Remembering Mrs. Rossi (9780763670900) (2 page)

On the night of the first walk, Annie remembers, there was no moon. . . .

“Hello,” she had whispered from her bed that night.

“Hello,” he whispered back.

“Are you reading your book over there?” Annie sat up. “I like when you read in my room at night.”

“To be honest, I’m not in the mood for this book right now.”

“Is it scary? Don’t worry, Daddy. Sometimes I’m not in the mood for scary stories, either.” Annie sighed sympathetically. In the next breath, though, she got a great idea. A milk-and-cookie idea. “I
bet
you’re in the mood for a snack,” she said. “If you want, I could keep you company. . . .”

Annie slipped out of bed, and they went to the kitchen and sat on the counter awhile, dipping cookies in milk. They didn’t talk much, but it was terribly exciting to be eating cookies in the night, and at ten that night Annie still wasn’t tired. So they played gin rummy, and — for the first time ever — she won three games in a row! Understandably, all that winning left her much too giggly for sleep. So they watched TV on the couch and looked at the pictures in old magazines. Ten thirty came . . . and soon it was 10:50 . . . and Annie was still full of pep. Still wide awake!

“I’m wide awake,” she announced.

Professor Rossi yawned a big noisy yawn.

“So, Daddy, what should we do now? More TV?”

But Professor Rossi had something else in mind. “Something
unconventional,
” he promised on his way to the closet for coats. (His was long and brown; Annie’s short and blue.)

“Okay!” he called.

“Okay what, Daddy?”

“Okay, we’re going out.”

“Now?”
Annie’s nose wrinkled up with excitement. “In the middle of the
night
?”

Annie buttoned her coat right over pajamas. Then they walked up the hill to Broadway, and Professor Rossi told some things about her baby days. “Hmmm . . . now let me think . . .” he began. “I seem to remember . . . you were a fairly bald but cheery baby. Very pleasant, Annie. Except, of course, you hated going to sleep. Oh, the tears and commotion!”— shaking his head —“Only one thing worked.”

“What thing?”

“A little night walk. We bundled you into your carriage for a little night walk.”

“Mommy, too?” Annie whispered.

“Of course, Mommy, too.”

“Who pushed the carriage?”

“Mommy. Mostly Mommy, but don’t you worry . . . I did my share.”

“And
I
stopped crying.”

“Mm-hmm.” Professor Rossi nodded. “Our little scheme worked like a charm,” he told Annie. “As a matter of fact, by the time we hit this very spot on Broadway, you were sleepy and calm.”

“And Mommy said, ‘What a great little
perfect
baby! What an
angel
!’” Annie crooned. “Then what, Daddy?”

“Then, in honor of the fact that you were
finally
asleep”— joking —“we took ourselves to Carmen’s Diner and ordered up a really good treat.”

“What kind of treat? What was Mommy’s favorite?”

“Pancakes, definitely. And we sat in a booth with turquoise seats, and Mommy played with your tiny fingers, Annie, while you slept in the carriage beside her.”

Yes, Annie loved to hear some things about her baby days. She especially loved the parts about her mother.

Tonight, of course, Annie wouldn’t
think
of wearing pajamas underneath her coat. Because on this night walk, they are going to the Louis Armstrong School — her mother’s school — for a special assembly. Annie is all dressed up for the occasion. She is wearing her favorite red dress and her shoes are brand-new. Terribly fancy, too, with a strap across the middle. They make a fine clicking sound on pavement. One, two,
click!
Can’t be
late!
One, two,
click!
Can’t be
late!

The invitation had come in the mail, and Annie knew every word by heart.

And now it is seven o’clock. It is Thursday night, and the Louis Armstrong School is all lit up, bright lights glowing in every window, upstairs and down. The front doors are wide open, a banner tacked overhead: W
ELCOME TO
W
INTER
A
SSEMBLY
. Yes, it is seven o’clock. It is Thursday night, and Annie Rossi stands across the street from her mother’s school. And somewhere in that school, upstairs on two, is her mother’s classroom. Annie stands there in new shoes and her favorite dress, watching kids of all ages and grownups scramble inside to the All-Purpose Room. Annie squeezes her eyes tight. Perhaps if she squeezes them very tight, she’ll see her mother there, too, in her long red coat. . . .

Annie shuffles her feet, looking down at her shoes and her white summer socks. Short
ankle
socks instead of cozy
winter
socks, and whose fault is that! Annie glances sideways at her father and frowns. Why, it’s
his
fault she’s cold, because
he
forgot to say, “Wear warm socks, Annie — knee socks so your legs don’t freeze. . . .”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be here.” Professor Rossi’s voice is far away. “It’s too hard being here without Mommy.”

“I
like
being here! I want to go to Winter Assembly!” Annie certainly doesn’t mean to stamp her foot three times in a row like some awful little child in a temper. Nor does she mean to shout. But sometimes you just can’t help it, and there you are stamping away and shouting at your father — and you don’t know why.

Annie’s thoughts turn to another time, another temper. This one on the day before the first day of third grade, and she is shopping for new school shoes with her mother. Annie likes the shiny red ones with red velvet bows. “I ONLY want these, Mommy, and I’ll ONLY get these!” But Mrs. Rossi, the boss of school shoes, has other ideas — plain old
brown
ideas — and in spite of Annie’s stamping (or perhaps
because
of her stamping), she winds up with the plain old browns that day. The shoes make her mad! “No one in third grade wears ugly brown shoes!” And her mother is mean! “Now everyone will say, ‘Let’s not be friends with Annie Rossi . . .’ and it’s all YOUR fault . . . and I WISH you weren’t my mother. . . .”

Annie shudders in the cold night air. Why, why,
why
had she said all those bad things to her mother that time? Maybe she
is
just an awful little child . . . and who in the world would want
her
for a child? Absolutely no one! Not even her own mother, and perhaps that’s why she doesn’t have a mother anymore.
Mommy, come back . . . and I’ll be good every second, and perfect. . . .
Suddenly, Annie starts to cry. She doesn’t mean to, of course. Not here, not tonight. But sometimes you just can’t help it.

Professor Rossi and Annie sit on a stoop, and they both watch the school. It is dark on the stoop, and chilly, and they sit very close, hugging their knees and each other, and Annie slowly calms down. Every now and then, she looks up at the sky, wishing for snow. Wishing she could make a snowman with her mother in the park. Just one more time. One more snowman with a silly carrot nose. Inside the Louis Armstrong School, the glee club sings. The orchestra plays.

“I miss Mommy,” Annie tells her father in between sniffles.

“And I miss Mommy,” he says, blowing his nose.

“But I miss her more,” Annie insists. “Nobody misses her more than me.”

A few minutes later, they cross the street. They walk under the banner and into the school and find two empty seats in the very last row of the All-Purpose Room. At the very front of the room, Mrs. Owens, the principal, is holding two fingers in the air for silence. “And now”— she smiles broadly as the audience settles down —“for the final event of the evening, one of our sixth-grade classes will make a special presentation. It’s all about memories of someone they — and we — have loved very much. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls . . . I give you . . . room 222!”

The curtain goes up. Behind Mrs. Owens, the kids from room 222 (there are twenty-four in all) make a jittery and solemn line across the stage. You could hear a pin drop in the All-Purpose Room.

A girl steps out of line, taking two steps forward. She has short hair and it is very black, and her dress is very pink. She holds a book in both hands and leans toward the microphone. “My name is Julie,” she begins in a shaky voice. “The whole class took a vote and we voted for me, and that’s why I get to talk at Winter Assembly. I’m supposed to start with Mr. Shaw. That’s our sub and he’s pretty nice. Most of the time. But we still call ourselves Mrs. Rossi’s class, no offense, Mr. Shaw. We were lucky. Because we got to have Mrs. Rossi
two
years in a row. Fifth
and
sixth grade.

“I’m also supposed to say it was Mr. Shaw who thought up the idea to make a book about our teacher . . . but if you want to know who did all the work,” Julie boasts, “
we
did. That’s right, the
kids
are the authors!

“Boy, were there fights,” she goes on. “
Thousands!
No one could agree on one little thing, including what the title should be. We have a good one, though:
Remembering Mrs. Rossi
. . . and it’s all about Mrs. Rossi . . . and you can’t believe how great it is, no kidding!

“We have big hearts, too. Because after all that hard work, we’re not even keeping our book.
We’re giving it away!
” Julie sucks in her breath. “Okay, to tell you the truth, no one
wanted
to give it away. Unless you count Mr. Shaw. He thought giving it away was a ‘beautiful gesture.’ He kept saying, ‘Who do you think would most appreciate having a book called
Remembering Mrs. Rossi
?’ Then Matthew called out, ‘Mrs. Rossi’s family! I bet they’d appreciate it!’ Which was definitely the right answer, because after that Mr. Shaw was in a good mood nine days in a row.”

Mrs. Owens is clapping now, and dabbing her eyes with a hankie. She calls across the All-Purpose Room: “Professor Rossi! Annie! Come on up here!”— dab-dab-clap —“Don’t be shy!”— dab-dab-clap —“Come on up!”

Annie’s legs wobble, and she clings to her father on the high stage. There is a great deal of cheering (her ears are stuffed!), and there are cameras everywhere, with flashes popping everywhere. The kids from room 222 gather around, and they all talk at once — about whose page is here, whose page is there, whose is best, and so on.

And later, as Annie and her father walk down the steps of the Louis Armstrong School, there is another surprise. Snow! Snow! Snow! Falling from the sky in big white flakes. Annie looks down at her patent leather shoes. Uh-oh, no boots . . . and whose fault is
that
? “Daddy”— clicking her tongue —“you were supposed to say, ‘Don’t forget your boots tonight, Annie.’”

“Ah, yes. Mommy
always
remembered boots.” Professor Rossi rearranges Annie’s scarf so that the snow doesn’t slide down her collar. “And one of these days (let’s hope), I’ll remember, too.”

Annie takes his hand and they start walking home, just the two of them, slipping sometimes and sliding sometimes, and snow pours over Broadway. They stop in front of Carmen’s Diner. Happily, the lights are still on. Carmen’s is a good place to warm up, they agree, and then they agree it’s a very good night for pancakes. While they wait for pancakes in a booth with turquoise seats, Annie opens up to the very first page of
Remembering Mrs. Rossi.
Slowly and together, Annie and her father turn the pages of their book. When they get to the end, they go back to page one and start again.