Babyface: A Young Adult Story of Sisterhood and Devastating Family Secrets in New York City - Softcover

NORMA FOX MAZER is an award-winning novelist and a faculty member for the Vermont College MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults program. Her books have received a Newbery Honor, a Christopher Award, an Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Juvenile Mystery, a National Book Award nomination, and other honors. She lives in Montpelier, Vermont.

CHAPTER 1
TONI HAD ALWAYS thought of herself as lucky. Toni Luck, she called it. She was lucky in her parents, lucky to have Julie. Those were the big things. But what about the little things, like the way Paws had come to her, just showed up at their house one day and stayed? Pure luck. Or how about the way she was always finding money in the street? Usually it was only a quarter or a dime, but once she had found a ten-dollar bill, and another time a silver dollar. Julie said Toni was probably the only kid in the world who could take a casual walk anywhere and pick up her allowance on the way.
 Toni’s lucky feeling about herself was why she wasn’t even that surprised when a reporter from the Ridgewood Record wanted to write a story about her and Julie. Julie was the one who got excited. “This could be important. What if a Hollywood producer sees my picture—”
 “Julie, I really don’t think they read the Record in Hollywood,” Toni said.
 “But what if one did and saw me and thought, ‘By Jove, that girl is photogenic and has talent!’”
 “Don’t think they say ‘by Jove,’ either, Jul.”
 “Shut up, Toni.”
 “Whatever you say, Julie.”
 The Ridgewood Record came out once a week with news and articles about people in their town. Small-town paper, only about eight pages and filled with ads, the features squeezed in between. How the paper happened to run the article about her and Julie was, Toni thought, like a Rube Goldberg contraption. The kind of thing where you press a button and a window flies open, which hits someone in the head, who falls down and knocks over a chair, which breaks a dish, which wakes the baby, who bites the dog.
 The button in this case was Mrs. Abish, a widow who lived across the street at 92 Oak. One Sunday morning she got a yen for pancakes and noticed she didn’t have any maple syrup. She got on her three-speed bike and rode over to Paulsons’ Market, a mom-and-pop store on Poplar Avenue that was open from seven in the morning to midnight, seven days a week. Mr. Paulson happened to be in bed with a cold that day, so Mrs. Paulson was unusually busy, which was why she didn’t know someone had broken a bottle of syrup right at the end of aisle three. Which was why Mrs. Abish, coming around the corner, walked right into the sticky mess, slipped, and went flat on her back.
 “It must have been a glorious sight, me flailin’ around on the floor like a fat fish,” she said to anyone who would listen. Really she wasn’t fat so much as large, or what Toni’s mother kindly called well padded. “Look at me. I used to be a slip of a girl. I’m this way from the grand food in this country,” Mrs. Abish would say. She had been born in Ireland and rolled her r’s wonderfully.
 She came home from the hospital with her leg in a cast. It was the beginning of spring vacation for Julie and Toni, and they didn’t have that much to do, so they started going across the street to see if they could help Mrs. Abish, run to the store for her, or whatever. (Actually it had been Toni’s mother’s idea to begin with.)
 Mrs. Abish was delighted. “Is that you, loves?” she’d call when she heard their steps on the porch. Inside, she’d be sitting on the couch with her leg extended on a stool. Toni and Julie would sit down and talk to her for a while, then they’d dust or wash the dishes, whatever she wanted done. One day toward the end of va¬cation, when they went over, Mrs. Abish’s niece was visiting. Patricia Abish was a reporter, and Mrs. Abish had told her all about Julie and Toni. That was the beginning of the article. They were interviewed, they were photographed, everything very professional.
 The day the story appeared, Julie read the article out loud, with appropriate gestures. “In this day and age, when so many”—arms spread wide—“cherished”—hand to heart— “traditions have disappeared”—hand over eye, peering into the distance—“and parents wonder . . .”
 They spread the newspaper out on the floor and checked out the pictures. “You can hardly see me,” Toni said. In every picture (there were three) she was looking down, looking away, or more or less hanging out behind Julie. Not great, but she wasn’t photogenic like Julie.
 “My lips are sticking out,” Julie said. “Look at them, they poke out. Do they always stick out like that?”
 “Julie, your lips are beautiful. You’ve got full lips.”
 Julie stared at herself in the mirror, front face, then at each profile. “I might have to have my lips fixed. Some people get themselves full lips. I’ll get mine cut down.”
 “Julie, ugh! Sick. Don’t ever do anything like that.”
 “Oh, I couldn’t, anyway, it costs a huge amount of money. You have to be rich.”
 Toni’s parents bought a dozen extra copies of the newspaper. Her mother clipped the article and sent it to everyone: to Toni’s sister, Martine, in New York City; to her uncle in Paris; to her grandmother in Los Angeles. Her father framed a copy for the family room. He laminated another copy and took it with him to the fire station. The last time he’d tacked an article on the bulletin board there had been three years ago when the Record had run a feature titled “Men as Cooks.” They’d printed Toni’s father’s picture and his recipe for Pizza-in-a-Hurry.
 For a while it seemed as if Toni couldn’t go anywhere in the neighborhood without someone saying, “I saw your picture in the paper.” A kid she didn’t even know passed her and Julie on his bike and yelled, “I read about you two!” Mrs. Frankowitz, who lived in the corner house, stopped Toni to say she’d had an article written about her once, too. “I was even younger than you. I won a gymnastic competition,” she said, smiling, showing tiny gray teeth.
 What made it all even more embarrassing was that Patricia Abish had gotten so many things wrong. For instance, Toni’s mother wasn’t manager of Rite Bargain Drugs, she was assistant manager. Julie’s father was a salesman, not a businessman. And Mrs. Jensen hadn’t even started her door-to-door cosmetics business until a year ago. Little details like that.
 There were other things, too. She’d written that Toni and Julie’s parents were good friends, but really, it was more in the line of good neighbors who got together once or twice a year for a barbecue in the backyard. And Toni wished she only were slight. That sounded a lot better to her than skinny. Gaining weight was a big struggle. She had these elbows and knees—pointy, bony things. Julie said she could always use them as weapons in hand-to-hand combat.  Patricia Abish did get Julie right, tagging her as blond and blue-eyed, except that sounded so bland, so vanilla pudding. Exactly what Julie wasn’t.
 “What bugs me,” Julie said, “is that I never said you and I were alike.”  “I think she was being ironic, Jul,” Toni said.
 “Whatever,” Julie said. “I could list a hundred differences. Starting with cats.” Julie tolerated Paws for Toni’s sake. “But I don’t forget that he’s one of the sneaky tribe,” she always said. “He’ll lick your hand, then go out and kill an innocent bird.”
 “It’s cat nature to...