Stories from New York #3 by Elizabeth Cody Kimmel

suspended from the ceiling. They made me think of Narnia—the fantasyland that lay on the other side of some coats just like these.
    I was about to say that the room appeared to be empty when, suddenly, a rack of long winter wool jackets seemed to wobble. A hand emerged from between two sleeves, followed by a person.
    “I was afraid you were that Constantia person,” the girl said. “She’s like a platoon sergeant with lipstick.”
    The girl had reddish hair that hung perfectly straight at chin level and small, pointy features. She wore leggings, a long tailored jacket, and a fat purplescarf wrapped several times around her neck. She wore no makeup and didn’t look much older than me. She was fresh-faced and very pretty. If I hadn’t spent the last hour talking about her, I would never have recognized her. But there was no mistaking it. This was definitely Quincy Vanderstan. I couldn’t believe how casual she was being.
    “I’m Paulina,” I said. “This is Dakota, and that’s Ivy.”
    Ivy smiled and gave a little wave. Dakota was absolutely frozen. She didn’t seem to be able to move.
Self-assured Dakota is starstruck
, I thought.
    “Ivy?” the girl asked. “One of the four magazine girls?”
    Looking mystified, Ivy nodded.
    “Garamond mentioned you this morning. Something about you coming up to the shoot with four questions. I love the name Ivy, so it kind of stuck with me. Someone stopped me on my way here, and I told them I was you. Sorry—hope I didn’t get you into trouble. I needed to blow off some steam for a while.”
    “Uh, no problem,” Ivy said.
    That explains why Garamond thought Ivy had already been on thirty-four,
I thought. How did Quincy manage to look so normal—so totally unrecognizable?
    “I guess everyone’s looking for me,” Quincy said.
    “Yes, they are,” I said. “We were looking for you, too.”
    “Oh, I can be such an idiot,” Quincy said, walking over to the rack of fur coats and running her hand along them. “It wasn’t even any of the people here I was mad at—it was my mother.”
    “What happened?” Ivy asked. “Not that it’s any of my business, but…”
    “Oh please, I made it the whole magazine’s business by leaving the shoot,” Quincy said. “Garamond, who is a sweetheart by the way, was going over some ideas for what I should be wearing for the shoot, and he started showing me the coolest steampunk dresses he’d pulled when my mother interrupted him and said no, I need to have a more timeless, sophisticated look. She wanted me in Chanel or Halston, not that she could pick either of them out of a lineup. I’m eighteen years old, and my mother is standing there talking over my head, telling somebody what I have to wear. I had a long flight last night, and I had to get up way too early this morning, and I was cranky. I just blew my top. My mother snapped at me and got all angry, and when everyone was running around pulling gowns for her to look at, I just slipped out.”
    Dakota blinked a few times, like she’d just awakened in her own body.
    “Steampunk? Do you mean the Violetta collection?” she asked.
    “Yeah!” Quincy said. “They were Violetta. How did you know?”
    Dakota visibly relaxed, obviously relieved that she had found the power of speech again.
    “I’m an intern here. I got to sit in when they were laying out the article about her Milan collection,” Dakota said.
    “Oh, I was actually at that show,” Quincy said. “That’s what got me into steampunk in the first place. My mother hates it, naturally. So here I am. Constantia came in here looking for me before, and I just couldn’t face her. She’s so…proper. So I ducked into the coatrack until she left. Did everyone go ballistic?”
    “Oh, they’re all frantic,” Dakota said cheerfully. “The whole building is talking about it.”
    Good one, Dakota
, I thought as Quincy covered her face with her hands. “Oh no,” she groaned. “This has all happened so fast. A