Anastasia Again! by Lois Lowry

said how cute he was.
    Anastasia had loved him, even then, even when he was just born and only weighed eight pounds and hadn't even ever smiled at her yet. But when all those people had come and talked about how cute he was, she had
gone into her own room and closed the door. She had said to Frank Goldfish, then, "Don't tell anyone this, Frank. But sometimes I hate Sam."
    She had a feeling now that she wanted to go say that to Frank again. She didn't know just why.
    On the way home, Sam said happily, "Gertrustein really likes me."
    Anastasia smiled sweetly at him and said, "Wait till she finds out you still wear diapers, big shot."
    ***
    At home, there was loud music playing in the living room. The Verdi Requiem. Her father had found it. He was standing in the center of the room with his eyes closed, waving his arms, holding a pencil in one hand. Anastasia giggled. She thought her father was the only person in the world who conducted orchestras that he couldn't even see.
    She and Sam tiptoed past.
    She found her mother in the room that the real estate lady had called the solarium. Its name had been changed, now, to the studio. Her mother was there, humming, with a pitcher—she had found their pitcher—of iced tea on a paint-spattered table. She was leaning canvases against the wall. An easel was set up.
    "Hi!" she said. "How was your visit? Look! Don't you love this room?"
    "Yeah," sighed Anastasia. "I see you guys have recovered from your depression. But now I've got it."
    "What's wrong? Was she really a witch? I see she gave you a pitcher."
    Anastasia curled up in a battered armchair. "No. She looks like a witch, Sam was right about that. But she's just an old woman with very messy hair."
    "So why do you look so miserable?"
    Anastasia drew patterns with her fingers on the arm of the chair. Finally she said, "She didn't like me. She only liked Sam."
    Her mother kissed the top of her head. "Are you sure, sweetie? Tell me about her."
    Anastasia told her all that she could.
    "She sounds lonely," said her mother, sipping some iced tea thoughtfully.
    "Yeah. She said all her friends were dead."
    "Well, forgive me if I sound like Ann Landers for a moment. But I think I can explain something. People who are lonely have usually been disappointed by people. So they become defensive. Do you know what
defensive
means?"
    "Yeah. Having weapons. Nuclear bombs. Dad's always bellowing about the defense budget."
    Her mother chuckled. "Well, it's sort of the same thing. Sounds as if she has a whole arsenal over there. Her big weapon is not liking anyone. That way..."
    "...no one can disappoint her, right?"
    "Right."
    Anastasia frowned. "But she liked Sam. She
really
liked Sam," she said darkly.
    "Sweetie, with all due respect to Sam, he doesn't really qualify as a mature person yet. So she can take the risk of liking him."
    "But why not me? I wouldn't disappoint her. I wouldn't let her down."
    "Well," said her mother decisively, "maybe you'll have to prove that to her."
    Anastasia thought for a long time. "You know what I think I'll do, if Dad will drive me to the dime store?"
    "What?"
    "Well, someone who never ever disappoints me, and who keeps me from being lonely, is Frank. I think I'll buy Gertrustein a goldfish."
    ***
    Her father still had his eyes closed, so he didn't see her come into the living room. But now he had come to the part in Verdi's Requiem where he always sang along with the record. Anastasia cringed. She lived in mortal fear that someday one of her friends would be there when her father was belting out the tenor solo from the Verdi Requiem, with his eyes closed and sweat on his bald head.
    Of course now that they lived in the suburbs where she didn't
have
any friends, that couldn't happen. Her depression came back.
    Toward the end, at the very high part, her father stood on his tiptoes while he sang. Anastasia giggled.
    He opened his eyes when it ended and bowed to Anastasia, who applauded politely; then he went and