Abby had a terrific time on Smokeout Day. She and a posse of kids — Buddy and Lindsey, James and Mathew and Charlotte — visited some of the people who had signed pledges. They carried pamphlets Dr. Johanssen had given them, along with snacks to ease the cravings of the quitters. They offered psychological support, encouragement, and lots of laughs to everyone they visited.
Mrs. Hobart had already been through a jumbo bag of carrots by the time they came, but she accepted several more, plus a few packs of gum. “This is harder than I thought it would be,” she confessed. “But your visit really helps.” She hugged everybody.
Hugging was big that day. “I never thought I’d be thanking somebody for keeping me from smoking,” said Mr. Spinoli when they stopped to see him at the hardware store. “But you kids have done a good thing here. It’s the first time I’ve even tried to quit in years.”
Mr. DeWitt wasn’t so upbeat. In fact, he seemed more than a little cranky. But even he admitted that the Smokeout was a great idea. And he warned Lindsey and Buddy, in front of everyone, that if he ever heard about them experimenting with cigarettes again they’d be grounded until they were thirty-five years old.
By the end of that day, Kristy, Abby, and Jessi agreed that the Smokeout had to be termed a success. “We raised public awareness, we convinced a few people to try quitting for real, and lest we forget,” said Kristy, “we had a great time.” It looked as if the Great Stoneybrook Smokeout might become an annual event.
Kristy, Abby, and Jessi will always remember those great moments from the day of the Smokeout. I have some memories from that Saturday, too, memories from the last night of Fashion Week. Certain moments and images will always stay with me.
For example, there’s the image of the hustle and bustle of the dressing room in the last minutes before the final show was about to start. Models scurried back and forth between hair and makeup stations and the clothing racks, scrambling to be ready by the time the lights snapped on and the music started to pound.
There’d been excitement in the air before the other shows that week, but that afternoon the feeling was especially intense. It was funny, though — something was missing. I took a second to think it over, and as I did, I saw Cynthia offer to zip up the back of Harmony’s dress. Cooperation. The competition was over now — that was what was missing — and nobody had anything to gain by being nasty. Everybody suddenly had the same goal. We all wanted the final show to be a success.
We’d been through so much together that week. And I realized that, in spite of ourselves, we’d become something like friends.
Even Cokie had entered into the new spirit of cooperation. I saw her passing out bottled water she’d brought from the catering table as she flitted around, wishing everyone luck. That’s an image for the scrapbook! I wished I had a camera, since I knew my friends would never believe Cokie could be so nice.
Another memory? The moment when Claudia came to find me and dragged me off to a backstage corner that looked out into the still-empty auditorium. “You have to see this to believe it,” she whispered, pointing into the darkness.
It took my eyes a second or two to adjust. Then I saw what she was pointing out. The auditorium wasn’t empty after all. Way in the back sat two people, arms entwined, faces attached at the lip. Sydney and Roger Bellair. Making out like crazy.
“Guess the old flame is still burning,” Claudia whispered.
I had to hold in my giggles until we’d raced back to the dressing room. Then I exploded. I don’t know exactly why it was so funny, but trust me — it was.
There was a more serious moment I’ll remember, too, when Cynthia and I found ourselves alone together in the lounge of the women’s room. She was already made up and her hair was done, but she was still wearing a smock. It was too early to put on the outfits we’d be wearing in the show.
“This has been fun,” she said, smiling wistfully. “There’s a lot I really love about modeling.”
“But?” I prompted. I had the feeling there was more she wanted to say.
“But I’ve made a decision.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going to quit. For a while, anyway. Maybe forever. I don’t know yet.” She looked down at her hands. “All I know is that I feel as if I’m missing out on real life.”
“Real life isn’t always that great,” I said. “You might be bored. Or worse.” The image of Alan Gray — the most immature, irritating boy in eighth grade — swam into my head. What on earth would Cynthia think of boys like that? What would she think of going to school every day, and eating in the cafeteria, and going to dances where boys like Alan acted like jerks? As a model, Cynthia had been living in the fast lane with sophisticated people. She was going to be experiencing some major culture shock. Maybe she’d hate me for steering her away from modeling. “Are you really sure?” I asked, suddenly hesitant.
“I’m sure,” she said. “I know it’ll be boring. I want boring. I crave boring!” She grinned. “And I promise not to blame you if it doesn’t work out.”
It was as if she’d read my mind.
“In fact,” she continued, “I’ll always remember how nice you were to talk to me and take me seriously. I don’t think anybody’s listened to me — really listened — in a long time.” She wasn’t grinning anymore. Now she looked solemn, and tears welled up in her eyes.
I hugged her. “Friends?” I asked.
“Friends,” she said, hugging me back.
“Promise to keep in touch. I want to know how it all turns out.”
“I will,” she said. “I promise.” She checked her watch. “Oh, man. I bet Mrs. Maslin is looking for us.”
“You’re right. We better go. But hey, Cynthia — good luck, okay?”
“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
When I entered the dressing room after talking with Cynthia, I spotted Harmony and her mom, deep in conversation. No way did I want to be involved in their argument, so I changed course and headed across the room in the opposite direction.
“Stacey!”
Oops. Too late. They’d spotted me. “Hi, Harmony,” I said, pasting a smile on my face. “Hi, Mrs. Skye.”
Surprisingly, Mrs. Skye smiled back.
“Stacey, Mom and I were just talking about my career plans,” said Harmony.
Uh-oh. “You mean you’re going to keep modeling?” I asked.
She shook her head, smiling. “No way,” she answered. “We’re thinking I should go into either medicine or law. What do you think?” She glanced at her mom. “Mom’s finally coming around,” she stage-whispered to me.
“I think you have awhile to decide,” I answered. I knew that, whatever she decided to be, Harmony would probably always have her mother hovering around in the background, pushing her to do better and work harder. But maybe, as long as her career was her choice, Harmony could learn to live with that.
My next memories are a jumble of lights and music and walking down the runway and racing through the dressing room to change so I could walk again. I remember seeing my mom and my friends in the audience, and hearing them cheer and whistle and applaud. I remember Mrs. Maslin running around so fast that she was almost a blur, like a cartoon character. And I remember feeling pretty, and special, and proud. Modeling may not be my chosen career, and it’s definitely not rocket science, but it sure can be fun.
I know I’m not the only one who will always remember the finale of that show. It was breathtaking. I watched it from a corner of the stage, along with most of the other models.
The music changed from a hard-driving rock beat to a romantic ballad. The lights softened and lost some of their harshness. The crowd grew quiet. And then Blaine walked onto the runway.
She wore a long gown of shimmery pink material. Her hair flowed down her back, and the tiara on her head sparkled in the lights. She walked as if she were real, live royalty instead of a pretend princess, floating along gracefully with her head held high as she smiled down at the audience.
She was absolutely rad
iant.
But it was Emily who stole the show. Emily Maslin, dressed as a lady-in-waiting in a smaller, simpler version of Blaine’s gown, looked lovely beyond her years. I knew she was just a little kid, but I — and everyone else in the room — could suddenly see that she was going to be a beautiful young woman someday soon.
I remember glancing at Dylan Trueheart. The look on his face was unmistakable: he saw it, too. He knew she could go all the way to the top if that was what she wanted. (Later, I heard him talking to Mrs. Maslin, promising her the world if she’d only let him represent Emily. Mrs. Maslin told him she’d think about it in a few years, when Emily turned fifteen — if she still wanted to model by then.)
There’s one more image I’ll take with me from Fashion Week: the image of the dressing room, which had begun to feel like home, after the show was over. Clothes were draped everywhere. Makeup and hair supplies lay jumbled together on the counters. Piles of shoes and accessories filled every corner.
I glanced around the room, feeling just a tiny bit wistful about saying good-bye to the glamour, the excitement, the fun (not that I’d call almost being killed fun). But then I turned away from it, ready to head home and back to my real life.
Family, school, and the BSC — they were all I really wanted. In the past week, I’d come to value my normal, boring life more than ever, and suddenly I couldn’t wait to plunge back into it.
The author gratefully acknowledges
Ellen Miles
for her help in
preparing this manuscript.
About the Author
ANN MATTHEWS MARTIN was born on August 12, 1955. She grew up in Princeton, New Jersey, with her parents and her younger sister, Jane.
There are currently over 176 million copies of The Baby-sitters Club in print. (If you stacked all of these books up, the pile would be 21,245 miles high.) In addition to The Baby-sitters Club, Ann is the author of two other series, Main Street and Family Tree. Her novels include Belle Teal, A Corner of the Universe (a Newbery Honor book), Here Today, A Dog’s Life, On Christmas Eve, Everything for a Dog, Ten Rules for Living with My Sister, and Ten Good and Bad Things About My Life (So Far). She is also the coauthor, with Laura Godwin, of the Doll People series.
Ann lives in upstate New York with her dog and her cats.
Copyright © 1997 by Ann M. Martin
Cover art by Hodges Soileau
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC, THE BABY-SITTERS CLUB, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
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All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First edition, April 1997
e-ISBN 978-0-545-79326-1
Ann M. Martin, Stacey and the Fashion Victim
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