by Chloe Taylor
Zoey sighed and turned and closed her lock so gently that she had to do it again. Is Priti right? she asked herself. Will talking even help? Or is it too late?
She offered a weak smile to Priti. “I guess I’ll try,” she said.
The question then of course was, when? And how? And what would she say?
Priti answered those questions for Zoey, however, by leading Kate to their table at lunch.
“Kate, Zoey wants to talk to you,” Priti said simply. “Zoey, go ahead. I’m going to the salad bar, and I want everyone happy—and talking to each other!—by the time that I get back. Understand?”
They both watched Priti wave and walk off. Zoey watched Kate sigh and take a seat.
“So what do you want to talk about?” asked Kate.
“This wasn’t my idea, but I want to talk about us, I guess,” Zoey said, shrugging.
“Okay.” Kate nodded . . . and waited. “What about us?” she asked. She put her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand. “I don’t know why you care so much about us when you have Libby now. It’s like you don’t even need me anymore.”
“Huh?” Zoey said, confused. Had the world just totally turned inside out? She was hearing Kate say things to her that she wanted to say to Kate. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Zoey. “You’re the one who is hanging out with new friends!”
Kate leaned forward across the table. “Well, you’re the one who won’t hang out with me anymore. Anyway, it’s fine,” Kate added, crossing her arms. “If you want to delete me from your life and make Libby your new best friend because she has designer clothes and a famous aunt, go ahead.”
Zoey’s mouth fell, along with her stomach, her heart, her lungs, and her brain. She wasn’t sure what was worse at that very moment: Kate thinking she’d really do that or Libby walking up at that very moment and hearing the words come from Kate. The look on Libby’s face was one she’d never seen before. It was a mash-up of hurt and mad and lost and sad, plus a little just-seen-a-ghost.
Zoey was still in shock when Libby dashed in the opposite direction, and Kate slid out of her chair and walked away.
Priti walked up a few minutes later with a plate of pasta salad, tomatoes, and bread.
“So what happened?” she asked, sitting down at the nearly empty table.
Zoey slumped over her unopened lunch bag. “You don’t want to know.” She moaned.
Zoey barely made it through the door of her house before the tears began to pour. She’d worked hard to keep them in at school, but she couldn’t hold them anymore. Somehow, in one lunch period, she’d managed to lose two of her best friends. And to think that she’d been feeling as if her life were falling apart before. That was nothing compared to this, she realized. This was the end of the world.
She pulled the door closed behind her and turned . . . and nearly fell.
“Zo? Is that you?” she heard Marcus call. “There’s a box for you in the hall!”
No kidding, she thought, looking straight down at the knee-high cardboard box.
That woman from the fabric store brought it.
“What is it?” he asked, walking in from the kitchen. “Whoa? What happened? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said, bending down, letting her hair fall over her face. She sniffed and read the label. “Oh my gosh!” She gasped. “It’s from Cecily Chen!”
Marcus clapped his hands. “Wow! Awesome!” he said. “Who’s that?”
“Who’s that?” Zoey yanked at the top of the box to pry it open, but the flaps were firmly taped shut. “She’s only a real fashion designer! I need some scissors!” she said, jumping up. She ran to the kitchen, but the scissors weren’t in their usual spot.
“How about these?” she heard Marcus call out from the dining room, and she ran to see what he had found.
“No!” she cried as soon as she saw them: her precious razor-sharp dressmaker shears. “Those are for fabric! I don’t want them to get dull!”
“Okay.” He set them back down next to the sewing machine. “Just trying to help . . . How about this?” he asked, holding up her tracing wheel.
Now, that might work, thought Zoey. The tracing wheel was like a pizza cutter, but tiny, with zillions of itsy-bitsy teeth. It was specifically for transferring marks from patterns onto fabric—with the help of tracing paper slipped in between.
“Let’s try it,” Zoey told him.
Back in the foyer, she ran the wheel over and over the box’s taped seams until it broke through at last. She tugged and yanked till she pried the flaps open.
“Well? What’s in it?” Marcus asked.
“No way!” Zoey exclaimed.
Inside were clothes. Sherbet-colored clothes. Pale greens and yellows and pinks . . . Zoey couldn’t see what they all were, exactly. They were neatly folded and stacked. But then she realized that they looked familiar. She had already seen them—in Cecily Chen’s e-mail!
There was an envelope on top of the pile, and Zoey plucked it out. Inside was a folded note. She had to pause to sniff and wipe her eyes as she read it through two times.
Dear Zoey,
You said you thought there was something in my new tween line for all your friends, so I thought I’d send you a few samples that you could share with all of them. It’s the least I can do to thank you for reviewing them for me. You might notice, by the way, there aren’t any cargo pants—and that’s because you were so right; they look infinitely better without pockets, and the orders have doubled since I made the change. You clearly know your stuff!
Please enjoy—and tell your friends I hope they enjoy them too!
Your friend in fashion, as always,
Cecily
Just then the front door opened and Zoey’s dad walked in.
“Hey there!” he said, staring down at the box. “What’s all of this?”
Zoey sat back on her heels. “Don’t worry, Dad. It’s not from a stranger!” she said. “It’s from Cecily Chen, the designer I met at A Stitch in Time.”
“So . . . why do you look so upset?” he asked slowly. He glanced down the hall at Marcus.
“Don’t look at me,” Marcus said, and shrugged. “I was wondering the same thing.”
“It’s complicated,” Zoey told them. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “But it’s not because of this.” She looked down at the note again, sadly, and read it once more to herself.
Please enjoy—and tell your friends . . .
Friends. What friends? was all she could think. As of that afternoon, Priti was her only friend. Libby had overheard what Kate said at the lunch table, then turned and marched away. Kate had fled as well without saying a word. Zoey couldn’t have given these fabulous clothes to them now even if she tried. And why? Because of nothing—at least nothing that was true. Seriously! How could Kate say Zoey didn’t need her, when she was the one hanging out with new friends? And didn’t Kate and Libby both know her better than to think Zoey would use Libby and her aunt to win?
“Is there anything I can do?” asked her dad.
Zoey looked up and sighed. “Can you make my friends not hate me?”
“Hate you? What happened? Why?”
“I wish I knew,” said Zoey.
“Well, that’s the first step,” her dad said.
“What do you mean?”
“You have to figure it out,” her dad said, “and then take it from there.”
“Right,” Zoey said softly. She leaned back and hugged her shins. Rrrippp. Suddenly the denim across her knee split.
Great! She put her head down on her knee and rubbed the hole with her chin. What good were her favorite jeans now, she thought, when they looked like this?
And what good was a box full of amazing Cecily Chen clothes when she had no one to share them with?
- - - - Chapter 11 - - - -
Fabric Fixes
Patches! Don’t you love them? I do! More than anything, as of today! Not only can they make a
bold, colorful statement, like in these outfits here, but they’re practical, too! What better way is there to save something you can’t live without if it ever gets a hole? Like my jeans, which just ripped today (which was about the last thing I needed right then). This was a simple case of being worn—and loved—way too much. (And probably of crawling around too much, hemming skirts on Marie Antoinette.) Sure, I could leave my jeans religious (a.k.a. “holy” LOL). But I’ve never really been a big fan of that distressed-denim look. And the hole will just get bigger and bigger, I know, until my whole knee starts poking out. I could also cut them off, I guess, and make them into shorts. But both my knees would show then, and when it gets cold I would freeze. No, the only answer to saving the best jeans in the whole world, I’ve decided, is to make a patch—to find a cute, durable piece of fabric; a needle; and some strong thread and to carefully sew it over that little hole before it gets too big. But first, I’m afraid, I have some other holes I also need to patch . . . .
(Hey, I think I just made up a metaphor there. My English teacher would be so proud!)
Zoey had two friendships to patch up, and she couldn’t wait till the next day to start. She found her phone and picked it up . . . then put it down.
“Dad!” she called. “I’m going out.”
He popped his head out of the kitchen as she ran down the stairs. “Where are you going? Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Just over to Kate’s for a sec.” She paused. “What are we having?” she asked.
“Stir fry,” he told her. “And sesame noodles.” He waved a springy, sauce-covered whisk.
“Yum!” Zoey said. Of her dad’s dinner repertoire, this was definitely up there with the best. She blew a kiss as she grabbed her jacket and pulled open the front door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can!” she told him. “If you want to eat, though, go ahead.”
Kate’s house was just two streets away, but it took forever, it seemed, to get there. Zoey started off walking, then walked faster, until she was half-running by the end. She got to the mailbox by the sidewalk that looked like a miniature version of Kate’s yellow house. It had the same shingled roof and glossy white trim, and even a chimney jutting up near the back. Zoey turned and galloped up the neat brick walkway, between the rows of purple mums. She leaped up the stairs to the porch and rapped the shiny brass knocker and rang the doorbell at the same time.
A moment later, she heard footsteps, and the door opened wide.
“Zoey! Why, hello!” said Kate’s mother. “What a lovely surprise.” She wiped her hands on the frilly apron that shielded her corduroy skirt and tartan plaid blouse. “Is something wrong?” she asked with a warm but curious smile.
“No, I’m . . . good, Mrs. Mackey.” Zoey automatically smiled back. “Um . . .” She peered around her shoulder. “Is, uh, Kate around?” she asked.
“Well . . .” Kate’s mom paused, as if that was a tricky question. “You know, we were just about to sit down . . . .”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Zoey could suddenly smell something hot and meaty simmering inside. “But it’s kind of important, and it won’t take long . . . .”
“School stuff?” Mrs. Mackey asked.
Zoey nodded. Kind of.
“Well, then, come right in.” Kate’s mom stepped back to make room for Zoey to pass. “She’s in her room. Go on up. And tell her that dinner’s going to be on the table soon.”
At the top of the stairs Zoey gently knocked on Kate’s door, the one to the right. The door was open, and Zoey could see Kate stretched out across her bed. Her headphones were on, and her face was covered by the book they were reading in English class.
Kate didn’t hear the knock at first, but after a second, her head turned. She sat up and pulled off her headphones while Zoey took a big gulp of air.
“Can I come in?”
“I guess . . . yeah, sure,” Kate said. She scooted over. “Uh . . . want to sit down?”
Zoey nodded and took a seat at the foot of Kate’s bed, on the green gingham bedspread that Kate had had for as long as Zoey could remember.
“I just wanted to say . . . I’m sorry,” said Zoey.
“You are?” Kate’s face, which had been stony, softened just a little bit.
Zoey nodded. “Uh-huh. But you’re wrong. I don’t want to delete you from my life at all—or not be your best friend.” She tugged at the hole in the knee of her jeans, which still needed to be patched. “In fact, it seems like the other way around to me. It seems like . . . ever since you got your braces off . . . you’ve been avoiding me and hanging out with other kids instead.”
“Avoiding you?” Kate threw her head back. “Oh my gosh. That’s so not true.”
“No?”
“No. I mean, what? Are you talking about the soccer team?”
Zoey shrugged and nodded again.
“Well, they’re my teammates,” Kate explained.
“Are the boys your teammates too?”
“Boys?” Kate made a creeped-out face. “Who wants to hang out with them?”
“Uh, you,” Zoey informed her.
“I do not!” Kate declared. She crossed her arms and frowned at Zoey, then shook back her hair. “But if you’re going to ditch me because I’m not fashiony enough, then I guess why shouldn’t I hang out with them?”
“But I didn’t ditch you,” said Zoey.
Kate looked away and twisted her mouth. “You deleted me, Zo.” She sighed. “How much clearer could you be?”
Zoey threw her head back this time. “Why do you keep saying that? I don’t even know what you mean.”
“You deleted me from your blog. It was bad enough when you started to hang out with Libby instead of me, but then you actually went in and took my name out of old blog posts. I mean, I helped you start Sew Zoey, and now it’s like I’m not even part of your life anymore.”
“Deleted you from my blog?” Zoey frowned. That made no sense . . . at first. “My blog . . .” She repeated, slowly this time. “My dad, of course!”
“Zoey, what are you talking about?” Kate asked.
“I didn’t delete you. My dad did,” Zoey explained. “He went on this whole privacy kick the other day and went in and cut out people’s names and all kinds of stuff. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize what it would look like to you.”
“Privacy kick? But why would he cut out my name?” Kate stuck out her lip.
Zoey shrugged. “I think he thought he was protecting you. But don’t worry, we’ll put you back in.” She grinned. “And if my dad thinks first names are too personal, we can make up fake names. How about that? Hey!” She held up a finger . . . and so did Kate, at just the same time.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” said Kate.
“Lorelei and Penelope?” they both said together. “Yes!” the two of them cried.
Those were the names they’d called themselves when they played “grown-up girls” in first grade. Zoey had been Penelope, an artist, archaeologist, and part-time flight attendant who could talk to most animals. Lorelei was Kate’s play-name, and she was an Olympic soccer star who also baked cupcakes and was a deep-sea diving instructor.
Kate laughed, then she sighed. “Still,” she said softly. “You have been kind of weird, Zo. Like whenever you see me, you turn away.”
“I’m sorry,” said Zoey. “I didn’t mean to. I guess I was just trying to give you space . . . and . . .” There was the other reason—a bigger one, even—that she was suddenly embarrassed to say.
“What?”
“I was . . . jealous.”
“You were jealous?” Kate’s face scrunched up. “Of what? Of me?”
Zoey took a deep breath and tried her best to explain—to herself and Kate.
“It’s dumb, I know. But I couldn’t help it.”
“But why? What did I do?” said Kate.
“You didn’t do anything,” Zoey told her, “except get your braces off, I guess . . . and then, remember how Lorenzo said you looked so awe
some last week at lunch?”
Kate shook her head blankly. “No.”
“Really?” said Zoey. “You don’t?”
Kate shook her head again. “No, but that’s just Lorenzo—he says ‘awesome’ all the time . . . .”
“Now you tell me.” Zoey groaned. “I wish I’d known that the day before. I got all excited—like it was special—when he said it to me. And then the next day when he said it to you . . . It was like, no one’s ever going to like me now when Kate’s so pretty.”
“Oh my gosh!” said Kate. She rolled back on her bed.
“I know. I said it was stupid.” Zoey giggled. “But it kind of is true.”
“No, it isn’t at all. And most important, who cares? I mean . . . Do you like Lorenzo?” she asked, popping back up.
Zoey thought about it for a second. “I don’t know. Maybe. A little. What about you?”
“Me? Uh-uh,” Kate told her. “He’s too short for me, anyway.”
They both laughed. Then they hugged. Then Kate’s mom called from below.
“Kate? Zoey? How are you girls coming up there? We’re ready to eat down here. Zoey? Would you like to stay and have some pot roast, sweetie?”
Kate looked at Zoey hopefully, but Zoey shook her head.
“No, thanks, Mrs. Mackey!” she hollered back. “It smells really good, but I should go home and eat with Marcus and my dad.” She turned back to Kate. “Just one more thing . . . ,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“About Libby . . . and her aunt. I just hope you know . . . I mean, you must know . . . that I didn’t, and I wouldn’t, ask Libby to model because of her aunt . . . . And I had no idea until Libby told us that she was a contest judge, I swear.”
Zoey couldn’t imagine Kate not believing her, but she studied Kate’s face just the same. Was there any doubt? She didn’t think so. But it would be nice to know for sure . . . .