by Heron, Farah
“What are you wearing?”
“My black biker jacket with those yellow wide-leg trousers I made.”
Mom nodded. “That would work. Make sure you wear a House of Tahira blouse, too.”
I shrugged.
Dad looked at me carefully. I hadn’t really seen much of him this summer, since it was usually Mom who FaceTimed. It was always harder to hide what I was thinking from him, especially when he was watching me like that. “What’s wrong? You don’t sound excited about this photo shoot today.”
I exhaled. I’d thought about my conversation with Nilusha the whole way home. And about how I would bring it up with Mom and Dad. I took a deep breath. “Guys, what if I don’t go to FIT?”
Mom put her spoon down. “You will get into FIT. Your grades are high enough; Sharmin’s been telling me about the success at the store. Even if you didn’t redo Lilybuds, I think it would work to focus your application on the success of the Lily line. You’ll have to do a real deep dive—”
“No, Mom. I’m not saying I won’t get in, but . . . would you guys be okay if I chose not to go there? If I went to another school for fashion?”
Samaya whistled the sound of a bomb dropping.
Mom glared at her, then turned to me. “But FIT has always been what you wanted,” she said, straightening her spine to look down at me. “It’s the best fashion school in the world.”
I rubbed my hand. “It’s the best, but the biggest, too. In a new city—a new country, even. I’m just . . .”
Just what? I wasn’t afraid of not being good enough for New York—that wasn’t it. I didn’t really know how to explain it. All I could think about was how Gia was acting today. Putting others down so she could stand out as a model in a shoot with twenty-five other models.
I tried to smile. “Have you guys ever looked at the stars outside of the city?”
“The stars in New York are pretty much the same as here,” Samaya said. “Same hemisphere.”
“No, I’m talking about out in the country, not New York City. Where there is less light pollution, and you can see hundreds more stars. Thousands.”
“Of course,” Dad said. “Remember when we rented that cottage in Muskoka a few years ago? The night skies there were spectacular.”
I smiled. “Bakewell’s like that. It freaked me out at first—I didn’t think it was right for there to be so many stars. But . . . those stars, they’re here in the city, too; you just can’t see them. Because there is so much else going on, these ridiculously bright things can’t even be seen. That’s what I’m afraid of in New York.”
“But, Tahira, the brightest stars will always be seen,” Mom said. “You have to believe in yourself.”
I shook my head. “This isn’t a low-self-confidence thing. It’s just . . . the fashion world is cutthroat. I know that with hard work and hustle, I can make a name for myself. But all that hustle—for fame, followers, for bigger platforms—none of that is why I want to be a designer.”
“Of course it’s not,” said Mom. “But it’s how the game is played.”
I sighed. “Maybe. But after talking to Nilusha today, I’m wondering how necessary it is to be already playing that game. Or if it’s necessary at all. People do make it in fashion without thousands of followers first. I was so excited for the Bloom with my friends this weekend. Dropping out upset people I care about. And what did I do it for? To be seen. Not for what I actually want—to design.” My voice cracked. “I disappointed people I care about because I thought I needed to be seen, but my friends, the people who matter right now, already saw me.”
Mom reached out and took my hand. “Tahira. I know it’s hard, but you’ll have more time with your friends later. Everyone has to make sacrifices—”
Dad put his hand out, stopping Mom. “What do you want, Tahira? From deep within?” He touched his fingers to his heart.
I shrugged. “I want to maybe explore different schools.”
Samaya made an explosion sound, and I glared at her this time.
“Which schools?” Dad asked.
I didn’t even look at Mom. “Nilusha went to Ryerson. There’s also OCAD in Toronto. LaSalle College in Montreal is excellent, too.”
“This isn’t because of your new boyfriend, is it?” Mom asked.
I frowned. “No. We’re not really . . . I’m pretty sure we’re done. But it is because my family is here. I’d like to be closer to home. And if I stay, maybe I can work with Nilusha while I’m in school.” I looked at my sister. “I can spend more time with Samaya, too. Honestly, I shouldn’t have left the Bloom. I’d made a commitment to my friends, and I don’t even know where my career will be in the future. A bunch of urban style influencers might not matter to me.”
They were both quiet for a bit.
Mom shook her head. “Tahira, you can’t do this halfway. No success comes without hard work. I thought this was what you wanted.”
“Being a designer is what I want. Honestly. I’m not doing this for the platform, or for followers, or fame. And I have every intention of working very hard at the part that matters. Design. The actual art. The flow. Losing myself in a project. Seeing something in my head and watching it become a real thing. Other people expressing themselves using my clothes. I still want that.”
My parents were both quiet for a while.
Those were all the same reasons why I’d fallen in love with floral design this summer, too.
“How can we help you now, Tahira?” Dad asked. “We can worry about college later, but what about the competition? Is it too late to go back?”
I hadn’t even imagined that as a possibility. “Probably. The competition is tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning.” Dad checked something on his phone. “Bakewell is only an hour and a half from here, and I love night driving. It’s been a while since we had a Janmohammad mini vacation. Sabina, Sharmin has a spare room, doesn’t she?”
“Um,” Samaya said. “Do I have to go?”
I straightened. “You guys would be willing to take me back to Bakewell tonight?”
Mom checked her phone. “I don’t have any meetings tomorrow.”
Samaya raised a brow. “Tomorrow is Saturday, Mom.”
“Yes, and I work for a hotel company. Hotels are open Saturdays.” She nodded at Dad. “We can go to Bakewell for the weekend.”
“All of us?” Samaya asked again.
Dad glared at her. “Yes, all of us. You can survive one weekend without your video games.”
I shook my head. “I can’t—I need to go to this bookstore at three to get a signed book. Leanne was going to drive to the city to get it tomorrow because it’s Juniper’s favorite author, but since I asked Leanne to take my place in the Bloom, I said I’d do it.”
Samaya’s hand shot to her mouth. “Oh my God, that’s adorable. She was going to drive all that way to get her friend a book?”
“Just call the bookstore,” Mom said. “They can have the author sign it and then mail it to you. They do things like this all the time.”
That would solve that problem. I assumed Gia would want to stay and still go to the rooftop party tomorrow night, though. I doubted Dasha would go ahead with the interview without me, so Matteo would lose that opportunity, but I honestly didn’t care if the guy who cheated on me lost a Dasha Payne profile. “But would the team even want me back?”
“Tahira—come on.” Mom smiled. “Call your friends! The worst they can say is no, and then you’ll be no more miserable than you are now.”
If I asked Rowan to take me back on the Bloom team and he said no, I would be even more miserable than I was now. But if he said yes—
Janmohammads always succeed. And we couldn’t succeed if we didn’t even try.
27
THE BEST OF BOTH OF US
I could hear Mom phoning Shar as I walked to my bedroom. I closed the door and plopped on my bed. I knew I’d promised Leanne I wouldn’t contact Rowan if I left the Bloom, but there had to be an exceptio
n for calling because I wanted to come back.
I phoned him.
He didn’t answer.
I texted him.
Tahira: I need to speak to you. It’s important. Can you call me?
There was no response for a while. Then I saw the three little dots appear under my message for what felt like hours. Finally the text came.
Rowan: I’m at work getting more plants.
Tahira: It’ll be quick.
My phone rang. “What’s up?” he said when I answered. He didn’t sound thrilled to hear from me. My heart sank.
“I won’t keep you long,” I said. I wanted to say that I missed him, even though I’d only been gone a day. I wanted to tell him about the photo shoot, about how weird Gia was being, and about how I was now questioning if I even wanted to go to FIT. I wanted to tell him about the hibiscus in the distillery, and about the churros dipped in chocolate. About how Matteo had the nerve to say he regretted cheating on me and he wanted me back. I wanted to tell Rowan that I shouldn’t have left Bakewell yesterday. I wanted to say so much, but I couldn’t. “About the Bloom. Can I come back?”
“What did you say?” There was a lot of noise in the background. I wondered if he was at the back of the greenhouse, where we took those pictures.
“Can I come back to your Bloom team?”
He didn’t say anything. Maybe he didn’t hear me again? “You want to come back,” he finally said. I could hear the disbelief in his voice. He was bitter. I didn’t blame him. “What happened to your fashion profile? I thought it was ‘important for your brand’?”
“I’d rather come back to Bakewell.”
It got quieter. Maybe he went outside. “I don’t get it, Tahira. You made it seem like this thing in Toronto was essential, and now you’re leaving it? This isn’t guilt or pity, is it? Because I—”
“It’s not guilt. I’d rather be in the Bloom than the fashion profile. Leanne can stay on the team if she wants—it would be just me coming back. Gia’s staying here.”
“Then why did you leave?” Rowan asked. “And I’m supposed to just take you back, just like that?”
Was he talking about the Bloom or our relationship? I understood his bitterness. He had taken a risk on me from the beginning. His first impression of me was that I was a flighty, social media–obsessed influencer thirsty for fame. He didn’t want me on his team. And the first chance I got, I dropped him for “exposure.”
The flowers he’d given me when I left were his goodbye.
I took a deep breath. “I get why you don’t trust me after flip-flopping like this. I’m not asking you for anything else. Not friendship, not more. Just this. Let me be in the Bloom. That’s all I want. Just the Bloom.”
“But why?” he asked.
“I’ll explain it to you when I get there, but trust me. The Bloom means more to me than staying here.”
Rowan was silent a few seconds, then sighed. “Our team needs to be at the festival grounds early tomorrow. Can you be here at the house by eight?”
I did a silent happy squeal. “Yes. My dad offered to drive me to Bakewell tonight, so I can easily be there by then.”
“Fine. June would have my head if she found out you asked me and I said no. Be in the garden by eight tomorrow. Oh, and the petal tips snapped again when we did another test run today. There’s just too much pressure on them. We’ve switched to my design. We built the chicken wire frame earlier, and I’m picking up the colored flowers now.”
“No problem. I loved your design. It’s going to be amazing. Make sure you get lots of colorful primroses and begonias. Thank you. I’m sorry . . .” My voice trailed off.
“We’ll talk tomorrow.” He disconnected the call.
He said yes. It wasn’t a lot, and he was clearly bitter, but he still said yes.
I needed to pack my things. I was going back to the Bloom.
I waited until we were on the road to Bakewell to call everyone. I called Dasha first. She was nice enough—all It’s cool, shit turns up. She promised we’d do something next time she was in Toronto. Or that I could call her whenever I was in LA. The offer sounded pretty fake, but the fact that she was being fake nice told me Dasha considered me someone she might need something from in the future. I called Matteo next. He was furious, of course. Without me he wasn’t getting the interview. I couldn’t make myself care too much, though. If he’d wanted to ride my coattails long term, his first mistake had been cheating on me.
Gia was surprised. “Why are you going back to Bakewell?” She said “Bakewell” as if it were Kansas or something. Which, I realized, was how I’d talked about the place when I first got there.
“I decided I’d rather do the Bloom than the Dasha Payne thing. You can stay and hang out in Toronto, though, if you want.”
Gia snorted. “Well, duh, I’m going to stay. Didn’t you hear who’s going to be at that pool party? I’m going bikini shopping tomorrow. Oh, you’ll never guess what happened after you left . . . Marcus asked for my number! We’re meeting up before the party tomorrow!”
“What about Cameron?”
“What about him? He was a summer fling. The summer is over. Hey, can you ask Shar if it would be okay if I don’t come back on Monday? I mean, there’s, like, only a week left anyway. I brought most of my stuff home this weekend, and you can bring the rest when you come back.”
Nilusha was right. Spending the day with twenty-plus influencers had brought out the worst in Gia.
“I’m not doing your dirty work for you. If you want to quit early, G, you call Shar.”
“Fine. I will. All right. I need to go. Byee!”
She hung up and I shook my head.
“I don’t get why you’ve been friends with that girl so long,” Samaya said.
I turned my head sharply. I’d forgotten my sister was sitting beside me in the car. I nodded. “Yeah, lately I’ve been wondering the same thing,” I said.
Lastly, I called Nilusha. She actually approved of me leaving. She made me promise to send her lots of pictures of the sculptures at the Bloom and told me we were going for churros again when I was back in Toronto for good.
After that call, I tossed my phone in my bag. I didn’t even want to look at it until I was back in Bakewell.
“Honestly, Tahira,” Samaya said, “when I get famous, I’m hiring an assistant to make all my phone calls for me.”
“I’m not famous.”
Samaya raised a brow. “Um, yeah, I know. I said when I get famous.”
I rolled my eyes. “How is a mathematician going to be famous?”
“Girls. Stop fighting,” Mom said from the front seat. “You’ll both be famous, and I’ll hire your personal assistants myself. Your dad will draw up the contracts.”
I laughed because it was so rare for the four of us to be in a car together. It was kind of nice.
Samaya pulled out her iPad.
“Whatcha doing?” I asked.
“Trigonometry.”
“You have, like, a week between summer school and real school, and you’re doing trig?”
“You’re not in any design classes right now, and you’re still designing.”
Touché.
But now that she said that, I pulled out my own iPad to refamiliarize myself with Rowan’s sculpture design. I’d loved it when I first saw it a few weeks ago, but I wanted to take a closer look now that this was the design we’d be building tomorrow.
It was, of course, striking. I’d made a minimalistic lily, while Rowan had made an extravagant iris. It had Rowan’s signature sculptural look, with twigs and lots of long grasses for balance. Filled with purple, white, and magenta begonias and primroses, and even some white hyacinths. At the time I’d preferred my sculpture, but now? I was glad we were doing the iris instead.
“That’s what you designed for the contest?” Samaya asked.
I shook my head. “No, this is Rowan’s. We each made a design, but we’re using his.”
Samaya shook h
er head, looking impressed. “Wow. You’re dating someone who is a better artist than you?”
I snorted. “Supportive sisters are really the best.”
She put her hands up, laughing. “Kidding, kidding. I personally like to surround myself with people at my level of genius at all times. Let me see your design.”
I brought up my flower on the screen.
“Ooh, I like that, too. I like how it’s kinda hourglass-y, but not. It looks like a dress.”
“A dress?”
“Yeah, look, turn it upside down.”
I did. And yeah, I could see what she meant. The lily blossom did kind of look like an upside-down abstract-ish minidress, with the petal tips at the hem.
“Always designing clothes,” Samaya said with a grin.
I laughed, but my mind was swirling with another image. I went back to Rowan’s design and turned it upside down. It sort of looked like a skirt. Moving quickly, I did a little bit of cut-and-pasting on the graphics app, splicing my upside-down lily over his upside-down iris.
It was a stunning gown. My slim, white flower was the bodice, and Rowan’s huge bloom was the skirt, with the longer iris petal as a train. I added some vertical striping to the bodice to simulate the stamen and pistil of the lily.
“Ooh, that,” Samaya said. “Can you make me that dress for prom? Except out of fabric, not flowers.”
It was gorgeous. With my stylus moving quickly over the iPad screen, I added more long grasses to give the impression of movement in the skirt, and some yellow primroses to the bodice.
“I like that better than both the other designs,” Samaya said, watching me work.
“So do I,” I said. It was strange—this was nothing like my, or Rowan’s, original design, but somehow it evoked the feel of both. “It’s too bad we can’t really make this for the competition.”
“Why not?”
I shrugged but kept adding details. “A little late to change the design. The competition is tomorrow.”
Samaya studied the screen, head tilted.
“What are you girls talking about back there?” Mom asked.
“Tahira drew this really cool flower sculpture that looks like a dress. It’s way better than the design they are actually doing for the competition.”