Charlotte Chamberlain was girl who loved clothes. She loved every possible type and style of clothes. She loved 50s era high-waisted polka dot skirts and pink blouses, she loved 60s and 70s bell-bottomed jeans and hippie vests, and she loved all the short shiny skirts and leather jackets from the 80s. She adored the 90s grunge style. She lived for all the modern clothes from the runways, and featured in Vogue and Cosmopolitan. Charlotte was in love with her clothes.

Whenever someone walked into her closet, led by a sophisticated, energetic, and proud Charlotte, usually they went into shock. Her huge closet, the size of most rooms in other houses, went on for 50 feet on all sides. It featured huge vintage mirrors, white dressers, cutout magazine pictures from Charlotte's weekly subscriptions, and hundreds of pieces of clothing. Charlotte sorted her clothes by type, color, and what she called The Wear Factor. This was how often she wore sky-high denim shorts were at the very front. The old fairy Halloween costume from last year was at the back.

Charlotte also loved people. She greeted every person she saw at the Piggly Wiggly, when she went shopping for dinner. She laughed along with people at the post office, when she went to mail something. She even chatted with the mean club manager, Mr. Todd, when she went down to the Rose Acres Country Club to get a tan. She brightened everyone's day.

When Charlotte walked out of the club after giving Mr. Todd a hug and some flowers on a random day in June, she was feeling great. She had just gone shopping, and was still shop-high from that. She had gotten a great tan at the club, and she was ready to have dinner with her boyfriend, Jamie. Charlotte knew this was the night. The night every girl dreamed about. The night Charlotte had been waiting for for seven years. She could not wait. Suddenly she got an interesting feeling. She felt like her stomach was caving in. She knelt over next to the concrete ivy wall next to the club door. What was happening to her? She lay down on the ground, suddenly exhausted. Ms. Johnson, the owner of the club, walked out at that point, and stopped when he saw Charlotte.

"Ms. Chamberlain?" He gaped at her.

Charlotte did not speak. She was paralyzed in pain and fear.

"Ms. Chamberlain!" He quickly whipped out his phone and called 911.

"911, what's your emergency?" The voice was calm.

"Yes, um, a woman has just collapsed and she won't move or talk. I think she's unconscience."

"Is her heart beating or do you hear breathing?"

Mr. Johnson knelt next to her and listened.

"She's breathing and her heart's beating." His voice was relieved.

"Tell me your address. We will send help as soon as possible."

Mr. Johnson did, and after they hung up, he breathed out.

What had happened to her? He wondered.