"Martin, Ann M - BSC029 - Mallory And The Mystery Diary" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin Ann M)

"But we can't," I replied. "We've tried everything. And I don't want to break it."
"So you're going to let it sit here locked up forever, and never get to see what's in it?"
That did seem sort of silly. But all I said was, "I don't want to ruin it."
Vanessa looked thoughtful. Then she said, "If you do not open that trunk, then I will be in a big, bad funk."
"Are you going to start talking in rhymes again?" I asked warily.
"Probably."
I ran to our doorway. "Byron! Jordan! Adam! Come quick! And bring a hammer and a wrench!"
I absolutely cannot stand it when Vanessa speaks in rhymes. I'd do anything to prevent it. Even break the locks on the beautiful trunk.
A few moments later the triplets arrived with the tools.
"What is it?" asked Adam. "What are you doing?"
I pointed to the trunk. "Open it," I commanded. "Break the locks."
"All right!" exclaimed Jordan.
The boys attacked the locks. I squinched my eyes shut. I couldn't bear to look. I heard pounding and smashing and grunting. I heard Byron say, "I'll go get the crowbar." (Oh, no. Not that, I thought.) At last I heard a skreek, and Vanessa cried, "It's open! It's open!"
I dared to peek. The trunk was in better shape than I'd expected. Except for the fact
that the locks were just barely hanging onto the lid, the trunk looked okay.
Vanessa was already digging into it.
"Look! Look!" she was crying. "Clothes! They're . . . they're gorgeous. I bet they're antiques."
"Be careful with them, then," I said. I peered into the trunk. I saw mounds of old, white, lacy petticoats and dresses and blouses. They were all handsewn. And Vanessa was right. They were probably antiques. "They look awfully fragile," I added.
Vanessa nodded. She was already handling them more delicately.
"Thanks, you g Ч "I started to say to the triplets, but they were heading down the hall, muttering things like, "Boring," and, "All that work for a bunch of old clothes."
Vanessa and I carefully lifted the clothes out of the trunk, one by one. We hadn't even finished when Vanessa began trying things on. Most of the clothes were in girls' sizes. But I kept emptying the trunk. I had a funny feeling that something else would be in it besides clothes.
I almost decided I was wrong, though: I didn't find the diary until I'd reached the very bottom of the trunk.
"Ooh," I said under my breath. "Look at this." But Vanessa was too busy looking at herself in the mirror.
I sat on the edge of my bed and opened the diary. The first page read, "This is my book, by Sophie. And this is a year in my life Ч 1894."
"Eighteen ninety-four," I said, awed. "That's ages and ages ago."
"Huh?" said Vanessa, but I could tell she wasn't really interested.
I turned to the next page. It was headed January 1, 1894. Underneath was a whole page in Sophie's handwriting. It wasn't easy to read. She made her letters oddly Ч all sprawled out, she wasn't the world's best speller, and the ink was faded. But of course I began reading right away. I didn't even feel guilty. I would have felt horribly guilty sneaking a peek at a friend's diary, but Sophie said on the first page that she was twelve years old, so I figured she wasn't alive anymore. If she were, she'd be over a hundred. This wasn't prying Ч it was history.
As I read, I thought how lucky I was. I mean, just to be reading. When you read, you can sit in your room and travel back and forth in time, or to other countries, or to made-up
lands, or to outer space. And all without moving a muscle, except to turn pages. I thought about Buddy Barrett. It was going to be my job to help turn him into a reader. I was going to be his tutor. Mrs. Barrett and I had agreed that we would try a few sessions (Tuesdays and Thursdays from four until six) to see how things went.
I wanted them to go well. I wanted Buddy to like reading as much as I did.
"How do I look?" spoke up Vanessa. She turned away from the mirror. She was completely dressed in white Ч with a lot of lace. She was wearing a white dress over two white petticoats. On her hands were white lace gloves. But on her feet were black shoes with about a million buttons on them.
"Where did those come from?" I asked, pointing to the shoes.
"On the bottom. Over to one side. They were with all that stuff."
I opened my eyes wide. On Vanessa's messy bed were several hats, a book, and two small boxes. I must have missed them because I'd been so engrossed when I found the diary.
"What are these things?" I asked, rushing for them.
"Don't know," replied Vanessa. She was
gazing at herself in the mirror again. I had to admit that she looked uncannily like someone from another century. And I could almost see poetry forming in her head.
I shoved aside some of Vanessa's crumpled papers, sat on her bed, and opened the book. I was hoping for another year in the life of Sophie. But there were no words in the book at all, just pressed flowers. They were so crumbly and faded that they were hard to identify, but I thought that some of them might be pansies and others, violets.
I put the book down and gingerly opened one of the boxes. Inside was a pearl brooch (well, it might not have been made from real pearls) edged in gold.
"Ooh, Vanessa," I said. "Put this on. Isn't it pretty?"
Vanessa's eyes lit up.
"See? It goes right here on the collar of the blouse, at your throat."
I pinned the brooch on Vanessa and thought she would die of happiness. Then she tried on the hats while I opened the second box. It contained a different brooch, which I handed over to Vanessa.
"Who do you think all these things belonged to?" she asked dreamily, switching brooches.
"Sophie/' I replied, just as dreamily.
"Who's she?"
"A girl who lived in the eighteen hundreds. She was born in eighteen eighty-two. Probably right in Stacey's house. I found her diary in the trunk."
"Gosh," was all Vanessa could say.
"Can you imagine living way back then?" I asked.
"And dressing like this every day?" added Vanessa.