Stacey and the Fashion Victim, Page 2

  “But your dad’s not a prosecutor, is he?” I asked. It was just like Mary Anne to worry about having to be mean.

  She shook her head. “No, he does corporate law,” she admitted. “He’s hardly ever in court. He was just working on a case today. And he let me look stuff up for him.”

  Mary Anne is Kristy’s best friend, even though you’d never expect them to be buds. Mary Anne is as shy and sweet as Kristy is bold and brash. They look alike, though. Mary Anne has brown eyes and hair (cut in a slightly trendier style) and is also on the short side.

  Mary Anne is the club’s secretary, which means she keeps track of our schedules and job bookings. She’s excellent at it and never makes mistakes.

  She’s close to her dad, since she grew up with him as her only parent. (Her mom died when Mary Anne was just a baby.) These days, Mary Anne has a stepmother, Sharon Schafer, who happens to be the mother of Mary Anne’s other best friend, Dawn. Mary Anne and Dawn met when Dawn and her younger brother, Jeff, moved here from California, after their mom and dad divorced. (Sharon had grown up in Stoneybrook, so it made sense for her to come back home.) Soon after they became friends, Mary Anne and Dawn discovered that Sharon and Mary Anne’s dad, Richard, used to date back in high school. Before long, Dawn and Mary Anne were best friends and stepsisters.

  By that time, Jeff had decided that he’d never fit in on the East Coast, and he’d gone back to California to live with his dad. Dawn visited them often, until she finally realized that her heart belonged out there, too. Now she’s a fulltime Californian, though she visits Stoneybrook on school vacations and in the summer. I know Mary Anne misses her a ton between visits. We all do.

  Fortunately, Mary Anne has her kitten, Tigger, and her boyfriend, Logan Bruno, to comfort her. Logan’s a great guy and very cute, too. Not only that, he’s an excellent baby-sitter and happens to be an associate member of the BSC. He and our other associate member, Shannon Kilbourne, don’t have to come to meetings, but they’re on standby if we need extra sitters. Shannon, who lives in Kristy’s neighborhood, goes to private school and is one of those terrific students who participates in a million clubs and still manages to pull great grades.

  Are you wondering about my job in the club? Well, I’m the treasurer. I collect dues every Monday (my fellow members love to give me a hard time about separating them from their hard-earned dollars) and keep track of how much we have in the treasury. Then, when we need money to help pay Claudia’s phone bill or Kristy’s transportation costs (her brother Charlie drives her to meetings, so we chip in for his gas), I hand it out. My friends are amazed at how I can keep track of every cent, but I think it’s easy. As I said, math comes naturally to me.

  Lately, Charlie and Kristy have had another passenger, Abby Stevenson, the newest member of the BSC. She and her twin sister, Anna, and their mom moved to Kristy’s neighborhood recently from Long Island. Mrs. Stevenson is an executive editor at a publishing house in Manhattan — that’s where Abby had spent her day. Abby and Anna’s dad died several years ago in a car accident. Abby doesn’t talk about him much. She’d rather make a joke, or do an impression of one of our teachers. Abby loves to make people laugh.

  We invited both twins to join the club, but Anna is way too busy with her music to have time for baby-sitting. She plays violin, and I think she may want to do that professionally someday. She takes private lessons, practices constantly, and plays in the SMS orchestra. Her music is awesome.

  Both twins have dark eyes and thick, dark, curly hair. Anna’s is shorter, and Abby’s is longer. They both wear contacts, or glasses, depending on what they’re doing. Abby wears contacts when she’s playing soccer or softball or running in a track meet; she’s a natural athlete. She also has a million allergies, plus asthma, but she doesn’t let that slow her down.

  Abby took over Dawn’s role in the club, which means she’s the alternate officer. If one of the other officers can’t make it to a meeting, Abby does that person’s job.

  “— so then I convinced Sherry — she’s my mom’s assistant — to let me do the copying. Because I wanted to try copying my face. There I was, with my forehead pressed against the glass, when who walks in but my mom’s boss! Fortunately, she has a sense of humor.” Abby was laughing as she told the story of her day, and we were all laughing with her.

  “I did the same thing at my mom’s office!” said Jessi, giggling. “It’s a good thing I didn’t get caught. My mom’s boss doesn’t have a sense of humor at all.”

  Jessi Ramsey is one of the club’s two junior officers. Unlike the rest of us, who are thirteen, Jessi and her best friend, Mallory Pike, are eleven. Being junior officers means that at night, they can only sit for their own families, so they take a lot of our afternoon jobs.

  Jessi’s mom is in advertising, and Mal’s works as a temporary secretary, so both of them had plenty of office stories for us. “Personally, I think I’d rather work as a horse trainer or something,” said Mal. “That is, if I couldn’t be a writer.” She and Jessi are both big readers who adore horse stories, and Mal would love to be a writer someday.

  Jessi is African-American, with cocoa-colored skin, dark eyes, and the long, muscular limbs of a trained dancer. (She’s a serious ballet student and practices all the time.) She has a younger sister named Becca and a baby brother nicknamed Squirt. Their aunt Cecelia lives with the family, too.

  Mal, who has curly reddish-brown hair, glasses, and braces, has a much larger family. There are eight Pike kids in all. Mal, as the oldest, has had plenty of baby-sitting practice. I bet she’ll grow up to write funny stories about her huge family.

  Guess what. Mal — and a couple of my other friends — weren’t thrilled to hear about the offer Mrs. Maslin had made me.

  “I hate all this model stuff,” Mal complained. “Why should people be paid millions of dollars just because they happen to have good genes? I’d like to see girls admiring women scientists or senators, instead of looking up to models. What’s so great about somebody who can prance around looking good in clothes? Life is not a beauty contest.”

  Jessi was nodding, and so was Kristy. But Mary Anne was, as always, ready to see both sides. “Fashion Week isn’t a beauty contest,” she reminded Mal gently. “And modeling can be a good way for a woman to become independent.”

  “And be too busy to do her job,” Kristy grumbled. “How are we supposed to cover all our baby-sitting work without you?”

  “It’s only a few days,” I said. “And we haven’t been too busy lately. I promise to take extra jobs the week after, to make up for any I miss.” I paused, hoping Kristy wouldn’t mind what I had to say next. “By the way,” I added carefully. “If we’re still not too busy during Fashion Week, there may be some work at Bellair’s. I know the Kid Center will probably need extra help.” Bellair’s has this great in-store day-care center. I’d worked there before, and I knew they appreciated experienced help.

  I was hoping some of my friends would be around to enjoy Fashion Week with me. I had a feeling it was going to be a blast, and I knew it would be even more fun if some of my BSC friends were on hand.

  “Pssst! Stacey! Over here!”

  I looked, gasped, and looked again. “Oh, no,” I murmured. “Of all people.” I glanced behind me, almost hoping that Mary Anne or Mal or Claudia might still be there, but they’d all gone their separate ways. I was on my own.

  With Cokie Mason.

  It was orientation day for Fashion Week, and I was just arriving for the models’ meeting. Mary Anne and Mal had headed off for their meeting — they’d signed up to work in the Kid Center — and Claudia was here to see the staff that had come to shoot the catalog. My mom and Mrs. Maslin had arranged for her to work as an intern with the art director for the shoot, and Claudia was thrilled.

  So I was on my own as I entered the large meeting room. I’d been nervous about that. I knew the room would be packed with utterly gorgeous girls, and I hated having to walk in there by myself. I was wishing for
a friendly face to greet me.

  Be careful of what you wish for. It may come true. (My mother has said that to me, but I never really knew what she meant by that. Until now.)

  Cokie’s face was friendly, all right, as she waved me over to an empty seat next to hers. But it was a superficial kind of friendly. You know how some people smile with their whole face and some people smile with just their lips? Well, Cokie’s mouth was smiling, but that was it.

  Cokie Mason is not exactly a friend, though she does attend my school, Stoneybrook Middle School, and I’ve known her for a while. The problem with Cokie is that she always feels this need to be better, to compete, to win. And in her mind the biggest contest is the one for popularity. I guess I should feel sorry for her, but it’s tough to, after some of the tricks she’s pulled. Believe it or not, she once even tried to steal Logan from Mary Anne.

  Anyway, there she was, the only person I knew in the room. And next to her was that empty seat. What could I do? I sat down next to her. She was wearing designer jeans and a designer T-shirt, and on her lap was a designer backpack. Cokie has no personal sense of style. She thinks that if an item of clothing costs a lot and has some famous person’s name on it, it must be cool.

  Do I sound catty?

  I don’t mean to. I guess Cokie’s attitude is catching. She is the biggest gossip and loves nothing better than putting people down behind their backs.

  I must admit that, as much as her huge appetite for gossip bugs me, it did come in handy that day. Cokie had made it her priority to find out everything there was to know about the important people in that room, and by the end of the meeting she’d made sure to fill me in. I knew better than to take everything she told me as the truth. Still, it was a good way to begin to sort out who was who.

  I almost missed her rundown, though, because I started out our conversation by insulting her — accidentally. “What are you doing here?” I asked. I was simply surprised to see her.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? That I’m not pretty enough to be a model?” Cokie said, glaring.

  “No — I — that’s not what I meant!” I exclaimed, blushing.

  “Well, for your information, I was spotted by an agent. Dylan Trueheart. I’m sure you’ve heard of him, since he’s one of the top agents in modeling.”

  I’d never heard the name in my life, but I didn’t want to insult Cokie any further, so I just nodded.

  “He saw me one day last week while I was shopping in the Juniors department. He discovered me, just like that!” Cokie was glowing. I had a feeling that being “discovered” by Dylan Trueheart was the high point of her life so far.

  “Cool,” I said.

  Just then, Mrs. Maslin stood up in front of the room. “Girls!” she called out loudly. I could barely hear her voice over the buzz of voices in the room. “May I have your attention, please?”

  The noise began to fade, and finally all eyes were turned toward Mrs. Maslin. “Welcome,” she said. “I want to congratulate you on being chosen to participate in Fashion Week at Bellair’s.”

  “Big whoop,” I heard the blonde girl next to me mutter under her breath. She looked totally bored as she sipped from a bottle of water.

  Mrs. Maslin, fortunately, didn’t seem to hear her. She went on, telling us about the events that would take place over the following days, starting with an informal sportswear show the next day, moving on through a series of other small fashion shows and the ongoing shoot for the catalog, and “culminating,” Mrs. Maslin breathlessly told us, “in the biggest fashion show this area has ever seen.”

  The girl next to me was rolling her eyes.

  Mrs. Maslin described the final show, telling us about the music, the lights, the excitement. “And for the finale,” she finished, “one of you lucky girls will come out as Princess Bellair — crown and all.”

  I saw Cokie’s eyes light up and knew that she already wanted more than anything to be Princess Bellair.

  Mrs. Maslin finished by telling us that the schedules she was handing out were “to be strictly adhered to,” and that she hoped we would have “the time of our lives.”

  I heard the girl next to me give a little snort.

  Then Mrs. Maslin introduced Mr. Bellair, the owner of the store. I’ve met him before, when I was visiting my mom at work. He seems like a nice enough man. He has a red face and wavy blond hair that almost looks as if he has it permed. Some men do that, according to my mom. He made a speech about how glad he was to see the “women of tomorrow” representing his store, blah, blah, blah. He went on and on, and eventually he lost his audience. Even Mrs. Maslin was ignoring him. She was flipping through her clipboard, making notes and lists. Girls were whispering and giggling as they checked their schedules and compared assignments. At first I tried to ignore them, but finally Cokie and I started whispering, too.

  “See that girl next to you?” Cokie hissed. I nodded. “You know who that is, don’t you?” I shook my head. “That’s Sydney,” Cokie said.

  “Sydney who?” I whispered back, after checking to make sure the blonde girl wasn’t looking our way.

  “Just Sydney,” said Cokie. “She’s huge.”

  I glanced at the blonde girl again. “She looks teeny to me,” I said.

  “I mean in terms of her career,” Cokie whispered, exasperated. “Didn’t you see her on the cover of Teenage Miss last month? And she’s in the new campaign for Jinky Jeans. She’s only fifteen, but she’s practically a supermodel. She knows it, too. She acts all stuck-up. And you know what? She used to date Roger Bellair — Mr. Bellair’s son, who’s going to inherit the whole Bellair’s chain. He’s working as a photo assistant on the shoot this week. Maybe we’ll see some fireworks!”

  Next, Cokie pointed to a girl with huge green eyes and straight brown hair cut in a perfect bob. “That’s Harmony Skye,” she whispered. “She’s fourteen, and she’s on her way up.”

  “Who’s that next to her?” I asked. The woman next to Harmony was reaching over to fuss with Harmony’s bangs.

  “That’s her mother,” said Cokie. “Talk about pushy. I already saw her sucking up to Mrs. Maslin. That woman won’t rest until her daughter’s face is plastered on every magazine cover in the country.”

  “How about that red-haired girl?” I asked. I didn’t love Cokie’s attitude, but I had to admit it was fun hearing about everyone.

  “Cynthia Rowlands,” Cokie reported. “She’s sixteen. Over the hill.” Cokie snickered. “Just kidding. But she is past her peak. Last year she was almost as big as Sydney. Now I hear she’s thinking about quitting and going back to being a regular high school kid.”

  There were plenty of other pretty girls in the room, but only one more I was curious about. “That girl with the blonde ringlets,” I said. “She looks familiar.”

  “That’s because she’s from Stoneybrook,” said Cokie. “Her name’s Blaine Gilbert, and she goes to boarding school in Pennsylvania when she’s not busy working on her career. She’s just starting out. All she’s done so far is catalog work, but she’s trying to make it into the big time. She was invited to be in Fashion Week when she went to Take Our Daughters to Work Day with her mom. Mrs. Gilbert works in the national office of Bellair’s.”

  “By the way, Cokie,” I said, “how did you become interested in modeling?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be interested?” she said. “You make great money, meet all kinds of people, get famous — it’s cool.”

  I had to admit she was right. If anyone was well suited for the life of a model, it was probably Cokie.

  I was so busy listening to her gossip, I’d barely noticed when Mr. Bellair had finished his remarks and Mrs. Maslin had returned to the front of the room. She thanked Mr. Bellair, reminded us to be on time the next day, and said we were free to go.

  Everyone stood and stretched, and then we began to file out of the room. I took one more look around, trying to remember everything Cokie had told me about the other models. The funny thing was, t
he girls in that room weren’t what I had expected. Oh, they were pretty, all right. But they also looked ordinary, like girls I knew in school. They wore the same kinds of clothes, carried the same backpacks, had the same haircuts. They weren’t really all that different from me. I could even imagine becoming friends with some of them.

  I was starting to think that modeling was going to be fun this time.

  “Places, everyone, places!”

  Some major hurrying and scurrying was going on in the huge, open dressing room as we — the models — rushed around trying to figure out what our “places” were supposed to be. I’d read the detailed notes Mrs. Maslin had handed out at our morning meeting, so I knew I was wearing three different outfits in this first show. I would start off wearing a raspberry-colored romper, which I was supposed to accessorize with white sneakers and a white baseball cap. (I was already dressed in the romper, but I hadn’t found the hat yet.) Then I’d change into a red-and-white-striped bathing suit with a matching cover-up (plus accessories, including red thongs and a big straw hat). Finally, I’d appear in a denim minidress. With that outfit I’d wear espadrilles and an armful of colorful bangles.

  Of course, my hairstyle would also change with each outfit, from pigtails to a slicked-back look to a French braid. And each change would have to happen in under seven minutes.

  Multiply that by a roomful of girls and what do you have?

  Chaos, total chaos. And that was only the rehearsal.

  It was Sunday, and I’d appeared at Bellair’s early (following Mrs. Maslin’s orders) for the sportswear show. We were going to have a quick rehearsal, then put on the show in the afternoon. This was supposed to be an informal presentation, for an invited audience of “preferred customers.” At our meeting, Mrs. Maslin had told us to “think fun.”

  As if.

  Fun was the last thing on my mind as I raced around trying to track down a pair of sneakers in my size, while a hairdresser raced after me trying to match hair ribbons to my romper.