The Fashion Committee

by Susan Juby

  Before the contest I thought I was too deep to care about clothes, but maybe I was just sort of lazy and didn’t know myself.

  I’d tried for a respectable outfit for the big day to at least show Mr. Carmichael and the committee that I was grateful that I got to take part. I wore a shirt with a collar and a sweater. Clean jeans. My newest sneakers. I told myself I wasn’t dressed up for Tesla, but that factored in.

  I was getting ready to open the doors when a thin girl with hair mounded up into a helmet shape came out of the school, moving fast.

  “Hey,” I said.

  She stopped abruptly, her eyes widening. Up close I could see she was in her twenties, at least. Maybe older. She wore a plastic cape around her shoulders, and her face was painted off-white. There was a jagged red scratch down one cheek. Up close I could see that some of the hair was fake and dark ribbons and jewels were woven into it.

  She moved her head stiffly, like she was afraid the arrangement of hair might fall over or collapse like a soufflé.

  Keys jangled in her hand.

  She made a face at me—I have no idea what it meant—and kept moving into the parking lot.

  I could sympathize.

  I took a deep breath and went inside. When I reached the dressing room, I could tell right off that everyone else had been there for a while. It was all laughing, talking, music, excitement, vanity lights, and mirrors. Clouds of chemicals and perfume that had something to do with hairdressing hung in the air.

  Bijou and Tesla walked toward me.

  I didn’t know whether to look at Tesla or not.

  She’d put her hair up in a smooth silvery twist and wore a white blouse and neat black pants and flat shoes. She reminded me of someone who worked in a high-end art gallery. Not that I’ve ever been in a high-end art gallery, but I’ve seen enough movies to have a general idea.

  She veered away before they reached me, saying something I couldn’t hear to Bijou. Bijou showed me to my station and took my music. My station had a chair that could be raised and lowered with a foot pump. In front of it was a brightly lit mirror. The screens on either side and the rolling rack at the back made it feel semiprivate.

  I hung the dress on the rack, where it looked very small and simple, put the accessories on the counter, and waited. I’d told Esther to come at eleven forty-five.

  At eleven thirty Bijou and Tesla called us all into the hallway, where Mr. Carmichael waited.

  He told us the order—I was near the start, which suited me fine, and Charlie Dean was in the middle—and then he and Bijou and Tesla brought us out onto the stage and pointed to where the committee of judges would be sitting. There were chairs set out for the audience. A lot of chairs. Who was going to sit in them? Who’d want to voluntarily sit through something like this?

  Carmichael reminded us that our models work “both sides of the runway” and that they should pause to show off “all angles of the looks to the judges.”

  “Tesla?” he said. “Can you please demo?”

  Tesla climbed the stairs and took a position at the end of the runway, looking completely at ease. Then she walked along the long platform, pausing several times to turn this way and that until she hit the end and came back, pausing for longer in front of the judges’ chairs.

  Damn, she was three kinds of something.

  We stood in a ragged group at the far end of the runway, and as she passed us her gaze caught mine, and I felt something tear when she looked away.

  “After all the models have walked, they will come back onstage and take a bow. Then the contestants and models are invited to take refreshments and celebrate with family and friends while the judges deliberate. Tesla and Bijou will collect your croquis books and design materials now.”

  Before we trooped back into the dressing rooms, and the contestants gathered up our drawings and whatnot to hand in, Carmichael reminded us to put our names on everything. He finished with a warning.

  “The show will start on time, and we will not hold the show for anyone who is not ready. You will lose your turn. And that will be that.”

  Maybe I’d get lucky and Esther would be a couple of hours late.

  thirty-four

  HERE’S AN IDEA © CHARLIE DEAN DESIGNS:

  There is fashion even among thieves. Kidnappers are sweaty, desperate creatures. Armed robbers are often sloppy. But jewel thieves are style itself in black turtlenecks and nicely fitted trous. No matter what crime you commit, always dress like the jewel thief.

  DATE: MAY 4

  It is hard to stay focused on the positive when you have kidnapped someone, even if it is for the good of all concerned. The situation was kind of like a Russian constructivist sports ensemble.

  It was not the perfect fit for anyone, but at least it was simple and effective and made the most of les options limité.

  There were eleven of us in the show. I feel certain Charlie Dean was the only one holding un enlèvement victime while preparing her model. It was something of a distraction, but I overcame it as I did all things.

  When the janitor let us in, I led Mischa to the dark dressing room and we took the station farthest from the door so that we could have some much needed privacy, not only to get her ready, but also so we could consult about our prisoner who was really more of a guest, if you think about it without excess emotionalité. He should have been glad. Every moment in the van was one not in the custody of the gendarme, who do not approve of intoxicated and abusive ex-boyfriends of vulnerable women. They would not be giving him any leather seats to lean against or a nice cathode-ray TV to watch.

  When I had Mischa settled, I got to work, and in spite of the rather unusual circumstances and her nervous nature, Mischa settled down as I undertook her demanding hair and makeup.

  At ten forty-five Mr. Carmichael’s assistants showed up.

  “How did you get in?” asked Bijou, poking her head into my station.

  At first I didn’t answer, because I was weaving a ribbon into Mischa’s hair and dared not look away.

  “How long have you been in here?” asked Tesla.

  Mischa told them we’d just been inside for a few minutes.

  One of them may have muttered an unkind remark about taking advantage, but I couldn’t be sure, nor was it of concern to me under the circumstances.

  Soon the other contestants began to arrive. One brought speakers, and soon the room was filled with music and the soft murmur of voices and giggles.

  It was an exciting atmosphere of style and fashion. When I was sure Mischa’s hair was safely and securely arranged—it was as imposing as I’d hoped, the coif of an Elizabethan queen!—and I had her foundation on, I asked her to check on our guest and make sure he was in no distress. Charlie Dean has seen a lot of addicts under the influence in her day and was sure he’d be fine, but it was best to be safe.

  “He’s probably sleeping. But still, don’t get too close,” I whispered. “Think of your hair.”

  Mischa stared into the mirror at her dramatic coiffure. She gave a small moan like a door with rusty hinges. “I hate him, but I don’t hate him this much.”

  “Give it time,” I said. “You will.”

  Mischa was gone for so long, I considered going to check on her. I walked out of my station and surveyed the other stations. I considered looking for my art room friends—were they friends? I hoped so—but didn’t want to be rebuffed in such a competitive atmosphere.

  I felt a flush of excitement at the thought of seeing Jo. She was going to show something wonderful, I knew. Moments before I gave in to temptation and went to look for her, Mischa came back and climbed into the chair.

  “He’s fine,” she whispered. “Sleeping.”

  Then her gaze settled on her own reflection.

  “This does look amazing,” she said, and smiled.

  I loved seeing t
he smile on her worried face. I couldn’t wait for other people to see Mischa’s beauty brought into focus by my vision for her. Then my thoughts returned to Jo. I’d feel badly for her when I won, but there could only be one scholarship winner.

  As though my thoughts were a summons, Jo appeared behind us.

  “There you are,” she said. “What time did you get here? You were first, weren’t you?”

  Jo was the business in a leather jacket rolled to the elbows, tight leather pants, and a white shirt with white and red and black pattern printed across half of it.

  “Phenomenal work, Charlie,” she said, assessing Mischa’s hair. “You’re going to kill it. But not as hard as me.”

  Our eyes met in the mirror, and if I hadn’t been wearing my trademark bold blusher, she would have seen the red move up my neck and onto my face.

  Perhaps Charlie Dean would make a few moments for dating before her fashion empire was completely established.

  Jo came into my work area and leaned in close to me, her face serious.

  “Do you have a black eye?” she asked.

  I took a step back.

  “No. I mean, it’s just a small bruise. It’s nothing.”

  She frowned. “Do I need to set somebody straight?”

  My blush turned into burning embers.

  “No. I ran into—”

  “We fell,” said Mischa. She pointed at the scratch on her face. She lied easily. Convincingly. Like an addict. “I was on a step stool while she adjusted something on the dress. I took a wrong step, knocked her down. She scratched me. It was quite the clown show.”

  Jo watched us carefully.

  “Huh,” she said.

  I smiled. “Yes. It was dumb.”

  “Be careful today,” said Jo. She stared at me, hard. Then she was gone.

  Dazed, I went back to work on the finishing touches of Mischa’s makeup.

  “Well, that girl is as hot as two forest fires meeting on a windy day,” said Mischa, the boldness of her words sounding a little out of character.

  I didn’t answer.

  “She was flirting with you,” said Mischa. “Big-time.”

  A small giggle may have escaped me. Très embarrassant! The two of us sounded so foolish. And young. It was very nice, all things considered.

  I shook my head to clear it. This was how things went wrong. The designer became distracted. Between the fashion show and Jo and our guest in the van, I had more than enough to concentrate on.

  The thought seemed to occur to both of us at once, and we went quiet.

  This will all work out, I told myself. The fashion show will proceed. I will win. We will ask the police to collect our guest, who will get the help and correctives he needs. And all will be well.

  I would not let doubt creep in now.

  And so Charlie Dean proceeded. When Mischa’s makeup was complete and before I helped her into the dress, I took my turn to run outside and check on our guest. If one must detain someone for their own good, it’s important to do so responsibly.

  thirty-five

  MAY 4

  When B appeared at the entrance to my station, I could tell Booker hadn’t told her yet. She gave me a little wave, and I tried to smile at her. The plan had been for her to stay out in the audience with my grandparents. But here she was. Backstage.

  I glanced around to see if Tesla was in sight. She wasn’t, thank the sweet baby Jesus. This was not the place or the time for that conversation. For one thing, I had a headache that would have knocked over a steer thanks to all the chemicals in the air. For another, I am a coward.

  Esther swung her skinny legs in the chair. I’d explained how she was supposed to walk the runway, and she said she was nervous but ready. Sheryl and Edward stood on either side of her.

  “Okay,” I said to Esther’s foster parents, loud enough for B to hear. “I think family and friends should head for their seats in the audience soon. The show will start in about thirty minutes. I’ll shoot you guys a text if we need anything or if Esther needs you.”

  “Okay,” said Sheryl. She bent low to whisper into Esther’s ear. “We can’t wait to see you out onstage. You are going to be amazing. Because you are amazing already.”

  “Just amazing,” echoed Edward, who’d gone a little pale.

  Edward and Sheryl tore themselves away after reassuring Esther a few more times that they’d be “right outside” and “only a text away.”

  Barbra waited at the back of my station and said hello to them as they passed. Then she came to stand beside me, Esther in the chair between us. In the mirror we looked like a portrait of an inappropriately young family.

  “Can I help with anything?” she said. “I mean, with anything that’s not hair, clothes, or makeup?”

  “That’s okay.”

  She looked at the metal pieces arrayed on the counter.

  “These are terrific,” she said. “I get those. But the rest of this scene . . .” She rolled her eyes to show what she thought about fashion and this fashion show. “I guess some people don’t know that Settlers of Catan exists. Or books.”

  It kind of killed me that she had to say that right then.

  Esther watched us.

  “Are you going to do her makeup?” asked B.

  “We’re going to leave her face natural.”

  “Good decision.”

  “I hate makeup,” said Esther.

  “Me too,” said Barbra.

  There was another second of silence. Some strange new impatience grew in me, but I tried not to let it show. B didn’t deserve that.

  “Well, I’ll be out there watching. And cheering. Or cringing. Whichever seems appropriate.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Have you talked to Booker?” she asked suddenly. “He’s been dodging my texts. And my calls. I hope everything’s okay. We were supposed to come here together. He was so excited for today. Even though you said he wasn’t allowed near the models.” She met Esther’s eyes in the mirror. “I mean the older models.”

  Esther grinned.

  “I don’t know where he is,” I said. My stomach was a rock tumbler.

  “Okay. I’m sure he’ll be here soon. We’ll be waiting. And watching.”

  Barbra leaned in to kiss me. When she drew away, I saw Tesla watching us from the back of my station.

  When Tesla began to walk toward us, my brain scrambled for an explanation. An escape route. But all the doors were shut and locked.

  “Is this your girlfriend, John?” Tesla asked.

  My mouth was full of broken ashtray.

  “I am,” said Barbra. Understanding dawned on her face in stages. It was very hard to watch. She did not smile at Tesla, because Barbra’s not a liar.

  “I’m Barbra,” she said. “And you are . . . ?”

  “No one,” said Tesla.

  Esther watched all of this taking place in the mirror. The kid missed nothing.

  “Ten minutes to showtime,” said Tesla, her voice hollow. Then she walked out.

  Barbra stared at me like I’d just unexpectedly kicked her in the shin.

  “That girl smells like a mowed lawn.” Pause. “You probably should have aired the dress out, you idiot.”

  Then she turned and left.

  I closed my eyes for a minute, puffed out the breath I’d been holding, and got back to work making sure the ruff and headdress were secure on the frame I’d made to rest on Esther’s shoulders, tucked inside the dress. It was surprisingly heavy, and I wanted to be sure she felt comfortable moving.

  When I was sure it wouldn’t fall over, I pumped the lever on the chair to lower it. Esther still had to hop to get down.

  “You look cool,” I said.

  “Ninja private school fairy,” said Esther. “That’s what Barbra called it.”

>   “B’s got a way with the words.”

  Esther peered up at me, her face and wild cloud of curls framed by the web of wires that turned into hands that held a throwing star. It had been surprisingly easy to combine the star with the Elizabethan-style wire ruff and the hands. Wire is so malleable. Forgiving, even.

  “You’re in big trouble, aren’t you?” said Esther.

  Around us the other designers were rushing to help their models into their outfits, adjusting hems and accessories, poking worriedly at hairdos.

  “You could say that. I’ve made some mistakes recently.”

  “My brother always liked too many girls, too. He liked all the girls. They were sort of like TV to him. Or video games.”

  “That’s not how I—”

  “My brother really, really liked video games.”

  “Girls aren’t like video games. Or TV. Let’s go line up,” I said.

  thirty-six

  HERE’S AN IDEA © CHARLIE DEAN DESIGNS:

  When a situation calls for panic, resist the urge. Instead, focus on something you can control. Check your hair and clothing. Are you neat and presentable? Stylish? If so, remember that you can handle anything and panic is gauche.

  DATE: MAY 4

  When everyone was dressed and ready, time was called and Tesla and Bijou led us down a hallway and we assembled in the backstage area that led out to the atelier’s stage. Our guest was safe. When I went out to check on him, he was still sleeping soundly. No problems. This was all going to work out. My concerns alleviated, I was able to be fully present in the moment. And what a moment it was, there backstage among my fellow contestants. I looked around and gave un souffle, or a gasp as it is known in English. It was like standing in the midst of a flock of peacocks, which is something I have not yet had the opportunity to do. In fact, it was like standing among a flock of peacocks from space, which is something I will probably never have the opportunity to do! All the ensembles were astonishing and creative.