windows. There were clothes all over the floor; Anastasia recognized the yellow and white dress that Daphne had worn to her grandmother's luncheon lying in a pile with sweaters and jeans and underwear. On the unmade bed was a brand-new, expensive doll, with its clothes removed, staring with blue glass eyes at the ceiling. A kitchen paring knife had been plunged into its chest.
"I murdered the doll," said Daphne, grinning as she wiped off her Joan Crawford mouth and dropped the Kleenex on the floor.
"Did your parents let you paint the room black?" asked Anastasia.
"Of course. They let me do anything I want, provided it doesn't harm anyone. They're very big on not harming anyone."
Anastasia picked up the striped dress and hung it over the back of a chair, on top of a pair of shorts. "I like this dress," she said.
"Keep it. You can have it," said Daphne.
"Thanks," said Anastasia, a little embarrassed, "but my parents wouldn't let me. They'd kill me if I gave my clothes away."
"'Faith, Hope, and Charity,'" said Daphne, "'and the greatest of these is Charity.' Bible again."
"They'd really kill me if I accepted charity. Even a dress from"—she looked at the label—"Saks Fifth Avenue."
"Big deal. My grandmother gave it to me. I'm going to cut off the bottom and make it into a tee shirt, if you don't want it. My parents won't mind."
"Where are your parents, Daphne?" Anastasia realized suddenly that the house was very quiet. "And don't you have any brothers or sisters?"
"They're at a meeting. Or choir practice or something. They'll be home later. And no, no brothers or sisters. That's why I'm spoiled rotten."
"I have a dumb little brother," said Anastasia. "So I'm not spoiled rotten. It must be fun, though, to be spoiled rotten." In a way, she envied Daphne. But the black walls of the bedroom bothered her. They made her feel claustrophobic and depressed.
"Yeah, I guess it is. Here. Here's my list I've been making, of revenges. Some of them are just crazy, like putting poison in her iced tea. Some others are okay, like planting poison ivy in the rose garden, but I think it's too complicated. It probably wouldn't grow till next summer. What do you think about releasing a whole jar full of bees in her bathroom or something?"
"No. She might be allergic to bee stings. Anyway, we don't want to hurt her. You already said you weren't into hurting people."
"What exactly do we want to do to her?" asked Daphne, chewing on her pencil eraser.
"Well, there's all sorts of practical-joke stuff. Like once my brother, Sam, put my goldfish into my mother's cup of tea."
"I don't have a goldfish," said Daphne.
"I do, but you can't use him. He's been through enough. He's come so close to a nervous breakdown that now I'm seeing to it he leads a very quiet sort of life," said Anastasia.
"Anyway,' she went on, "I don't think we want just a simple practical joke. She humiliated me by making me be a maid. Did she humiliate you by giving you a doll?"
"Yeah. Really."
"So. We have to humiliate her somehow."
"You know," said Daphne thoughtfully, "for someone to be humiliated, something has to happen in front of other people. Like all those people were there today, looking, when she gave me that doll. And you have to be a maid in front of everyone."
"Yeah, that's right. There have to be other people," said Anastasia, remembering what her mother and father had described about their humiliations. Other people. Other people laughing.
"Anastasia," said Daphne slowly, beginning to smile, "I am getting an idea. The perfect idea. The absolutely perfect humiliation for my grandmother. It's brilliant. It's so brilliant you won't believe it. It's—"
Anastasia interrupted her. "I'll believe it, Daphne. But hold on a minute. Could we go out in the yard or something? Frankly, these black walls are driving me crazy. If you want to know the truth, Daphne, I think your room is kind of sick."
"Yeah, you're probably right. I only did it to bug my parents. And now it's boring to have a black room. Maybe I'll paint it yellow next week. Come on down on the porch, and I'll get some lemonade. Hey, I know where my father keeps the vodka. Do you—"
"No, Daphne."
"Just asking." Daphne shrugged and grinned.
They sat on the screened back porch and sipped lemonade. Outside it had gotten dark. Somehow the dark of the night sky wasn't the same as the awful black walls of Daphne's room. It felt cooler here, healthier, and much more sane, Anastasia thought.
"Okay," said Daphne, when they were settled in the porch chairs, "here it is. The absolutely brilliant, absolutely foolproof, Krupnik and Bellingham Revenge and Humiliation Plot. Ready?"
"Ready," sai
d Anastasia. "Atcher Service," she added.
"Okay. My grandmother is giving a big party next week."
"Oh, no," Anastasia said. "Probably she'll ask me to help serve." She groaned, thinking of herself in a maid's apron again.
"Well, it's a really big deal. It's to raise money for some charity. People have to donate a hundred dollars to some orphanage or hospital or something—I forget what—in order to get an invitation to this party. So a whole bunch of rich people are coming. And there'll be society reporters from the papers there. And an orchestra. And it's formal. Black tie."
"What does black tie mean?"
"Formal, dummy. Tuxedos."
"Gross. My father would never wear a tuxedo for a million dollars."
"Well, snobs like to wear tuxedos. And this party will be all snobs. Except..." Daphne started to giggle.
"Except what?"
"Well, the invitations have all been sent. But there was a batch left over. I guess my grandmother couldn't think of enough rich snobs to send them to. And I know where the leftover invitations are!"
"So?"
"So, I'm going to steal some. Maybe about twenty. And I'm going to send them to some other people."
"Like who?"
Daphne was roaring with laughter. "You haven't lived around here long enough. But I know all the so-called undesirable people in this town! There's an old drunk who sleeps on the sidewalk near the barber shop..."
"I've seen him! He's awful!"
"Right. Then there's a nutty lady who walks around over by the town park all the time, carrying a bag full of dog food. She wears about three pairs of stockings on top of each other. Gray, so her legs look like Babar the Elephant's."
Anastasia was giggling. She was beginning to get the picture.
"Then, let's see, there's all that low-income housing on the other side of town. I'll distribute a few over there. And there's a group home for deinstitutionalized psychotics, on Haverford Street."
"Group home for what?"
"Deinstitutionalized psychotics. Crazy people, but they're not dangerous, so they don't have to be in an institution anymore. I'll give them some."