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

picture. The photo showed Dad sitting at his desk at work, holding me on his lap. I was, like, five years old, and wearing a truly hideous dress, falling-down socks, and ratty sneakers. But the laughter that followed was friendly, so I didn't mind too much.
     
    When the slide show was over, the waiters served sherbet. I couldn't eat mine, of course, but I was still curious about it. "Why are they serving dessert?" I asked Dad. "They haven't served dinner yet." Or had they? Maybe those two shrimps were dinner.
     
    "This is to clear your palate," Dad whispered. "Dinner is next." Whew. While everyone else was eating the sherbet, I excused myself and went to the lobby. I had noticed a bank of pay phones there, and I wanted to call Mom and check on her.
     
    Mrs. Braddock answered the call and said Mom was fine but that she was sleeping. I returned to the dinner.
     
    I reached my place just in time to be served a plate of roast beef and vegetables - and to hear another speech.
     
    Then came the salad course. After dinner? Oh, well. I decided I had been away from New York too long. I was losing my grip on sophistication.
     
    I ate the salad, called Mom again (she was still fine and still asleep), and this time returned just as coffee was being poured and dessert was being served. Dessert was white chocolate mousse, but guess what the waiter brought me: a goblet of fresh fruit, topped with a strawberry.
     
    Then came another speech. This one was made by ... my father. He didn't seem at all nervous as he adjusted the microphone, or as he talked about how important the company was to him. He spoke for nearly ten minutes. The very last thing he said was, "I am especially honored that tonight my daughter Stacey could be here to share in this event. Thank you all very much. And thank you, Stacey." Dad started to sit down then, but Mr. Davis stopped him. He joined my father at the podium and said, "Not so fast," which made everyone hoot and laugh again. Mrs. Barnes stood up, too, and together she and Mr. Davis presented Dad with a plaque, thanked him for his years of service, and congratulated him on his new position.
     
    That was the end of the speeches. Also the food. I checked the time. Ten o'clock! Oh, my lord. I wanted to catch the six-thirty A.M. train. Luckily, people were starting to get up then.
     
    "Okay, Dad, we better leave, too," I said.
     
    "Now? Before we have a chance to dance?" The people who had stood up were now moving around the square of bare floor. (So that's what it was for.) "I have to get up at four-thirty tomorrow morning," I informed Dad.
     
    "You're kidding." I shook my head.
     
    Reluctantly, Dad left his party.
     
    Chapter 12.
     
    I am not at my best early in the morning. I am particularly not at my best at four-thirty in the morning.
     
    Neither is my father.
     
    Guess what time we had gone to bed the night before. Midnight. We were running on a measly four and a half hours of sleep'.
     
    See, Dad couldn't just walk away from his dinner. He (and I) had to say good night to Mr. Davis and Mrs. Barnes and about fifteen other people. Then, as we walked through the ballroom to those double doors, people kept stopping Dad to talk to him. So between that and a ride with New York's slowest cab driver, we didn't turn out the lights in the apartment until 11:54.
     
    When the alarm rang at four-thirty, I truly could not believe it. "Didn't I just go to bed?" I mumbled into the darkness.
     
    I stumbled to the bathroom and washed my face in an attempt to wake up, but I hadn't bothered to turn on a light, so the water didn't do me much good.
     
    "Dad?" I called. I knocked on his door, then returned to my room, sat on my bed, and rubbed my eyes. At last I dared to turn on a light.
     
    "Oh, spare me," I moaned, squinting into the brightness.
     
    Finally I dredged up enough