Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Letter from Ann M. Martin
Acknowledgment
About the Author
Scrapbook
Also Available
Copyright
“Look at the stars arriving in their limos, folks. It’s the opening night of the New York Film Festival. Everyone who matters in the film world is here — actors, writers, directors, producers. Here comes this year’s hottest new filmmaker (looking gorgeous, I might add). It’s the uniquely talented Stacey McGill!”
I tore myself out of the fantasy and glanced at my friend Abby Stevenson. “Here’s where the crowd’s cheers become so deafening you can no longer hear the announcer,” I explained.
Abby wore an amused expression. “Uh … Stacey … everyone is staring at you,” she pointed out.
Glancing around the Stoneybrook Middle School hallway, I saw she was telling the truth. I guess my announcer’s voice had been louder than I realized.
Cringing, I covered my red face with my hand. “Oops,” I said.
Emily Bernstein had been part of my audience. She’s a friend of Abby’s and mine. “A little excited about the film class, Stacey?” she asked.
“Just a little,” I replied, lowering my hand.
“How could you tell?” asked Abby.
Emily shut her locker. “A wild guess,” she said with a laugh. “I signed up for the film class too. I’ll see you later.” With a wave, she walked down the hall.
I turned back to Abby. “Now that I’ve made an idiot of myself, let’s get to class.”
“If you’re going to be in film, you have to get used to being in the public eye,” said Abby as we started to walk down the hall together.
“But I want to direct,” I explained. “I don’t want to be a star.”
“How about a model?” asked Abby.
“Thanks,” I replied. “But no.” People have told me before that I should think about modeling or acting. I’ve tried both. Modeling and acting are fun but hard work. And neither one interested me enough to consider as a career.
But I do like to watch movies and figure out how they might have been improved. To be honest, I’m just plain wild about movies in general. I love old movies, new ones, art films, and big blockbuster adventures. I suppose you might say I’m a movie maniac. So I thought I might be able to direct. “Acting seems glamorous, but directing sounds more challenging,” I explained.
“If you were a director, you’d still have to appear at movie premieres and do interviews and stuff like that,” Abby reminded me.
“True. Though I don’t think there will be a lot of media coverage of a film class being offered at a middle school in Stoneybrook, Connecticut.” I didn’t care, though. Just having a chance to be in this Short Takes class was exciting enough. How many other thirteen-year-olds get to have that experience? Not many.
Short Takes are mini-courses that run for only three weeks at Stoneybrook Middle School, otherwise known as SMS. The subjects are always interesting — Modern Egyptology, Contemporary Political Campaigns, Music Composition, and Architectural Design, to name just a few. Students learn things they couldn’t find out about in their regular courses.
This time, not only the programs would be unusual, but the teachers would be too. They were all professionals in their fields. Real composers would teach the music classes. Working archaeologists would talk about Egypt. And the moviemaking class would be taught by Carrie Murphy, a director who’s won tons of awards.
Her movies are documentaries, and I really don’t follow those. But I knew about her work anyway. We’d received a page of biographies for all the visiting teacher-professionals. Carrie Murphy’s bio listed the awards she’d won, including an Academy Award nomination for a short film on Aborigines in the outback of Australia.
I’ve been fascinated by movies ever since I went to the movies with my parents when I was five and saw a rerelease of Disney’s Cinderella. And being a New Yorker by birth I’ve had the chance to see most of the newest movies as soon as they come out since they usally show in Manhattan first.
Not only do they show there, but some are filmed there. Once, when I was eleven, I spent a Saturday afternoon with my friend Laine watching a movie being filmed on a street in downtown Manhattan. (I lived in Manhattan until that year.) Our parents were eating in an outdoor café halfway up the block, but Laine and I kept running down the street to watch the movie being filmed.
The street had been blocked off with wooden sawhorses. Big trailers lined both sides of the street, and huge lights on poles had been mounted everywhere.
Laine and I sneaked past the sawhorses and stood between two trailers to watch. It was amazing to see actors I recognized standing around, waiting for their scenes. Some rehearsed their lines. Others talked to the director. Like real people!
Someone turned on a rain machine and the actors walked into the fake rain, getting soaked. The man and woman were supposed to be so in love that they didn’t mind walking in the rain.
Laine and I laughed as the water blew our way. But we didn’t move from our hiding spot between the trailers. We were too excited to care about getting wet.
Since movies are always being filmed in New York City, our parents took it for granted. But for Laine and me, that day was magical.
That was one of the last exciting things I did with Laine, because not too long after that my family moved here to Stoneybrook. Eventually, Laine and I grew apart, becoming two very different people.
If we were still close, I’d have lots of opportunities to see her. That’s because I often go to Manhattan to visit my dad. He and Mom are divorced now. He lives there and she lives here. It’s not a super-long train ride, and I enjoy being in the city with him.
I have another reason to love going to the city. My boyfriend, Ethan, lives there. He’s sixteen, an art student, completely gorgeous, and totally wonderful.
I met him while I was baby-sitting for some city friends of ours who are artists. Baby-sitting is something I love to do. I even belong to a club called the Baby-sitters Club, or BSC. I’ll tell you more about that later since it’s a pretty important part of my life.
That Friday, I daydreamed through most of my classes. I imagined making a movie about the life of an art student, starring — Ethan! He’d make a great movie star. I could see myself filming him as he worked, went to class, and studied at museums.
I imagined working day and night without a break to create the finished film.
In reality, I’d have to take breaks to eat from time to time. If I didn’t, I’d be imagining myself in the hospital.
I have a condition called diabetes. When you have diabetes, your body can’t regulate the amount of sugar in your blood, because it doesn’t produce enough of a hormone called insulin. It’s serious, but it doesn’t have to ruin your life. It definitely doesn’t ruin mine. I do have to pay strict attention to what, and when, I eat. No sugary snacks, and I can’t let myself get too hungry. I also have to give myself injections of insulin every day.
I’m used to all this by now and it doesn’t bother me. But I guess in a more accurate fantasy I’d be working on my film with a plate of carrot and celery sticks by my side. As soon as I’d worked out that hitch, I had no trouble imagining myself at the Academy Awards. And the winner o
f the best short-subject documentary is … Stacey McGill, for Portrait of an Art Student.
How cool would that be!? (What would I wear?)
“Earth to Stacey! Come in!”
I turned toward Emily, who had sat down beside me in study hall. We didn’t have assigned seats, and I hadn’t even realized she was sitting there. “Oh, sorry. I was daydreaming.”
“No kidding.” She laughed. “I’ve been trying to get your attention.”
“Oh, sorry. Why?”
“I was wondering what your second choice was for a Short Takes class.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what will you take if you don’t get into moviemaking?”
“Nothing!” I gasped. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might not get in. What a horrible idea! I had to take that class.
“We’ll get in,” I said to Emily. “Don’t you think so? I mean, won’t we?”
Emily just shrugged.
Well, this was something to worry about. My heart was set on taking that class.
“I know a movie you can make, Stacey,” Claudia Kishi suggested that afternoon. She tossed her long, black hair over her shoulders and lifted her hands dramatically as if framing the opening title. “Attack of the Giant Idiot — The Alan Gray Story.”
I laughed and flopped onto her bed. We were waiting for the other BSC members to arrive for our meeting. “What’s the big moron done this time?” I asked.
Alan Gray is what you might call the class clown of the eighth grade, though some of us think of him as the class annoyance.
“Today I had permission to go to the art room during study hall and work on a wood-cut print for a T-shirt,” she explained. “I was involved with my print so I barely paid attention to Alan when he came in and left. Then I picked up my T-shirt — and Alan had written across it with permanent marker.”
“Oh, no!” I cried. “What did he write?”
“ ‘I love Alan Gray,’ ” she reported, rolling her eyes. “As if! He must have done it right there in the room when I wasn’t looking. And I wanted to finish it today so I could wear it to the Museum of Modern Art with you tomorrow.”
Claudia and I were planning to take the train into Manhattan together and go to the museum with Ethan. Claudia is my best friend, and I like to share my other life with her whenever possible.
“You’ll look great, whatever you wear,” I assured her. I meant it too. Claudia is the most artistic, original person I’ve ever met. You can see she’s creative just by looking at her, because she puts her personal touch on everything she wears. Today, for instance, she was wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt (which she dyed herself) under a pair of white overall shorts. But these weren’t ordinary overalls. She’d painted a rain forest scene over the entire fabric. It made her look like a walking mural. The forest canopy was up by the straps, and mushrooms, rocks, and little lizards sat at the hems.
It doesn’t hurt that she’s beautiful. Claud is Japanese-American, with flawless skin and a killer smile.
How does she maintain her great skin, shining hair, awesome smile, and normal weight, when she practically lives on a diet of junk food? I have no clue! Somehow she manages, though. Her parents don’t approve of the potato chips, popcorn, snack cakes, and candy she loves, so she hides them in her room. Any time you lift a pillow or move a blanket, you’re likely to find some cellophane-wrapped treat.
Or you might find a Nancy Drew mystery. Those are Claudia’s other secret treats. She keeps them hidden because her parents think she should be reading other, more “intellectual” books.
After thirteen years, Claudia is still a bit of a shock to her parents. Their other daughter, Claudia’s sixteen-year-old sister, Janine, is a real-life genius. She’s also quiet and studious, like Mr. and Mrs. Kishi. Then there’s Claudia, blazing into their lives with her messy creativity, independent spirit, and terrible grades.
Nearly all of Claudia’s energy goes to art, with almost none left over for school. She pays only as much attention to it as she’s forced to. Her spelling is beyond atrocious. She even had to move back to the seventh grade for a while, so she could catch up on all the work she daydreamed through the first time around.
But, good grades or not, Claudia is one of a kind and I’m glad she’s my best friend.
“Stace, it’s almost five-twenty,” she said, glancing at her digital clock. “Everyone will be here soon. Let me go down and get your carrot sticks.”
“Thanks,” I said. Claudia is in charge of hospitality, and she always makes sure there’s something I can eat, along with all the junk food.
We meet in her room every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon from five-thirty until six. Claudia hosts the meetings because she has her own phone number and phone. So when clients call us here to book sitting jobs, they don’t tie up her family phone line. There are six of us, so clients can almost always find a sitter.
“Hi, ’bye,” Kristy Thomas said to Claudia as they passed in the doorway. (On meeting days, Claud leaves the front door open so we can let ourselves inside.) Abby was with Kristy. They’re neighbors, and Kristy’s oldest brother, Charlie, often drives them to meetings together.
Kristy slid into Claudia’s director’s chair, her usual meeting spot. Abby stretched out on the rug, letting her head drop onto her arm. “What are you doing? Yoga?” Kristy asked her.
“Yeah,” Abby replied, looking up with a grin. “This position is called the sleeping dog. You do it when you’re tired but you still have a sitting job and homework ahead of you.”
“In other words, it’s a catnap,” I commented.
“Exactly.”
“Well, wake up,” Kristy commanded. It didn’t surprise me that Kristy would have no patience for fatigue. I doubt she’s ever experienced it. She’s a bundle of energy.
Kristy was the one who thought of the club and started it up. She’s also the president, the driving force behind everything we do. Whatever she does — whether it’s run the BSC, or coach the kids’ softball team she started, or spend time with her friends — Kristy throws herself into it one hundred percent.
Kristy is not about appearances. Her style is sporty — mostly jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers. Her long brown hair is usually pulled back in a ponytail. You’d never guess she lives in a mansion in one of Stoneybrook’s richest neighborhoods. Her stepdad, Watson Brewer, is a millionaire.
Kristy’s not impressed by the mansion. She’s just glad it’s big enough for all the kids and pets in her family. She has three brothers (two older and one younger), an adopted two-and-a-half-year-old sister, and two younger stepsiblings from Watson’s first marriage. Kristy’s grandmother also lives with them. Add pets to that and it’s one hectic household.
Just two houses down, Abby’s home couldn’t be more different. Abby’s large house (I’m not sure if it counts as a mansion, but it’s close) is often empty. That’s because her mother, who is an executive at a publishing company in New York, leaves early and comes home late. She’s probably the same thing people call my father — a workaholic. That’s someone who is overly devoted to his work and puts everything else second. Abby says her mom only became a workaholic after Abby’s father died in a car accident back when they lived on Long Island.
Anna, Abby’s twin sister, is away from home a lot too. She’s very devoted to her violin and is often working with the orchestra at school, taking lessons, or performing. And, when she is home, she’s busy practicing.
Although Abby and Anna are identical twins, they’re not much alike. Not even in looks. They wear their dark, curly hair differently — Anna’s is shorter, while Abby’s is longer. They both need glasses, but their frames are different. Or one might wear glasses on a day the other is wearing contacts. And while they both have health concerns, the problems are different. Anna wears a brace under her clothing to correct a curved spine, a condition called scoliosis. The brace is hardly noticeable. And after a few years, Anna will be done with it.
Abby h
as a touch of scoliosis too, though hers isn’t severe enough to require a brace. Abby’s health problems are asthma and allergies. She always travels with two inhalers because she never knows when she might need them. Neither problem stops her from being a terrific athlete; she just has to be prepared.
Abby and Anna also have very different energy levels. Anna is serene, able to sit for hours and concentrate on her violin. Sitting still drives Abby crazy. She has to go, go, go. Even her mind can’t stop. It’s always thinking up jokes and wisecracks. (Although at the moment her go-go energy seemed to be taking a little break.)
“Hi, everybody,” Mary Anne Spier said as she entered the room ahead of Claudia, who had returned with my snack. Stepping over Abby, she asked, “What’re you doing down there?”
“As my Grandpa Morris would say, my get-up-and-go got up and went,” she replied.
Mary Anne stared at her. “Where did it go?”
“I don’t know, but if you see it, tell it to come home.”
“Okay.” Mary Anne didn’t press the issue any further. Of all of us, I think Mary Anne might be the one who is best at not expecting life to provide tidy answers to all its questions. Maybe that’s because her own life has taken so many twists and turns.
Her mother died when Mary Anne was a baby. For a while she lived with her grandparents because her dad, Richard, couldn’t cope with single parenting on top of grief. As soon as Richard pulled himself together, he wanted Mary Anne back. Her grandparents didn’t want to give her up, but Richard finally convinced them that he’d be a good dad. And he was, although he was pretty strict for a long time. Mary Anne had to battle for every little freedom.
Then one day Mary Anne befriended a new girl in school, Dawn Schafer. Dawn and her brother, Jeff, had moved here with their mother because their parents had recently divorced. Their dad stayed in California, but Mrs. Schafer wanted to return to her hometown, Stoneybrook. Dawn and Mary Anne discovered that their parents had dated in high school. They connived to get them to go out again, and it worked. In fact, it worked so well, they got married. So Dawn and Mary Anne became stepsisters.