Free Stacey's Choice by Ann M. Martin Page A

room, wearing the new, ironed outfit (with tasteful Dad-type jewelry), my hair combed and shining, my father just stared at me. After a few moments, he managed to say, "You look . . . like your mother." Then he added hurriedly, "You look beautiful, sweetie. Absolutely perfect." "Thanks," I whispered. Then, hating to break the spell, I said, "Um, it's already six-twenty-five, Dad." We caught another cab. This one rushed us to a very fancy hotel on Madison Avenue. And I mean, it rushed us. We squealed around corners, jerked to stops, then jerked into motion again. I have never made such good use of that strap that hangs by the window as I did that evening. When we screeched to a halt in front of the hotel, I said, "Dad? Do I still have all my teeth? I think I can hear them rattling around in my head." The cabbie shot me a dirty look in the rear-view mirror then, but he didn't say anything because Dad was in the middle of trying to figure out how much to tip him.
     
    We stepped out of the taxi, and Dad took my arm and led me into the hotel. We followed the signs to the MCGILL PARTY.
     
    "They made signs for this?" I whispered to Dad.
     
    He just smiled at me.
     
    When we reached the MCGILL PARTY, I glanced at a clock on the wall. Six-forty-three. Not too bad.
     
    We walked through a pair of plain wooden double doors and into ... a ballroom. I was awed. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The floor was carpeted in gold - except for a large bare area in the center of the room.
     
    (I would have to ask Dad about that later.) The tables were covered with white cloths. At every place setting was gleaming silverware and a crystal bud vase holding a single red rose; in the middle of each table was a large arrangement of red and yellow roses.
     
    "Whoa. All this for you, Dad?" I whispered.
     
    He didn't answer the question, but simply replied, "I'm so glad you're here to share the evening with me." So was I. When Dad had talked about a fancy dinner, I never imagined he meant this fancy ... or important. My father must mean an awful lot to his company.
     
    I was gazing at those chandeliers again when I realized Dad was talking to some people. "Stacey?" he said, and I dragged my eyes away from the glitter of the crystal. "I want you to meet Mr. Davis, the president." The president! I thought wildly. . . . Oh, the president of the company. "And this is Mrs. Barnes, the executive vice-president." "It's nice to meet you, Stacey," said Mr. Davis.
     
    "You must be very proud of your father," said Mrs. Barnes.
     
    "Oh, I am." I was absolutely awestruck.
     
    "Well, we better get this affair underway," added Mr. Davis.
     
    Dad took my elbow. "Time to sit down," he said.
     
    "Which table is ours?" I asked.
     
    "I'll show you." Dad led me through the fifteen or so small round tables to a long banquet table where a podium was set up. "We're at the head table," he said, "with Mr. Davis and Mrs. Barnes and the other executives." "Whoa," was the only word I managed to utter.
     
    We slid along between the banquet table and the wall, reading the placecards, until we reached the podium. Dad's place was next to the podium; mine was next to his. We sat down. I felt breathless. Stoneybrook seemed a million miles away.
     
    Here is what we did at the dinner that evening: ate and listened to speeches.
     
    The dinner itself was very fancy. Lots of courses. First came a beautiful . . . well, I'm not sure what you would call two jumbo shrimps on a piece of lettuce. An hors d'oeuvre, maybe? Then came a tiny bowl of consomme.
     
    Then came a speech. Mrs. Barnes gave a sort of pep talk to the company. _ After that, someone who seemed to be a good friend of my father presented a slide show. It was about Dad and his years with the company. A lot of the pictures made the dinner guests hoot and clap and laugh. I was even in one