I sighed and looked out the window. “I felt like I was in the royal court or something.”
George laughed. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up. The girl is something like forty-seventh in line to the throne.”
“Really? I thought she was a princess.”
“She is. Technically. They have this whole chain of command. It’s called peerage. Has to do with bloodlines. I never did understand it.”
When I arrived home, Sharon’s car was gone. I let myself in the front door and walked to the kitchen. It was already lunchtime and I was tired, miserable, and starving.
I stopped when I saw an old, scuffed football on the kitchen table.
“Hello?” I called out.
No answer.
There was a note under the football. I rolled the ball aside and read:
My mood went from sour to curdled.
Mom? Sharon had never referred to herself as Mom before. It made me feel funny.
And what was with the football? Was that some sort of joke? It was so old and disgusting I felt I had to clean off the table.
Not to mention the fact that I hate tofu.
Suddenly the house felt big and empty. I wanted so badly to talk to Dawn. I reached for the phone, until I caught a glimpse of the stove clock. It said 11:58, which meant it was before nine A.M. in California. Knowing Dawn, she’d be sleeping for at least another hour.
I knew Kristy was in the middle of a sitting job. And who knew where Dad was? Probably still circling around some Midwestern airport.
I slumped into a chair. For the first time all day, tears began rolling down my cheeks.
You may have noticed the crossout in Kristy’s BSC notebook entry. I think she did that on purpose. “Morbidda Destiny” is the name Karen Brewer gave to Mrs. Porter, their next-door neighbor. Karen is convinced Mrs. Porter is a witch. Why? Appearances, mainly. You see, Mrs. Porter has stringy gray hair, a craggy face, and a wart on her nose. (I’m not being mean. I’m just describing her.)
Druscilla is Mrs. Porter’s seven-year-old granddaughter. She has thick, raven-black hair and pale skin. (Karen used to think she was a witch, too, but now they’re pretty good friends.) That weekend, Dru’s mom had to go on a business trip, so Dru was staying with her grandma.
It was one of those strange, warm November days that can make you think it’s summer again. But Kristy wasn’t thinking that at all. She had her mind firmly on Thanksgiving.
“The Mayflower is about to leave!” Kristy called up the stairs of her house. “All aboard!”
Karen, Andrew, and David Michael clattered downstairs.
“What are we doing?” Andrew asked.
“She already told us,” David Michael said as they walked out the front door. “Making a model Pilgrim village.”
Andrew burst out giggling. “A pigeon village? That’s silly.”
“Pilgrim,” Karen said. “Those were some of the first European settlers, after the Puritans.”
“Doggies!” Andrew shouted.
Karen rolled her eyes. “Settlers, not setters!”
They walked next door, to Dru’s. Kristy took a few last-minute instructions from Mrs. Porter. Then, as she left, Kristy laid out her idea: “First we need cardboard, to make a base. Then we cut some plastic soda bottles in half lengthwise and slice off the neck. We cover them with brown paper and grass to make huts —”
“And we can glue dirt to the cardboard for the ground,” Druscilla said.
Everyone chipped in with ideas. Within a few minutes, they had a layout for the village, which they named Sodor. (Andrew insisted on that; he’s a Thomas the Tank Engine fan.)
Druscilla found a cardboard box in Mrs. Porter’s garage. Kristy cut off one side and placed it on the floor of the porch, while the kids ran around looking for materials.
Before long, Linny and Hannie Papadakis, who live across the street from Kristy, had run over to join the hunt. The collection grew to include plastic bottles, tin foil, soil, leaves, and grass.
“Look what I found!” Karen cried, holding up a pigeon feather. “Maybe we can make a headdress.”
That was when Kristy noticed Victoria walking by the house. Miss Rutherford was with her.
“Hi!” Kristy called out.
“Hello,” Victoria said. “What are you doing?”
Total silence. The kids’ arguments stopped cold. They were staring at Victoria as if she were a visiting Martian.
“Good morning, children,” Miss Rutherford called out. “Now, come along, dear. In order to get any exercise, we must keep moving.”
“You need the exercise,” Victoria said. “I don’t. I’m a child. Children don’t have swollen ankles.”
Miss Rutherford’s jaw tightened. Kristy could barely keep from cracking up.
Hannie and Druscilla scampered up to Kristy with excited looks on their faces. “Is that the princess?” Hannie whispered.
“Yes,” Karen whispered back. “She had dinner at our house.”
“Be polite,” Kristy warned them. “Don’t ask her any dumb questions.”
“We are making a model Pilgrim village for Thanksgiving,” Karen informed Victoria.
Victoria looked at them blankly.
“Thanksgiving is an American holiday,” Miss Rutherford explained to Victoria.
“The Pilgrims were English people,” Kristy said. “I mean, British people. Or whatever. They were being punished for their religious beliefs, so they came here.”
Victoria frowned. “Punished? In England? How awful.”
“You didn’t know about that?” Linny asked in utter disbelief.
Kristy glared at him.
“That topic is discussed in school when the children are a bit older,” Miss Rutherford said.
“We learned it already,” Hannie said.
“Heyyy, we know more than a princess!” Linny sang.
“Linnyyyyy,” Kristy warned.
“Are you really a princess?” Druscilla asked.
“Well, actually —” Victoria began.
“She is twenty-ninth in line to the throne,” Miss Rutherford interrupted.
“You have to stand in line?” Andrew asked.
“No,” Linny said. “It’s like the president. If he dies, then the vice-president takes over, and if he dies … uh, someone else.”
“The Speaker of the House,” Kristy informed him.
“A speaker?” Andrew looked baffled.
Hannie’s jaw was practically scraping the ground. “You mean, one day you could become queen?”
“Yeah, if twenty-eight other people croak first.” Linny looked at Miss Rutherford. “Right?”
Miss Rutherford gave him a tiny smile. “Yes.”
Everyone started speaking at once:
“If they all catch a disease —” Druscilla began.
“She could challenge them to a duel,” David Michael blurted out. “I have this cool sword —”
“If you’re a princess,” said Hannie, with her hands on her hips, “then where’s your crown?”
“You never told us where you lived,” Karen added. “A castle, or just a regular mansion?”
“Do you have, like, normal friends?” Linny added.
Andrew pointed at Miss Rutherford. “Is she the queen?”
Kristy was cringing. “Guys, don’t you have some collecting to do? Sorry, Victoria. They’re just overexcited.”
“Perfectly all right,” Victoria said. “And I do have friends. Lots of them. In London.”
“Want to play with us?” Hannie asked.
Linny elbowed her and whispered, “Say Your Majesty!”
“Another time, perhaps,” Victoria said.
“Yes,” Miss Rutherford said briskly, taking Victoria’s hand. “So nice to see you all.”
As they walked away, Linny said, “Wow. She even talks like a princess.”
“Why didn’t she want to play with us?” Andrew asked.
Kristy wanted to scream at them. Instead she turned back t
o the Pilgrim village. “Come on, guys,” she said with a sigh, “before we start another war with England.”
“Are you dressed warmly enough?” Sharon asked.
I was at the front door, watching for George and his limo. In my down parka and woolen scarf, I was beginning to sweat like crazy. “I think so.”
In two days, the weather had changed from tropical to arctic. (If you live in New England, you know the story.) But I wasn’t thinking about the cold at all. I was moments away from The Big Visit. My first official job with Victoria Kent.
“Are you nervous?” Sharon asked.
Nervous? I could barely unlock my jaw. “I’m fine,” I squeaked.
With a warm smile, Sharon loosened my scarf and unzipped the top of my jacket. Then she put her hands on my shoulders and said, “Mary Anne, everything’s going to be all right. It’s just another baby-sitting job.”
“Yeah, with the possible future queen of England,” I replied.
“Well, that may come in handy someday when you need a place to stay in London.”
I laughed. Sharon was being so nice to me these days. I guess she figured if she was going to call herself “Mom,” she needed to act like one. (In case you’re wondering about the football and the tofu, I handed back one and bravely ate the other. You can guess which was which.)
“Why don’t you invite the family over for Thanksgiving?” Sharon asked. “The chauffeur, too. I’d love to get to know them. I’m sure your father would, too.”
“Okay, I’ll ask.”
Light flashed from outside. Looking through the window, I watched George’s limo pulling up to the curb.
As I stepped out, I could see our neighbor, Mrs. Prezzioso, taking flash photos from her window. She waved at me with a broad smile.
(Yes, I’m serious.)
Well, George thought that was hilarious. All the way to the Kents’, he did a running imitation of a celebrity-TV host: “And no-o-o-ow, for an inside look at the mysterious life of Mary Anne Spier! Our roving reporter has caught her red-handed on a public street …”
“George,” I said as we drove up the Kents’ driveway, “can you come to my family’s Thanksgiving Day party?”
George gave me a big smile in the rearview mirror. “Nice of you. Well, I think I’m working a half-day. I’ll ask the Kents and let you know. Thanks, Mary Anne.”
Too bad Miss Rutherford wasn’t in as good a mood as George was. She met me at the Kents’ side door with a curt “Good afternoon. Hang your wrap, please,” then immediately turned on her heels and walked through the kitchen.
I draped my coat on a hook just inside the door, then ran to follow her.
“The mater and pater have flown to Europe,” she said over her shoulder. “In the meantime, our charge has become a slave to technology.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. But I practically had to jog to keep up with her, so I couldn’t very well ask.
She brought me into a room I hadn’t seen before. In it were a leather sofa, a padded armchair, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a large television set.
Victoria was lying on the floor, watching Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego? In her right hand was a channel selector.
“Doo-doodoo-doooooo!” sang Miss Rutherford, in what I guess was supposed to be a trumpet imitation. “Your companion has arrived!”
“Oh,” said Victoria without looking up. “Hello.”
Miss Rutherford let out a big sigh. “She’s all yours, Miss Spier.”
As she bustled away, I sat next to Victoria. “Is it a good show?”
“Too difficult,” she said with a frown. Victoria flicked the selector to another channel, which was showing a nature program. “This one is interesting, though. And I adore Bugs Bunny.” Flick. A cartoon appeared on the screen.
She finally turned toward me, with a look of absolute rapture on her face. “You must watch TV all day!”
“Well, no, not really —” I replied.
“I don’t know why. You have so many channels here! At home we only have four. Have you ever heard of anything so boring and backward?”
“Remember, Victoria dear,” Miss Rutherford shouted from another room, “our outing!”
“Oh, yes!” Victoria immediately switched off the TV. “On one of your channels I saw an advertisement for the most fascinating place. We have to go there!”
For a fleeting moment, I imagined us racing into the backyard and boarding a small private jet bound for Disney World.
“Everything is there,” Victoria continued, “even the largest department store in the world! And I have never eaten at a Friendly restaurant. It sounds awfully good!”
I realized right away what Victoria was describing. “You mean … Washington Mall?”
“Miss Rutherford!” Victoria called out. “We’re ready! Tell George to bring around the car! Jump to it!”
Miss Rutherford appeared in the doorway, her eyebrows raised high, her fists on her hips. “Yes, Your Majesty. Perhaps I can prepare a flying carpet to take you to the garage?”
With that, she stomped away.
“She thinks she’s quite funny,” Victoria said, springing up from the floor. “I find her tremendously boring. Come along.”
So continued Mary Anne’s Day of Following. I followed Victoria to the coatroom and put on my parka again. Through the window I could see Miss Rutherford standing by the side of the limo. She was dressed in a three-quarter-length tweed coat with an enormous crocheted scarf around her neck.
Victoria grabbed a beautiful, butter-soft suede jacket from a hook.
“It’s very cold outside,” I said.
Victoria shrugged. “The mall is indoors.”
“Victoria, please, put this on.” I took a down coat off another hook.
Victoria stared at me blankly. Then she whirled around and banged on the glass of the door. “Miss Rutherford, my companion is tormenting me!”
Tormenting? I couldn’t believe my ears. “All I said was —” I began.
Miss Rutherford opened the door a bit. “Did she tell you to put on a thicker coat?”
“Yes!”
“Then you’re tormenting her. Hurry up, the petrol won’t last forever in the tank!”
With a sigh, Victoria switched coats and walked outside. Under her breath she muttered something that included the words “absolutely horrid.”
Which, to be honest, was a perfect description of my mood just then.
* * *
I decided something that afternoon. I hate limos.
People would not stop staring at us as we drove to the mall. At a red light, a guy in the car next to us rolled down his window and yelled, “Yo, who’s in there?”
George answered, “The President of the United States!” then sped off when the light turned green.
It wasn’t the last nosy question. By the time we pulled into the parking lot, we had been the Byzantine Emperor and his entourage, the Ambassadors to Neptune, and Whitney Houston’s band.
I was happy to walk into the mall with Victoria and Miss Rutherford in their normal-looking coats.
Victoria squealed as we entered the main rotunda. “Ohhhh, it’s exquisite!”
I almost cracked up. I mean, I guess it is pretty nice, as malls go, but I’d never seen that kind of reaction before.
“It’s one of the largest in the country,” I told her.
“Is that why they named it Washington?” Victoria asked. “After George Washington, the father of your country?”
Miss Rutherford gave a hiccupy kind of hoot that must have been a laugh. “Our little historian.”
By the central fountain, Victoria spun around, looking upward to the five glass-rimmed balconies overhead. “Oh, we must go into every single store!” she said.
“Providing at least one is a foot-care emporium,” Miss Rutherford grumbled. “I am human, after all.”
Well, we didn’t go into every store, but we wandered for about an hour. We watched a life-sized
Santa being propped up in a card shop window. We bought a bag of caramel corn to snack on. Victoria announced she was “disappointed” with Macy’s, because it didn’t seem like the world’s largest store. (I explained that its flagship store in New York City was the one that made the claim.)
Have you ever shopped with an eight-year-old who has a credit card? I don’t recommend it. Victoria felt she could have anything she wanted. If it weren’t for Miss Rutherford, she would have bought a projection TV with four speakers, an electric kid-sized car, and a Rottweiler. As it was, she did buy a Barbie set, a kids’ CD player, a collection of Tom Chapin and Bill Harley CDs (on my recommendation), a huge bag of exotic-flavored jelly beans, a couple of helium-filled Mylar balloons, a dress at Steven E, and several T-shirts to send home to her friends.
Or, rather, I should say she ordered the items for delivery. Miss Rutherford refused to carry them out.
After a haircut and about a half hour in front of a video machine, Victoria demanded a snack.
“Hallelujah,” Miss Rutherford muttered wearily.
I was exhausted, too. Honestly, I thought shopping with Stacey McGill was difficult, but this was in a class by itself. A nice, quiet snack at Friendly’s would be perfect.
But when Victoria saw the noisy, crowded, fast-food burger place, she screamed, “Oh, we must eat here!”
“Oh, now, really, Victoria,” Miss Rutherford humphed, “we’ll be in line for hours.”
“I don’t care,” Victoria replied.
“The food isn’t that great,” I tried.
“Oh, yes, it’s very special! We have one of these in London, and the lines are always much longer. Come!”
She grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the glass doors.
Well, the line was long. The food was dreary. But I must admit, seeing Miss Rutherford’s face when she bit into a chicken nugget was almost worth the trip.
“What on earth is this made of?” she asked.
“Chicken,” said Victoria, who was making quick work of a double cheeseburger.
“Processed gristle, no doubt,” Miss Rutherford remarked, gobbling another in one gulp. “Although it doesn’t taste bad, if one ignores the texture.”