Anastasia at This Address by Lois Lowry Page B

weekend!"
    Everyone cheered, including Anastasia, who thought that was the best idea a husband could have. She thought she might mention it to her father, on her mother's behalf.
    "And," Jeff went on with a grin, "that I will never ever use my middle name!"
    Everyone cheered and clapped, and Jeff sat down.
    "What's the fuss about his middle name?" Uncle Tim asked, leaning over to whisper to Anastasia. "Do you know what his middle name is?"
    Anastasia nodded, grinning. "Yes," she told him, "but I promised I'd never tell."
    "It can't be all
that
bad," Uncle Tim said. "Middle names are no big deal."
    Anastasia disagreed. "I don't have one," she told him, "but if I did, I sure hope it would be just the right one. A wrong middle name would be awful."
    Uncle Tim looked a little puzzled. "I can't imagine a
wrong
middle name."
    "Well," Anastasia said, "you probably just haven't thought about it much. But think for a minute. What if—well, what if, for example, your parents had given you a middle name of Tom? Then your name would be Tim Tom! Wouldn't that be awful?"
    He laughed. "I suppose so. Except that Tim's only a nickname. It's not my real name."
    "Oh, of course. I forgot. Tim's a nickname for Timothy. Well, Timothy Tom would
still
sound kind of stupid, in my opinion."
    Uncle Tim took a sip of his coffee. "You're right. But my name isn't Timothy. I have a really unusual first name. It's a family name."
    "What is it?" Anastasia asked politely.
    He chuckled. "Septimus," he said. "My name's Septimus Smith."
    ***
    "Shrimp cocktail. Lamb. Ice cream with strawberry sauce. Yes, it was fine. Yes, I stood up straight. Yes, Kirsten gave us our pearl earrings. And I don't want to talk about it anymore," Anastasia said.
    "Why not?" her father asked in surprise.
    "Did something go wrong?" her mother asked.
    "Everything went just fine. I just don't want to talk about it now," Anastasia said. "I'm tired. I'm going up to bed."
    "Well, it
is
late," her mother said, looking at her watch. "And you have a big day tomorrow. Let's see. The wedding's at four. You'll need to wash your hair in the morning so that it has plenty of time to dry. What time should I wake you up?"
    "I don't care," Anastasia said miserably, standing on the stairs.
    "You know, Mom," she added, "you guys don't
have
to go to the wedding. Sam hates that sailor suit. You could just take him to the zoo or something while I go to the wedding. Maybe take him to the Science Museum. They're having a dinosaur exhibition."
    "No way," her mother said, laughing. "I wouldn't dream of missing that wedding. I want to see you come down the aisle. I might even weep."
    You sure
will
weep, Anastasia thought as she trudged glumly up to her room. You're going to weep the instant Septimus Smith recognizes you from that picture and comes charging across the church saying "Swifty!" And you won't know what he's talking about, and you'll say, "Excuse me? Do you mean my daughter? The kids at school call my
daughter
Swifty!" And Septimus Smith will say—
    She closed her bedroom door and sat down on her bed with her shoulders slumped. She couldn't even imagine
what
Septimus Smith would say.
    Her mother knocked on the door. "Anastasia?" she called. The door opened.
    "Here," she said. "I know you're tired, but I forgot to give you this. It's been on Dad's desk all day. With this wedding excitement, we're all getting absent-minded.
    "Good night, sweetie," she said. She put something on the bed, kissed the top of Anastasia's head, and left the room.
    Anastasia looked down and picked up the envelope. She sighed. It was one more letter from her pen pal, Septimus Smith.
Dear Swifty,
    I'm writing this very quickly before I leave for Boston. I know you told me that your social schedule was very "busy this coming week. But when I looked again at your address, I realized that you live very close to the relatives I'll "be seeing while I'm there.
    So I hope you won't mind if I drop by on Sunday afternoon. Ill be tied up