Mary Anne Saves the Day by Ann M. Martin Page A

up the stairs, “Mary Anne! It’s for you!”
    â€œOkay!”
    As I ran to the phone, one teensy little part of me thought it might be Kristy, calling to apologize to
me
.
    No such luck. It was Dawn. But I was glad to hear from her.
    â€œHi!” I said.
    â€œHi! What are you doing today?”
    â€œNothing. What are you doing?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œWant to come over?”
    â€œSure! Right now?”
    â€œYeah. I don’t know what we’ll do, but we’ll think of something.”
    â€œOkay. I’ll be right there.”
    â€œGood,” I said. We hung up.
    Dawn rode over on her bicycle, and she reached my house in record time.
    I met her at the door and we ran up to my room. The first thing Dawn said was, “Mary Anne, I was thinking as I rode over here, and you know what we forgot to do?”
    â€œWhat?” I asked.
    â€œFind out if your father and my mother knew each other when they were young.”
    â€œOh, that’s right!” I exclaimed. “Did your mom go to Stoneybrook High?”
    â€œYup,” replied Dawn. “Did your dad?”
    â€œYup! Oh, this is exciting!”
    â€œWhat year did your father graduate?” Dawn asked.
    â€œGee,” I said slowly, “I don’t know.”
    â€œWell, how old is he?”
    â€œLet’s see. He’s forty-one…. No, he’s forty-two. Forty-two. That’s right.”
    â€œReally? So’s my mom!”
    â€œYou’re kidding! I bet they did know each other. Let’s go ask my father.”
    We were racing down the hall and had just reached the head of the stairs when Dad appeared at the bottom. “Mary Anne,” he said, “I’ve got to go into the office for several hours. I’ll be back this afternoon. You may heat up that casserole for lunch. Dawn is welcome to stay, all right?”
    â€œOkay. Thanks, Dad. See you later.”
    Dawn nudged me with her elbow. I knew she wanted me to ask Dad about Mrs. Schafer, but it wasn’t the right time. Dad was in a hurry, and he doesn’t like to be bothered with questions whenhe’s rushing off somewhere. As soon as he left, Dawn said, slightly accusingly, “Why didn’t you ask him?”
    â€œIt wasn’t a good time. Believe me. Besides, I have another idea. His yearbooks are in the den. Let’s go look at them. I used to go through them all the time when I was little, but I bet I haven’t opened one since I was nine.”
    â€œOh goody, yearbooks!” said Dawn.
    In the den, we stood before a bookcase with a row of heavy old yearbooks in it. “Why are there so many?” asked Dawn.
    â€œThey’re my mother’s
and
my father’s — high school and college. So there are sixteen in all. Now let’s see. Here are the Stoneybrook High yearbooks. These are Dad’s, since my mother grew up in Maryland. Which one should we look at first?”
    â€œHis senior yearbook,” Dawn answered immediately. “It’ll have the biggest pictures. What year is this? Oh, this is the year my mom graduated, too! So they were in the same class. I bet they did know each other.”
    Dawn pulled the book off the shelf, and I blew the dust from the cover. “Yuck,” I said. We stopped for a moment to look at the book. The year Dad had graduated was printedacross the cover in large, white raised numbers.
    We opened it gingerly, as if it would fall apart.
    â€œHere are the seniors,” said Dawn, turning to the front of the book. We peered at row after row of black-and-white photos, the students looking funny and old-fashioned. Under each picture was a little paragraph, words that meant nothing to Dawn and me. Inside jokes, I guessed. I wondered if the people who had composed them would know what they meant twenty-five years later. Under one boy’s photo was written: “Thumpers … Apple Corps … Arnie and Gertrude …