“That was some burn you pulled on me.” I fake-punch Sandra on the arm, trying for a tone of friendly complaint. “What’s up with that?”
I don’t know what I’m expecting. That she might apologize, I guess. That she might say she wasn’t thinking, or she was in a bad mood over something else. I guess I’m hoping for anything that’ll make me feel better—make me recognize my friend again. Instead, I get a blank look that says, What burn? What are you talking about?
I look over at Willow. She was in singing class too—she knows what I mean, right?
Willow’s eyes have gone all big and shiny, like when she’s gazing on a dear little animal creature and her heart is melting with love. “You sounded good today, Adina. You muffed the first notes, but you pulled it together. You have no reason to be ashamed.”
Nope, she doesn’t know what I mean.
I feel the bump and slide of bodies squeezing past me on the steps. I steady myself against the railing, leaning into Sandra.
“It’s no big deal, Adina.” Sandra brushes me off. “Don’t be so sensitive. You’re the one who says show business isn’t for wimps.”
I guess I am. Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better.
The first bell goes, and my friends head in. I tell them I’ve forgotten something. I’ll be there in a minute. The crowds are moving inside. I duck out of the way, under the railing, and sit, dangling my legs over the edge of the steps. I just need a second to think. Did I get it wrong? I remember the look on Sandra’s face before we were caught talking. She meant to get me in trouble. Or am I being a suck?
Then I feel a sharp jab on my head—“Ow!”—and a football lands in my lap.
What the—?
The football owners are laughing. One of them has his hand over his mouth in apologetic shock. Another is doubled over with laughter, and the third is frantically waving that I should toss it back to him. “Pass it!” he shouts.
If I had a penknife on me right now, this football would be a flat mess.
I tuck it under my arm and crawl back under the railing, acting like I’m taking their football into school with me.
“Hey!” Impatient Dude shouts again, so I turn around. The second bell goes. I don’t need his stupid ball anyway. I hurl it, trying to drive its pointy end into his face the way he did to me. But I can’t throw for beans, and it falls short.
I storm inside to the sounds of hooting laughter.
Ten
The sewing room is on the top floor of Seth’s house, tucked under the slanted roof. A round window peeks onto the quiet street below. Seth’s mom has an elaborate present-wrapping station in here too. I guess once you get started with all those little drawers and compartments for sewing supplies, storing gift-wrap gear is an easy leap.
There’s a dressmaker’s mannequin in one corner. Seth says his mom doesn’t use it anymore. I wanted to make our costumes on it, but he says it’s only for specially tailored clothing. He says our costume design is much simpler than that.
When they were little, he and Jill spent lots of time in here, Seth says. Lucky for the rest of us in the act, because Sandra, Willow and I know squat about sewing.
Not that everybody in Fashion Show bothers sewing costumes. Some acts wear regular clothes or get props from the dollar store. Last year there was an act that dressed up in baggy animal costumes, which must have been rentals. If you have baggy costumes or big skirts, I’ve noticed, it helps make the dancing look more pro. The movement and swirl distract from the different ways people move their bodies, as well as any mistakes in steps or timing. That’s why we’re doing our costumes with a very loose and easy fit. Our tunics will swirl and glitter along with our dance moves.
We’ve been up here most of the afternoon, and I’m pretty impressed with Seth’s knowledge. We drew up basic patterns on craft paper from his mom’s rolls of gift wrap. We cut three short dresses, for me, Willow and Sandra. At first Seth would have nothing to do with the shimmer fabric for himself, but I suggested he could make a necktie with the extra, and he got into that idea.
Now he’s running seams on his mom’s sewing machine. “It’s semiprofessional,” he tells me, winding thread through tiny hooks and holes. “Double the speed of a regular household sewing machine.”
We’re working on my tunic first, since I’m here to model it. Seth is already wearing his shiny tie. It hangs loose around an open collar. His shirtsleeves are all rumpled around his elbows. This is the only swag way to wear a tie, Seth insists. He does look cute. He gets this intense frown every time he runs another seam, like he’s driving a car or something.
He bites off the thread and slips the tunic over my T-shirt and jeans. In the show, we’ll wear these over dark leggings, so the color will really stand out. I swish the fabric, swaying a little, and the dress looks like molten gold. I do some of my moves in front of the mirror.
“Hold on.” Seth is coming for me with a pincushion. It’s true—the tunic is sliding off one shoulder when I dip forward.
“It still has to be sexy, right?” I remind him. It’d be nice if the costume stayed put, but I’m afraid we’re going to lose the fluid lines if he messes with it too much.
“Stop worrying,” he growls through a mouthful of pins. “And stop fidgeting.”
He releases me, and I do my dip again. This time the tunic stays on. I do a full turn. I move closer to the mirror, trying to figure out what he’s done to the neckline. It doesn’t look ruined or anything.
“Don’t prick yourself,” he says. “Take it off, and we’ll sew it down.”
But I don’t want to. I do a half turn, looking over my shoulder at the way the fabric flows down. Seth said something about cutting on the bias. That’s why the fabric falls in such a twisty, flowing way. It uses up more fabric, though, which is why the tunic barely covers my butt. As I sway back and forth, I see that it’s definitely worth it. The costume accentuates every move, glinting and glittering even in daylight. Imagine it under stage lights.
I smile at my image. “Seth, you’re amazing! You’ve got skills, man.” I can see him behind me, leaning against the sewing-machine table. He’s got a strange expression on his face, somewhere between surprise and pain. He uncrosses his arms and comes up to the mirror. I can’t see his face anymore, but his hands are moving across my shoulders, checking the neckline.
“You look, ah…” Seth’s voice has gone scratchy. He clears his throat. “Really, really good.”
Everything goes still. I hold my breath. Seth sounds very serious, and we’re not usually serious together. I’m so glad I can’t see his face right now. Can he see mine in the mirror? I lower my eyes, avoiding my reflection.
“Thank you.” It comes out like a squeak. I manage to stutter, “You look really good too.” After all, it’s what I’ve been thinking all day. I can at least return a compliment.
I want to turn around—I’ve been standing in front of this mirror forever—but I’m scared of what will happen if I do. Will he move away? Will he try to kiss me? I don’t know which idea scares me more.
“That’s the costume?” I jump—practically out of my skin. Seriously, Jill’s voice could shatter glass.
Seth scrambles back to the table. I carefully remove the tunic, avoiding pins.
“It looks nice.” Jill leans against the doorframe.
“What do you want, JJ?” Seth has buried himself behind the sewing machine. I pass the tunic over. He starts flicking levers, twisting knobs. Jill grabs both sides of the doorway and leans in, giving her shoulders a good stretch. She doesn’t actually come in, but she doesn’t seem eager to leave either.
“No, I’m just saying. It’s a good idea, your costume.” She slides down to the floor and plants her feet on the other doorjamb, making herself into a V. I think she’s planning to be friendly. I sit on the edge of the armchair, which is already full with Willow’s and Sandra’s cut-out dresses. Seth’s head is down, over the humming machine.
“Our costumes kind o
f suck.” Jill sighs.
I nod, trying for a sympathetic look. I don’t know what to say. Jill seems gloomy—distinctly unDonnaesque. I pick up the flat fabric pieces, still pinned to their patterns, and smooth them across my lap. “I chose the material. Seth is the design genius.”
Jill laughs. “You can thank Mom for that. Come the apocalypse, Seth and I will be able to make fabulous clothes out of squirrel hide.”
A giggle pops out of me. Who knew Jill was so dark?
Then she turns serious. “You’d think Dawn and Sofia would listen to me about our costumes.” She goes on to complain about these pale-gray unitards that Sofia’s mom picked up at a dance sale. Sofia and Dawn want to add raggedy bandages around the arms and legs to complete the monster look. “But that’s the Mummy,” Jill is saying. “Frankenstein wore a blazer.”
“Frankenstein’s outfit is not sexy,” Seth says and gestures for me to pass him another tunic. I take my finished dress from him with both hands and lay it across the back of the armchair.
“That’s the problem,” Jill agrees. She explains that now Dawn and Sofia are obsessing about getting skinny for the unitards instead of polishing their moves for the act. “I left them at Dawn’s place, probably still clicking on weight-loss ads. They’ve begun a dieting competition to motivate each other. How stupid is that? They made me promise not to blab to our moms about it.”
“It can be hard keeping everyone focused,” I say, thinking of Willow storming out mid-rehearsal in the big gym and my little spat with Sandra. Seth and I were talking about it. We agreed that we should all stay professional and not let our personal stuff get in the way.
“Be cool—eyes on the prize,” is how he puts it. He promised to talk to Sandra and Willow if I would forget about what Sandra did to me in singing class.
“Sure, it’s our last year doing Fashion Show, but Sofia and Dawn are taking things too far, you know?” Jill’s long legs flutter to the ground, and she stands up. Seth hands me another dress, and I pass him the last fabric pieces. Jill shakes out her legs as if they’ve gone to sleep. She’s being super nice about our costumes. “The idea is way smart. It works with every body type and gives good drama.”
But when she turns to go, she pauses, a superior expression creeping across her face. She leans into the room again—this time with menace. “If you ever tell what I said about the diet, or your costumes, I’ll kill you both.” She whips around and stalks off.
Did she really just say that? Prima Donna stings are different from ordinary wounds—they hurt, but you can’t say exactly where. I turn to Seth, my mouth hanging wide. Seth rolls his eyes.
Eleven
Do you ever think that maybe dreams can tell the future? Last night I dreamed we were in art class, working on our self-portraits.
In real life, the art teacher is making us do self-portraits in a tiny-square collage technique. She’s got this massive pile of magazines for us to cut up—old copies of Canadian Geographic, Elle, Maclean’s. They’re already half shredded from other classes, but they’ve still got lots of colors and patterns. We’re supposed to use little paper squares to build a bigger image of ourselves. And we can work from a mirror if we want, but not a photo. Willow’s doing a pretty good likeness of herself with squares from this spread she found on southern Arizona. Sandra’s going for a pop art interpretation, à la soup can, or Marilyn Monroe, using lots of intense colors.
I’m going for what our teacher says is a symbolic approach, because I’m adding all this stuff that’s important to me. Also, I’m making myself blue—like Krishna in Mom’s books on Indian art—just to be different. And I gave myself extra arms to hold my violin, a heart (to represent my friends and family) and a cloud (which is supposed to represent the airy spirit of imagination). I have to admit, I’m regretting all these extra bits. It’s getting complicated with the tiny squares. I should have stopped at blue. But if I change now, I’m afraid the teacher will decide I’m not dedicating myself to the project, and give me a lower grade.
Anyway, that’s what’s really going on in art class. But in my dream last night, it got weird.
In my dream, we were all working at the long, paint-splattered tables. Everyone had their little piles of snipped squares. A couple of kids were over by the magazine stacks, riffling through them. The sun was streaming through the windows. I saw Sandra’s hands—complete with green-painted fingernails—brush paste on a square before patting it onto her picture. Willow was standing back to squint at her own work, hair dancing with static in the dry air. She was standing in that way she does, knees bent, shoulders rounded, trying to hide her height.
Then she started whispering to Sandra, who was still gazing down. But I could tell Sandra was listening.
I always work across the table from them—but in this dream it was like they didn’t see me. Then something happened to my eyes, or my imagination, and the whole scene broke down into little squares. Except they were more like cubes, because this was a 3-D image.
All the shades and shapes that made up my friends, the bright windows behind them, and the teacher moving through the class, nodding and pointing, were made of these little cubes, or boxes. It was almost like when you blow up the pixels in a computer image, only more real.
And then the cubes that were Sandra shimmered and shifted as she turned to Willow, who was still speaking. (It was like a silent movie, this dream.)
Then Sandra started shaking with laughter, as if Willow had said something funny, and Willow smirked back. She looked up over Sandra’s head, straight at me. Willow knew that I was watching. They were laughing about me.
That’s when I woke up, my heart thudding. I took a few breaths and rolled over. In the dark, I forced myself to imagine a different scene.
This time Sandra was still looking down at her art, but instead of laughing, she was nodding at what Willow was saying. Willow glanced up, her face brightened, and she waved to me like, Hey, where did you go? We’ve been waiting for you!
That was better. I could breathe again.
In this second version everything looked normal. All the funny cubes were gone. Which makes me think of how many different ways you can look at a thing. Are Willow and Sandra as I usually see them, as solid people? Or are they a collection of possibilities, always shifting and changing? Maybe that’s what art is for—to help people make sense of crazy questions.
I don’t usually wig out like this, but I’ve been waiting a long time to try out for Fashion Show. I want us to at least audition—at least give it our best shot. And I can’t do it without Sandra and Willow.
I shake my head to chase away these fluttery thoughts. Dumb dream. So useless.
Twelve
“The curb’s coming up,” I tell Sandra, who’s holding on to the crook of my arm. She’s wearing the in-flight sleep mask our drama teacher handed out. All the assigned “blind” people get one. As Sandra’s assigned helper, I’m supposed to guide her through the streets. Back in class, we’ll all share our experiences. This is what our teacher calls partner work.
We’re getting funny looks. But in this neighborhood, people should be used to this kind of thing. Last week the engineering students at the university paraded in pink hard hats, shouting their heads off.
“Ow—crud!” Sandra stumbles up the curb. We’ve just started, but already she is puffing like an angry dragon. Well, okay, the puffs billowing from her mouth are on account of the cold air. I must look dragon-like too. She peeks from under the sleep mask to see the ground.
“Put it back.” I sound like I’m talking to my kindergarten reading partner.
Sandra huffs. “This is stupid. Nobody’s here to make us do this, Adina. How about dropping the turbo mode? I vote we blow this off.”
I sigh. At least I got her halfway up the hill. “How about we switch? I’ll wear the blindfold.” We have to keep moving anyway, because it’s freezing out here. We may as well do the drama exercise.
Sandra joyfully rips off the fl
ight mask and shoves it on my head. Everything goes dark. Suddenly I notice the sounds and smells of traffic chugging by. I feel someone squeezing past us on the narrow sidewalk.
“Okay, I’ll lead—but we’re getting fries!” she says.
Fries are a good idea. Our teacher never said we couldn’t snack. Sandra grabs my arm and starts pulling me downhill and around the corner. She must be headed for the souvlaki place. They serve a massive cone of fries for only two dollars.
“Watch out!” I’m screaming at the same time as I’m laughing. Her mad dash is making me trip all over myself.
“C’mon, just take the stupid thing off—I’m cold and hungry!” She jerks at my hand and my feet tumble forward. They catch on something, and I go down.
It’s as if volts of electricity are shooting through my wrists and knees. For a second I’m on all fours, then I tip over, like a tree. “Ooh…”
People are around me, murmuring, helping me up. I flex one wrist, then the other. Feeling like I’m stuck in slow motion, I push the sleep mask onto my forehead. Then I’m really blinded, the sun is so bright.
“It’s partner work,” I hear Sandra explaining.
“I’m all right,” I assure everyone, blinking as they come into focus. I rub my knees. Sandra holds the door open as I limp into the restaurant. She helps me find a place at a table near the cash register, then gets in the queue to order fries. I pull up my jeans to examine my bruised kneecaps.
“You okay?” Sandra calls. The line creeps forward. She moves forward with it. Now that she’s in speaking range, she says, “You should’ve ditched the mask when I said.”
What? The freaking mask is still on my head, so I tear it off and whip it at her.
Sandra picks it up from the floor as she advances a few steps more. “Seriously, Adina. You’re way obsessed with doing everything right. It’s too much.”
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