by Paula Chase
He put the phone away and settled back into the sofa, relaxed now.
“Come on, so I can beat you down, kid,” he said, grinning.
“Man, please. You down by fourteen. You ain’t catching this kid with that sorry QB,” Michael said.
“Watch me. I’m ready go on a roll,” JZ said.
He thought about Jacinta sneaking and lying to text with him. He was winning tonight, no doubt, even if it was only a small victory.
“I’m on a roll,” he said again, his smile a mile long.
The Next Level
“Take me to New York, I’d love to see L.A.”
—Estelle, “American Boy”
There were a few things Michael assumed he’d never see in his lifetime.
A fly pair of sweatpants. Wearing them signaled giving up, in his opinion. The things simply weren’t made to be worn outside a gym.
Snow in July.
JZ being sprung.
All bets were safe on the first two remaining as elusive as an endangered animal in the rain forest. But he couldn’t have been more wrong about that last one, because JZ was definitely sprung, gone, totally open over Jacinta.
He’d known JZ was texting Jacinta once everyone left last night.
First of all, JZ was mad that Jacinta dipped in the first place. He’d gotten that squinty eyed hurt look on his face, then he’d dogged Jacinta out by not walking her to the door—classic Jay.
Second, whenever it was Cinny texting or calling, the ring tone was always a pimplicious song like, “Playa’s Rock” or “Sexual Eruption.” Michael guessed that long ago, but had it confirmed when he’d mistakenly seen it was Cinny calling one day when JZ left his phone on the sofa.
Sprung.
JZ.
He’d wanted to give JZ grief about it, the other night, but JZ was working so hard to cover it up, Michael wasn’t so sure he’d see the humor in it. He settled for whupping up good on JZ in three Madden rematches.
The losses alone were sign enough JZ was preoccupied about something.
Michael shook his head and laughed softly into the silence of the Bay Dra-da theatre troupe’s sewing room, a gracious name for the dimly lit oversized supply closet the crew used for designing and fitting. Two sewing machines stood side by side, just far enough so people sewing wouldn’t crack elbows, flush against a drafting table strewn with Michael’s designs. Luckily, he was there alone. No more than three people could fit into the room at any given time and even then you risked someone poking your eye out if they moved too fast.
Forgetting about JZ’s text creeping, he relished the quiet of the empty school—loving the access being in the theatre troupe gave him.
The holiday break was just what Michael needed. It gave him time to work on his latest design without the interruption of classes or someone bumping him as he sewed. Time he should have taken advantage of instead of hanging with the clique all weekend, but it had been a while since he’d let them dominate his weekend. It felt kind of nice.
Yawning, he stepped away from the headless mannequin, finally giving it his full attention. He took another step and another until he was almost out the door of the tiny room.
Distance wasn’t enough.
He squinted at the formal baby-doll minidress, working unsuccessfully to convince his tired brain that the dress was as fabulous as the original sketch. Just a few weeks ago, it had been only a mass of shimmering pink and green tulle and an ambitious creation in Michael’s mind. Now, a sequined sweetheart bodice glittered above the wisps of tulle, hugging what would be cleavage if the mannequin had any.
He hated it. The green was too ... green, like a bag of frozen peas.
He loved it. The soft pink streaks within the green tulle and iridescent pink sequins peeked out just enough. Anyone thinking the dress was only green would be pleasantly caught off guard by the pastel highlights
A slightly electric buzzing in his veins coursed up and down his arms as he alternated between caressing the dress with his eyes and pelting it with darts of loathing. He stepped forward an inch, his hands itching to rip every seam and start from scratch. But his eye for fashion, knowing a good thing when he saw it, wouldn’t let him step any closer. He remained frozen near the door of the sewing room thinking how the dress would shimmer under real lighting. Sudden affection for the piece stopped the tingling in his hands and something like hope peeked around the dark cloud above his head.
“Another MJ creation, like it or not,” he said to the empty, dark cave.
He stuck his tongue out at the dress, immediately feeling bad. It wasn’t the dress’s fault he was having a fashion fit. The troupe’s latest production was. He’d spent the last few weeks before break bored out of his mind, hemming and sewing costumes for the upcoming production of High School Musical.
His eyes rolled. How original, a high school production of High School Musical.
It was the first time since he’d gotten the gig as assistant costume designer that he hated the costumes, since they were simply regular clothing—nothing daring or unique, only straight modern-day American school teen. Mr. Collins, the troupe’s director, hated Michael’s idea of adding a futuristic twist to the production so he’d have at least some challenge.
So he’d been stuck feeling like a child laborer in a third-world country making huge numbers of polos and reconstructing denim so it looked more washed or worn. Today was the first real time he’d had to work on his own creation in months. He sent a telepathic apology to the dress and went about compiling his sketches from the messy drafting table.
“Michael, it’s gorgeous,” Madame Jessamay’s voice said from beside him.
Startled, he held his breath to keep his thumping heart in check. He’d almost forgotten he wasn’t in the school totally alone—the troupe was in the auditorium, on the other end of the building, rehearsing.
Madame, a French teacher and head costumer, breezed into the room and beelined to the dress. Layers of satiny material flowed around her feet as if there were a fan up her long skirt.
Michael had never seen her wear anything else, no matter the season, in the two years he’d worked as her assistant. The skirts were always colorful, usually silk or cotton. When Madame Jessamay stopped, the skirts kept right on shifting and swaying like they had a life of their own. In contrast, she wore what Michael suspected was a leotard underneath. Never a shirt or blouse, but a simple one-piece stretch top, cut right to her not so ample cleavage. If she wasn’t a dancer in her former life, she wanted to be, because she was always dressed as if on her way to audition. All she had to do was drop her skirts and bam, hit a plié.
Madame Jessamay’s hands hovered over the blingy bodice of his baby-doll dress before moving on and delicately fingering the tulle. She picked at it gingerly and peeked underneath at the dress’s simple green satin body, the only (and most important) thing standing between the wearer and a long night of itching. She nodded as she hmm’ed and clucked, music to Michael’s ears.
He ventured as far into the room beside her as he could without invading Madame’s space and was still a few inches too close when she whipped around, a huge grin on her face. He stepped out of the way of her billowing skirt.
“You’re quite a talent, no?” Madame Jessamay’s eyebrow rose, and Michael grinned.
He loved the way she used the term no to mean yes, more music to his ears and confused heart. The dislike he’d felt for the dress minutes before was all but gone in Madame’s praise. Like a junkie needing a fix, her assurance arrived right on time. Michael hated that he needed it. This lack of confidence in his work was new, a monster growing by leaps and bounds the closer he got to senior year and the realization that being the assistant costume designer at Bay Dra-da could honestly and depressingly be the height of his career if he didn’t figure out where his life after Del Rio Bay High was going.
Madame Jessamay sat in the high-backed chair at the drafting table and gestured to the only other seat in the room. “Sit, Mi
chel,” she said, lapsing into the French version of his name, like she often did as if forgetting they were not in her class.
Used to it, he obeyed.
Madame Jessamay had a commanding presence. Part of it was the billowing skirts. Another part was her heavy French accent, which made it seem as if she was expecting—never asking but demanding—your compliance. As if it was the most natural thing in the world for everyone to do her bidding. Michael took Spanish and was glad for it. He’d heard Madame was a taskmaster and didn’t doubt it.
Although she’d always been nurturing with Michael, he’d seen her slice people down in the hallways with a look, usually followed by a tongue-lashing that ended with a terse no to indicate absolutely yes, the person was in the wrong. It was a side of her he gladly experienced only as a witness from the sidelines. He aimed to please Madame Jessamay and not just because he was a little intimidated by her. Michael adored her, maybe even worshipped her a little—something he’d never admit to anyone, not even Mina.
He sat in the small chair, looking up at Madame expectantly.
Her eyes glanced over his head at the baby-doll dress and another jolt of panic zigzagged up Michael’s arm as he convinced himself Madame had found a major blunder while inspecting it. Up close she wasn’t as impressed, and the boom after the praise was coming in five, four, three, two ... He forced his dark chocolate face to go blank as he waited, breath hitched.
“You know how good you are, don’t you, Michel?” Her head shook side to side in a tiny tremor. “No. No, you don’t.” She frowned, first at the dress, then at Michael. “Your body language is that of someone worried, no? Why?”
Michael resisted the urge to shrug. They weren’t in French class, but Madame treated everyone as if she were teaching a lesson. He’d learned long ago that shrugging, saying “I don’t know,” or otherwise feigning ignorance were sure ways to incur her wrath. Instead, he took a second and thought about his future, or rather how hazy his future seemed compared to the clique’s. Mina, Lizzie, JZ, Kelly, Todd, even Jacinta—the one person Michael had assumed wasn’t a whit interested in higher education—were thinking college. They talked about it constantly. His silence during the conversations was deafening. Sometimes it was so loud, Mina would catch herself rambling on about this school or that, smile at Michael, and throw him a bone by invoking the line, “And you’re gonna be doing big things in NYC, by then, Mike. Getting your Project Runway on.”
It was an afterthought though. He was an afterthought.
He loved the clique to death. He and Mina went back to preschool. He and JZ to kindergarten. He and Lizzie to fifth grade. And though he’d only been friends with Kelly and Jacinta since freshman year, they were all tight now in some way. Still, he’d cut back on major clique outings an ice age ago. Getting with them at Rio’s Ria for pizza, a few trips to the mall to help Mina outfit her wardrobe, gaming with JZ now and then, and the occasional impromptu pool party only peppered his time. Most times Michael was hanging with Rob, a dancer with the Players, Del Rio Bay’s theatre troupe, or working on a design—his own or Bay Dra-da’s—here, at home, or at the large workroom at the Players.
Sewing and sketching designs was an escape he welcomed from the drudgery of classes and, if he were being honest, the clique’s dating woes. When he needed a good dose of drama, he found his way back to them, happy to throw himself in the middle and offer drive-by advice. It worked for him, at first. But now, four months into their junior year, the clock to graduation was ticking so loud he felt like screaming to drown it out. Hanging with the clique only made it more obvious he had no idea what direction he was headed once he grabbed the diploma out of Mr. Patmore’s hand.
If talk of who Mina was crushing after or who JZ was hooking up with dominated their freshman year, scholarships, GPAs, and should I/shouldn’t I apply were all the rage now, not completely erasing talk of hookups and breakups, but edging them to the periphery of their daily discussion.
Seemed like when talk of the future came up, everyone else had an idea, if not an outright plan. Michael not only didn’t have a plan, he didn’t have a clue. All he knew was he didn’t want to go to college, not even one specializing in fashion. When he walked off that stage seventeen months from now, his long affair with institutional education was over, period. His grandmother didn’t like the fact much and his older sisters, who she called in for nagging reinforcement, weren’t crazy about it either—but Michael’s mind was made up.
And that was the problem. He knew what he didn’t want to do, but not what he did.
His mind raced from one blank spot to another in an attempt to identify “his purpose” while Madame Jessamay stared down at him, calm and patient. Shrugs and ignorance she disliked, thoughtful pondering she was cool with. In her warm green eyes, Michael saw the opportunity to tell the truth to someone who might possibly understand.
His breath unraveled within a soft hiss. He pinched the crease of his khakis between his thumb and forefinger, sharpening it before crossing his right leg over his left, and admitted what haunted his mind more and more often. “I’m good enough to make costumes for a high school theatre group, but then what?”
He shuddered inside at Madame’s wide-eyed surprise and fumbled ahead. “No disrespect, Madame. I know Bay Dra-da has one of the best troupes in the state. But ... you know, designing for y’all and designing for ...” He squinted, struggling to articulate himself. Unable to stop the reflex, he shrugged and ignored Madame’s pinched-face disapproval. “I don’t know. Somebody like Versace or even Ralph Lauren. It’s not like I’m that good.”
Madame chuckled. “You are humble, Michel. That’s what I love about you. I don’t know what Versace or Ralph Lauren or any other company might want in a young designer.” This time she shrugged and winked to bring Michael into the inside joke, before turning serious once more. “But I know the talent you have could take you far.”
The lilt of Madame’s accent soothed Michael. There was something musical in her words, the way “humble” was “umble,” “Lauren” was “Lah-wren” and “designer” was “dee-zign-air.” His brain finally got around to piecing together what she’d said instead of how she’d said it, and a shy smile played on his lips.
“You know Madame Zora, no?” Madame Jessamay said.
Michael nodded, knowing the question needed no verbal answer. Of course he knew Madame Zora. She was Madame Jessamay’s best friend—if that’s what grown women still called themselves—and the costumer for the Players. She was a former model/graduate of some fancy fashion school in Paris. She had a scar that ran from her eye to the corner of her mouth, a nasty gift courtesy of an overzealous fan at a fashion show that ended her modeling career and sent her on a soul-searching journey ending in Del Rio Bay.
Whenever Michael was around her, and the madames weren’t looking, he stared at the scar, fascinated by the price she’d paid for beauty. It was only a faint, dark line now, but one that would cost magazines a mint to airbrush, were she still a model. It also stood out like a Glow Stick in the night when she was angry, embarrassed, or excited—a raised, odd seam in the middle of her crimson cheeks.
With Madame Jessamay’s blessing, Michael had assisted Madame Zora on a few outfits over the summer. And when things were particularly busy at Bay Dra-da and the sewing room didn’t allow for chaotic alterations, Zora let them use her workroom. So yes, he knew Madame Zora. He looked on, curious, as Madame Jessamay continued.
“Zora sits on the admissions committee of the Carter School.” She nodded in affirmation as she asked, “You’ve heard of it, no?”
Michael did. His boy Rob was a student there.
“It’s the school of performing arts in DC,” he said.
“Yes, that is the one.” Madame waved, as if already mentally past the point. “Every year, Zora asks me to nominate Bay Dra-da’s most promising students. The Carter School’s music and dramatics programs are the best in the country. But so few of the parents here, in Del Rio Bay,
are interested in the life of a struggling artiste for their child, no?” She and Michael chuckled an insider’s laugh. Her hand waved dismissively again. “Dramatics, it is okay for school, but not profession, some parents say. Zora, she’s so angry that I never have good candidates to pass. She thinks I’m holding out on her, afraid of angering Mr. Collins by sending his best talent to Washington.” She snickered. “But maybe there is hope yet.”
Madame scooted off the stool. She walked over to the dress, touched the ruched bow under the bodice, and turned to face Michael. “The Carter School has a program for aspiring designers. It is new. A ...” Madame’s eyes rolled to the right as she worked for the proper word. “A trial,” she said, eyes shining. She walked over and stood by Michael’s chair. “The school is not yet sure fashion design is an art per se, not by their definition anyway. But Zora is a persuasive person and one of the school’s patrons. So they are willing to take her word that a program of this nature could benefit them. Zora, she’s impressed with your work. It is your work that convinced her that such a program for students so young would be a good thing.”
Michael listened, enthralled. His eyes locked with Madame Jessamay to glean the meaning behind her words.
“Applications for the first year are being accepted now until late February. It’s an intense, three-part process. An application, interview, and runway review.” Madame smiled at the gleam in Michael’s eye. She rushed on, spurred by his obvious interest. “If you were accepted, you would begin the semester in the summer.” She laughed at his frown, waving away his concern. “Yes, yes, it’s blasphemy to take away a young person’s summer, no? But this is a once in a lifetime opportunity, Michel. For the trial, the program seeks only high school seniors with a serious interest in fashion. You’ll work with some of today’s top labels and be mentored by fashion insiders. It’s worth giving up six weeks, no?”