“Sure. I’ll accept your funny comebacks as payment.”
He smiles and goes back to his coffee. “That’s a good thing, sweetness, ’cause I’m not exactly rolling in it. The Parsons tuition fees are killing me.”
My face drops and I suddenly feel bad about receiving the scholarship money. Jake deserves it as much as I do. And if he’s going to be my best friend, I should be able to tell him about it. I also feel torn between my pact with Maddie and my loyalty to Jake. Maybe I can convince Maddie that Jake is family and that the secret of our family connection is safe with him? Until then, I’ll keep my mouth shut, but it’s tough and makes me feel guilty.
“Parsons is expensive. And the cost of living in New York is through the roof. I’m on a budget, too,” I say to commiserate. The fact of the matter is that I do need to watch my spending. My parents give me a monthly allowance and it’s enough to manage but not much more. So far, I haven’t felt the need to get a job but we’ll see how that goes.
Jake remains uncharacteristically silent. My guess is that money really is a sensitive issue for him, so I decide to change the subject to lighten the mood.
“What about your secret collection?” I ask.
“I have been working on it,” Jake whispers, raising his eyebrows, then wiping his lips with a napkin.
“Oh really? When?”
“At night, after work, and on weekends. I started a few weeks ago before school started. I don’t sleep much.” He takes a slug of coffee as if to make his point.
“What have you done so far?”
“I’ve collected some magazine clippings, patterns, interviews, and Instagram photos related to my concept. Inspirational stuff.”
“Fantastic. I’m already feeling inspired.”
“After I develop my design chops here at Parsons and then intern with an experienced designer, I’ll be ready to launch.”
“I know your design chops are strong already. You need to own it, my friend.”
“All right, if you say so,” he says pensively. “I do have a confession to make.” He leans in to me, lowering his voice. “I have a new muse. She’s been keeping me inspired late at night and lighting up my world. I’ve been drawing sketches like crazy.”
Oooh, is he talking about me? My god, I’m so flattered. I’ve always wanted to be someone’s muse but never felt like I was particularly captivating. I’m not sure what to say.
“Yes, I met her at a cocktail party last Saturday” — not me, then, I realize with a pang — “and she’s the world’s most delicious woman — after you, of course,” he gushes.
I’m so silly. Why did I jump to conclusions? And why do I feel so jealous of this person?
“Who is she?” I ask in a fake perky voice.
“A fashion blogger from Russia who lives in New York. She’s alluring and fascinating; you’d totally love her, Clem. She’s the perfect muse for my collection.”
“It sure sounds like it,” I say, trying to show some enthusiasm.
“You see, she’s paralyzed from the waist down. Terrible ski accident in her teens. But she’s got an incredibly positive attitude and a love of life. She’s totally amazing.”
“Wow,” I say, feeling underwhelming all of a sudden.
“She has a huge following — she’s witty, stylish, and gorgeous,” he says with much admiration in his voice.
“I guess like attracts like. What’s her name?”
“Adelina,” he coos. “I plan to use her as one of my models.”
He pulls out his cellphone to show me her Instagram profile. She looks like a modern-day Grace Kelly. There are shots of her wearing a bright vintage coat, looking like a 50s movie star. In one photo, she has red lips and a matching sequined scarf. In another, she’s sporting a colourful purple dress and vintage Hermès Kelly bag, just like the one Cécile used to carry. She also has the coolest vintage cat eye glasses I’ve ever seen.
“You’re right. She is perfect,” I say, biting my lower lip. Why do I feel so insecure all of a sudden? Why am I envious of someone I’ve never met? I try to shake out of it, but it’s not easy. Was I expecting an exclusive friendship with Jake? It feels weird to admit it, but I guess I was.
“I plan to create designer pieces for people in wheelchairs, like her. It’s high time the fashion world paid attention to people with physical disabilities.” He’s grown melancholic and I know he’s thinking about his mom. “I plan on making Adelina famous, too, in the process,” he says, with an air of determination.
“I don’t doubt it for one second.” I’m impressed by Jake’s idea and his awareness. How many other young designers are concerned with representing physical diversity?
“What kind of features will your clothes have?” I ask, curious.
I can tell Jake’s happy with my question. “Well, pants are usually too short for people in wheelchairs, for example. You need to remove excess bulk in the crotch area,” he says, pointing at the crotch of his low-rise baggy jeans. “And add more room for the shoulders and arms to make movement easier.” He clearly has done his research.
“This is super interesting,” I say, my mind spinning fast. I’m taking mental notes. This is exactly the kind of thing I plan to cover on my blog. “I’m sure you could find some sponsors for your project.” I bet lots of companies and organizations would gladly partner with him.
“Mm-hmm. But I’m not ready to launch yet. Far from it, actually. I need to save up some money and get some corporate experience.”
This makes my stomach clench again. I know Jake could use my scholarship to launch his collection.
“I get it,” I say, twirling a lock of hair, trying to come up with some ideas. Maybe I could share some of my money? Or invest in his concept?
“It’s important I get it right,” Jake says, lowering his voice while eying all the students around us, sizing up the competition. “It’s a tough market out there, sugar pie. I need to execute my plan carefully.”
He sees me frowning and immediately leans into me. “I’m sorry, Clem. I don’t mean to monopolize the conversation with my business plans.”
“No, no, Jake, please don’t apologize. I think your concept is amazing. I’m just trying to think of ways to help you.”
He smiles, revealing his dimples and the gap between his teeth. “Ah, thanks, honey. I’m glad I have a friend with such a big heart.”
Ouch.
“Did you know Parsons offers grants, scholarships, and fellowships? The list is available on the school website. I bet you could find one to help with your project,” I say, trying to be helpful without revealing too much. “I think there’s even a scholarship for social innovation. You should check it out.” The truth is I saw it when I collected my cheque in the administration offices yesterday.
His eyes grow wide with excitement. “Really? My god, Clementine, I knew you were special when I first met you, but now, I’m convinced heaven must be missing an angel …” He stands up and does a charming butt dance like Cameron Diaz in that old movie Charlie’s Angels. His hilarious dance moves have the students in our class laughing out loud. A few even pull out their phones to film him.
I just hope Jake has the last laugh and finds some financing. He totally deserves it.
The question is, do I?
Chapter Ten
After checking my new phone for the umpteenth time to make sure it really is activated and daydreaming about Jonathan during the greater part of the class, I decide it’s time to kick some derrière. After all, the scholarship money is both an honour and an investment in my future, so I’m not going to let it go to waste. I know most students would kill for it, including my friend Monsieur J.
Hearing about Jake’s project and new muse got my competitive juices in gear. It’s called healthy competition when your friends boost your work ethic.
After class, I make my
way to the library with my laptop to do some research.
What am I doing? Studying other bloggers. I’m looking for inspiration and I’m not leaving until I find a strong visual signature. I told my graphic designer I’ll have this figured out quickly so he can finish my website. I’m also curious to find out how some popular bloggers do their thing — what angel dust do they sprinkle on their online presence to make it into the big leagues? I want to understand how they write and what kinds of content and pictures create the most engagement with their readers.
I jump from blog to blog, taking extensive notes, comparing styles, design graphics, bios, and outside links. I become entranced by this dreamy digital world that unfolds before my eyes in the form of countless pictures and videos — pages and pages of online beauty and style. These bloggers have become superstars in their own right, attracting media attention from all around the globe. I want to achieve what they have. I know I can do it.
I then spend time on their impressive social media accounts. All the heart-stopping images taken on exotic beaches and other fabulous locations around the globe take my breath away, too. And the selfies — my god, the gorgeous selfies — making it all look so effortless. But I know it’s not.
I wonder how much time they spend on primping before taking these photos? And how many photos they snap before capturing the perfect one? And more importantly, how they can afford such lavish lifestyles? Many of these girls have closets more impressive than top fashion editors and Hollywood celebrities.
I’m not naive — I know many of the pictures are Photoshopped. I’m also aware that most of the fashion bloggers get freebies and get paid for their posts — with money, clothes, makeup, and travel. Many of them don’t bother saying that their posts are sponsored, which is totally offensive. I also know how easy it is to manipulate your image, making it look as though you have a fabulous life when in fact the reality is far from it.
I was really impressed when Australian Instagram sensation Essena O’Neill publicly called out her own so-called “fake” Instagram life. The gutsy teenager with more than half a million followers suddenly quit after describing Instagram as “contrived perfection made to get attention,” winning her praise from around the world, but also criticism. People didn’t believe she was authentic. The social media world can be so harsh. People thought she was being fake when she quit because of how fake it was!
I never paid any attention to Essena O’Neill but I admire her bravery. She said, “Social media isn’t real — so please stop worshipping me.”
My reaction: I didn’t worship her before, but I do now.
Ultimately, my own goal is to inspire, teach, and make young women feel good. To make my blog stand out, I’m thinking of sharing creative imagery with purpose — maybe I’ll even add poetry and interviews with leaders in the fashion industry.
But more than anything, in addition to writing about diversity, I want to share my passion for quirky fabrics, vintage dresses, and colourful and bold designs; promote up-and-coming eco fashion designers; and do it all in a new way that involves collaborations with talented artists. Most of all, I want to make Cécile proud.
After I’ve looked at a dozen blogs or so, I decide to pick out colours and graphics. I’m leaning toward a blush pink and a modern design accentuated by vintage flowers. I play around with big black roses on an empty canvas for a few minutes, when, from the corner of my eye, I catch Ellie walking into the library. She’s with a group of students from our class. No surprise, they’re all dressed in black and grey. My bright jacket makes me an easy target for their smirks and condescending looks. I shrug it off and go back to the web. A few seconds later I get a tap on the shoulder. For some reason, I was kind of expecting it.
“Hey, what are you working on there?” Ellie asks, hovering over my shoulder. I quickly close all my windows. I don’t want her to know about my plans and I don’t want to give her any ideas.
“Nothing. Just browsing the web.” I crane my neck to look up at her. She looks surprisingly feminine today with violet and purple eye shadow, a line of black liquid liner, and nude lips. It’s not something I would wear — purple clashes with my complexion — but it works on her. But it’s not enough to make her seem any less hostile.
“It looks like you’ve got a secret project or something,” she whispers, staring down at me with crossed arms.
“Like I said, it’s nothing. I just like to read fashion blogs.”
“Really? My little finger tells me you’re working on a project that involves Cécile.” She cocks a groomed eyebrow and her eyes look right through me like two laser beams.
This conversation has to end; Ellie is giving me the creeps. It’s not easy to keep my cool under such intense scrutiny, but I hold her gaze until she finally backs off. It reminds me of a scene I saw on the National Geographic channel of a woman interacting with a group of wild cheetahs. As soon as she stood up and stared right at them, they ran away.
She walks away looking strangely miffed, while mumbling something (probably nasty) under her breath. I just hope she didn’t see my blog concept. I should’ve reacted more quickly when I first saw her come in. In addition to dealing with competition on the web, I need to watch my back for the school sharks. I’ve heard the stories. One student’s design portfolio was stolen by another unscrupulous student, who sent in the stolen portfolio along with an internship application. The other student got the job instead of the actual designer, which created a scandal at school. I do my best to put it out of my mind.
After I open my laptop again, I see Stella sauntering toward me with a warm, ready smile. What a contrast.
“Bonjour, Clementine, it’s so nice to see you again. How are you doing?”
“Great. I’ve met lots of interesting people and the school is amazing. I’m already sinking my teeth into some research.”
“Really? So soon?” She stares at me quizzically. “What for?” She looks down at my computer and her eyes stop on the graphics I picked for my blog. She nods approvingly at my page. I grit my teeth in frustration. Why is everybody interested in what I’m doing? But I’m not worried about Stella. She’s a former law student, after all. She must have strong ethics.
“I’m taking it easy this week and working on my personal stuff,” she says. “I think we’ll be inundated with class projects soon enough. Would you like to join me for coffee later? I’m meeting friends at the cafeteria downstairs.”
I hesitate. For some reason, the invitation seems to lack sincerity. Or something. But I decide it’s just me being paranoid again; not everyone can be as authentic right away as Jake. “Sure, why not? I’ll see you there,” I say, and I wave as she walks away. I’m thankful there are some decent people around.
I shake my head at Ellie, who keeps looking my way, and sigh, whispering to myself something Jake would say: Don’t worry, Clem. You got this.
Chapter Eleven
“So, what are your big plans? Do you want to be a designer?” I ask Stella over a cup of tea that afternoon. She’s sitting with her entourage. My question gets some strange looks from her friends and I lift my shoulders, wondering what the fuss is about.
“They’re laughing because I already am a designer,” Stella says confidently, tapping her red fingernails on the table.
“Oh really?” I feel silly for not knowing about this. Does she intern for someone famous? “Sorry, I didn’t know. I’m from a different continent, remember?” I add.
She rolls her eyes. “Right. Well, my designs were featured in every major teen magazine, but it’s nothing, really,” she says with faux modesty.
“Wow, that’s amazing. What is it that you do?” I ask.
“I create decorative stick-on patches. Like these.” She pulls out her phone; its case is covered with stickers of stars, suns, emojis, unicorns, coffee mugs, flowers, and tiny avocados. I really like it; the look is fun and playful.
>
It only now hits me now that all of her friends have stick-on patches on their handbags and running shoes. I should have picked up on it sooner.
“Congrats. You’re so imaginative.”
She looks down into her cup of coffee. I hope I didn’t say anything wrong.
“How long have you been doing this?” I ask.
“Almost a year. The concept really took off.”
“You’re an inspiration for the rest of us. I’ll have to tell Jake about this. He’ll be impressed.”
“Right,” she says, staring down into her cup of coffee again. That’s odd. She looks uneasy about me telling someone about her idea. Maybe she and Jake don’t get along. Who knows?
“Where do you find your ideas?” I ask, as if interviewing her for my blog.
She responds by staring down at her shoes. I guess she’s being modest.
“I sketch the designs based on what my friends and I think are cool. I began by creating patches from draft sketches and adding them to my sneakers. It caught on like wildfire. Can you believe it?”
“Is that why you left law school? To pursue studies that match your business?” I ask. I am in awe of Stella’s enterprise and, I must admit, a tad envious.
“Yes, you could say that I much prefer the creative side of things. I mean, as designers, we can hire lawyers, but we can’t farm out the design of our business, right?”
“I admire your drive. Bravo,” I say, before taking a last sip of tea.
“Oh, it’s nothing. It’s all worth it in the end,” she says nonchalantly.
I wonder how she’ll manage to run her business and keep up with her studies and class projects. She must work day and night.
“I saw that you have business plans of your own, am I right?” Stella asks.
“Don’t we all,” I say breezily, not ready to share too many details about my blogging plans. It’s far too early in the process. Besides, I don’t have anything set in stone yet.
Bonjour Girl Page 5