by Sheryl Berk
“Do you own a mirror?” Mars asked her. “I mean seriously—what are you wearing?”
Mickey knew what she wanted to say: “I don’t care what you think about my style, because that’s just it—it’s my style!” Instead, she shrugged. “I was trying something a little different.”
“A little different?” South chuckled. “That’s putting it mildly! Ouch! It hurts my eyes just to look at you!”
Thankfully, Mr. Kaye walked in before anyone else could poke fun at her outfit. “Take out your homework assignments,” he instructed them.
Mickey opened her backpack and dug inside for her shirt. She noticed that something smelled sour as she pulled it out, but she decided to put it on and model it anyway.
“What is that?” Mars asked, checking out her work. “Is it tie-dye?”
“Kinda,” Mickey replied. “But all natural—I used fruit.”
Gabriel pushed in to get a closer look, then suddenly backed away. “It’s not bad looking, but what’s that smell?”
South sniffed Mickey. “OMG! I thought I stepped in something, but it’s your project!”
Mickey noticed that her cabbage trim had wilted and did smell a bit like spoiled coleslaw. In fact, her whole backpack did and now so did she.
Mr. Kaye clapped his hands together. “All right, who’s ready to present first?” he asked, rubbing his palms together. “I’m eager to see what you’ve come up with.” Mickey noticed that everyone had put their shirts on the dress forms next to their desks. No one else was modeling their look but her.
Gabriel sat back down at his desk and fanned the air with his folder. “I’ll go first,” he volunteered. “If I can be excused after. The smell of her homework is making me wanna barf!”
Mr. Kaye wrinkled his nose. “Something does smell a bit foul in here,” he commented, sniffing around Mickey’s desk. “Good heavens! What is that odor?”
Mickey felt like she was back in fourth grade all over again being forced to defend her spring skirt in home ec class. No, her T-shirt didn’t look like everyone else’s. And yes, it was a bit wilted. But it was one hundred percent original—didn’t that count for something?
Mr. Kaye covered his nose with a handkerchief but continued to inspect Mickey’s design. He motioned for her to rotate. “This dyeing technique—what is it?”
“Berry juice. I crushed berries into the fabric. And those are dried cranberries for the piping around the neck and cabbage leaves for the ruffle trim. I wanted my shirt to be completely made from food to show how important it is to the world.”
“That is so gross!” South exclaimed. “Who uses spoiled food on a shirt?”
“It wasn’t spoiled when I sewed it on yesterday,” Mickey insisted. “I guess I didn’t think about what would happen if I kept it in my bag overnight.”
Mr. Kaye borrowed Gabriel’s folder to fan the air. “Let’s move on, shall we? And Miss Williams, please take off your design and deposit it in the trash outside of the room.” He cracked open the window and inhaled some fresh air. Sadly, Mickey took the shirt off and placed it in the garbage can. When she returned to her seat, her cheeks were red with embarrassment.
No one had used food instead of fabric. Mars manipulated patches of different colored fabric to make a world map and accessorized with a matching macramé necklace; Gabriel drew a globe on his tee with fabric markers and used the blue scraps he wrestled away from Mars to create letters that spelled out “FEED ME” on the back. South sewed a hundred-dollar bill smack in the middle of her shirt.
“It’s a bit minimalist, don’t you think?” Mr. Kaye asked her. “What does it say to you?”
South stepped back and admired her work. “It says money. Which is what the World Hunger Council really wants, isn’t it?”
Mr. Kaye thought it over. “I suppose so. But next time, I’d like to see you make more of an effort in your assignment. And I’m deducting points for going over the ten-dollar budget.”
South frowned. “But the hundred-dollar bill didn’t cost me anything! My dad just gave it to me.”
As the students packed up to get to their next class, Mr. Kaye called Mickey over to his desk.
“I know you’re disappointed with the outcome of your first assignment,” he told her. “But part of being a successful designer is considering how the market will react,” he said. “Clearly, your design was not well received.”
Mickey didn’t know what to say. It had seemed like such an amazing idea at the time to use food and not fabric to decorate her shirt.
“That said,” Mr. Kaye continued, “I do wish to commend you for your creativity. Your work shows great promise.”
Mickey’s eyes lit up. Was he telling her he liked it? Or even better, that she’d earned a four on this first assignment?
“I am giving you a three, but I know you’ll do better next time. I see great potential in you, Miss Williams.”
• • •
Even if she had earned some kind words from Mr. Kaye, Mickey couldn’t help but notice the stares from her peers as she walked into the crowded sixth- and seventh-grade lunch period.
In the center of the room, she spied Jade and Jake surrounded by a posse of kids. South had already elbowed into the group. Mickey assumed it had something to do with her bragging about her dad’s new duet with Jay-Z—or maybe she gave Jade the hundred-dollar bill from her T-shirt?
When Mickey walked by with her lunch tray, the group grew silent.
“That’s her,” she heard South telling Jade. “Don’t let her sit here. She stinks like rotten cabbage!”
But instead, Jade called after her. “Do you want to sit with us?” she asked Mickey, shoving her brother over to make room.
“Um, sure, I guess,” Mickey hesitated.
As she edged closer, Jade suddenly slammed her binder down on the empty seat. “Oops, sorry! No fashion faux pas allowed!” The kids at the table all roared with laughter.
Mickey didn’t know what to do—hiding in the first-floor girls’ bathroom with her lunch tray seemed like a definite possibility. Then she noticed JC waving at her from a corner table.
“I can squeeze you in,” he teased as Mickey took a seat at the otherwise empty table.
He noticed she wasn’t smiling. “Bad time in Apparel Arts?” he pressed her for details.
“Epic fail. I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“You don’t have to,” he replied. “Gabriel filled me in.” He sniffed the air. “But he wasn’t kidding—you really do kinda stink.”
Mickey shot him a look. “You’re not making me feel any better.”
“I’m not the one who told you to take a bath in eau de cabbage,” he joked.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Mickey said. “I was just trying to stand out from the crowd.”
JC patted her feathery blue hat. “Well, mission accomplished. You stick out, all right. Look around, Mickey. Do you see anyone who looks like you?”
Mickey surveyed the room—there wasn’t a silly hat in sight and not a single pair of mismatched shoes. Maybe she had gone a tad overboard with her outfit and her homework assignment.
“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing to be a fashion original,” JC continued. “Not if you’re Lady Gaga, for example. Or the world’s coolest Chihuahua…” He tossed part of his meatloaf sandwich into his bag to feed Madonna. “I’m just saying sometimes less is more. Dial it down a notch.”
“I don’t know how to dial it down,” Mickey admitted.
“When’s your next assignment for Mr. Kaye due?”
Mickey checked her class schedule. “Three weeks.”
“Great!” JC said, dipping a french fry in a puddle of ketchup on his plate. “That gives us tons of time.”
“For what?” Mickey asked.
“For an extreme makeover!”
When JC offered to help M
ickey, she had no idea what she was getting herself into. He invited her over to his apartment the next day after school.
“Okay, first things first,” he said, ushering her into his room-turned-design studio. “We need to rethink your branding.”
He opened his bag, and Madonna leaped out. She took a seat in her pink leopard-print dog bed and settled in for a snooze.
“You made all of these?” Mickey asked, looking through Madonna’s basket filled with doggy couture.
“Do you like them?” JC asked. “This one’s my favorite.” He held up a black satin dog coat covered in white embroidered skulls. “Very Alexander McQueen, don’t you think?”
Mickey nodded. “Very. And this pink quilted vest is so Chanel.”
“I know. I’m a doggy design genius.”
Mickey giggled. JC certainly had a ton of confidence. She used to feel that way about her designs too. But during her first week at FAB, nothing seemed to be going right. She was dressed in all blue today, right down to the navy streaks in her hair and her nail polish. It reflected her mood.
“So let’s talk about who you are,” JC said, pulling out a sketchbook and a pencil.
“Do you have amnesia? I’m Mickey Williams,” she answered.
“No, I mean, who do you want the world to see you as? I, for example, do not want to be regarded as Javen Linus Cumberland. Who would buy anything with that label? So I rebranded myself as JC Canine Couture. Get it?”
“Linus?” Mickey chuckled. “I can see why you changed your name.”
“So who are you?” he pushed her. “As a designer?”
Mickey looked puzzled. “I’m not sure. I’m just me.”
“Okay, then let’s deal with appearances first,” he said, handing her a towel. “No more Cruella De Vil hair. Wash out those streaks.”
“Really? Is this necessary?” she complained.
JC held up a hand. “Do you want people to think of you as more than the Cabbage Patch Kid?”
“Fine,” Mickey said, grabbing the towel out of his hand and walking to the bathroom. “I’ll try anything.” She scrubbed her hair in the sink and blew it dry so it fell in soft waves around her shoulders. When she came back, JC nodded in approval.
“Blond is definitely your color,” he said. “No more trying to hide it with hair chalk.”
He handed her a garment bag. “Try this on for size. I usually sew for pups, not people, but I think I did a decent job.”
Mickey unzipped the bag. Inside was a teal one-shouldered dress. The fabric was soft and shimmery and draped to perfection.
“Wow. It’s really beautiful. You made this?” she asked.
“I saw something similar on the Paris Runway reports—Beyoncé bought it.”
Mickey admired the delicate stitches and attention to detail. “It’s amazing, JC, but I just don’t think it’s me.”
JC took the dress off the hanger and handed it to her. “It is you. The new you. Try it on.”
She ducked into the bathroom and slipped the dress over her head. It fit her like a glove. When she looked in the mirror, she barely recognized the person staring back at her.
JC knocked on the door. “How does it look?”
Mickey opened the door and stepped out. JC’s jaw dropped.
“Wow. You look like a supermodel. This oughta give Jade and her cloniacs something to talk about tomorrow!”
“Oh no. I can’t go to school like this!” Mickey exclaimed.
“Oh, yes you can!” JC insisted. “And we’ll need a really good story to go with it.” He flopped down on his beanbag chair to think of a plan. “I know! Your real name is Kenzie Wills, and your father is a famous fashion designer. You were just trying to hide your true identity from the paparazzi!”
Mickey sighed. “My father is a bass player who I haven’t seen in ten years.”
JC shrugged. “So? A little white lie never hurt anyone. Right, Madonna?”
The tiny dog yawned in approval.
“How would my dad be a designer that no one has ever heard of?” Mickey asked.
“He designs very far away—in Finland. That’s it! He’s a Finnish fashion star! To the royal family of Finland!”
Mickey shook her head. “And you think Jade is going to buy that? Or South or any of them?”
JC grinned. “With a little gossip, they’ll buy anything. And I know just how to spread the word.”
He went to his laptop and typed in a website address: www.sewfab.com.
“What is that?” Mickey asked.
“A little style blog that everyone at FAB worships. No one knows who writes it—it’s a Gossip Girl kinda thing. Very secretive. But you can send in your tips. Which is exactly what I’m going to do…”
Mickey watched nervously as JC’s fingers flew across the keyboard. When he was finished, he showed her what he’d written:
What new student is really the daughter of Finnish fashion royalty in disguise hiding out from the press? Watch for a grand entrance at FAB tomorrow morning!
JC had insisted that Mickey not take the bus Friday morning to school. He insisted she needed “a big reveal.”
Think, “I’m Kenzie Wills, design diva!” he texted her bright and early. And don’t forget to ditch the high-tops and wear my mom’s heels that I gave you! C U soon!
Mickey knew she had to play the part of Kenzie Wills or no one would believe her. So she tried it out on Aunt Olive first.
“Morning, Auntie,” Mickey said, gliding into the kitchen in her new dress.
“You look…different,” Olive noted. “No turquoise streaks in your hair today to match your dress?”
Mickey wrinkled her nose. “That is so yesterday.”
Olive shrugged. “I thought yesterday was blue streaks. I can’t keep up with you, Mackenzie.”
“Few can,” Mickey said, pouring herself a glass of grapefruit juice. “It isn’t easy to be a fashion icon, you know.”
“I wouldn’t want to try!” Olive replied. “For what it’s worth, I like your dress. It’s more conservative than the other outfits you’ve been wearing.”
“I dialed it down a notch,” Mickey said, checking her look one last time in the mirror before she headed out to the corner to wait for JC. “Hay hay!”
Olive looked puzzled. “Hay hay? What does that mean?”
“It’s good-bye in Finnish,” Mickey explained. JC had also suggested she look up a few Finnish phrases on Google Translate. Just in case.
“Oh. Hay hay,” Olive replied. “Have a good day.”
As she stood outside waiting for her friend, Mickey tried her best not to fidget or pace. Besides, walking in these high heels made her feet kill! If she was going to pull this off, she needed to be cool and confident—not to mention fluent in Finnish!
A long, black limo pulled up and honked its horn. A chauffeur stepped out and held the door open for her.
“Um, I think there’s been some mistake…” Mickey said. “This isn’t my car.”
A Chihuahua barked excitedly from the backseat. “What are you waiting for, Mick? A royal invitation?” JC asked.
“How did you get this?” Mickey asked, climbing inside.
“My next-door neighbor drives for a car service in between acting gigs. He won’t tell or charge us, right, Bogart?”
The chauffeur nodded. “It’s good acting practice for me anyway—I’ve never played the role of a chauffeur to a celebrity before.”
When they pulled up in front of FAB, Mickey’s heart began to pound. JC ducked down so no one would see him in the limo with her.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she told him.
“You can. Pretend it’s a runway. Go out there and strut like a supermodel.”
“These heels are too high. I’m gonna break my neck!” Mickey moaned. “And I feel
naked without my moto jacket. Maybe I should go back home and change?”
“Out!” JC insisted. “You got this.”
Mickey took a deep breath as Bogart opened the door to let her out.
“Good luck, Miss Wills,” he said with a wink.
Mickey tried to smile. “Thanks. I’m gonna need it.”
A crowd of students had already gathered around to see who was arriving in a stretch limo. Sewfab.com had already blasted out the news, just as JC had said. Everyone was expecting a grand entrance of someone ultra chic and ultra famous.
Mickey saw Jade and South waiting at the curb. She expected them to snicker or throw something at her when she emerged. Instead, they stared.
As she slowly climbed the steps to the school’s main entrance, she tried to make out the whispers.
“That must be her,” said one girl. “I hear she lives in a castle in Finland.”
“She’s a gazillionaire,” said another boy. “She’s, like, richer than the Kardashians!”
Mickey couldn’t believe they were talking about her. She was even more shocked when Jade ran up to her at her locker. “You,” she addressed Mickey.
Mickey reminded herself to keep her cool and play her part.
“Me,” she replied simply, grabbing her history textbook.
“Is it true?” Jade continued. “Are you some Finnish fashion princess or something?”
Mickey batted her eyelashes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Ahn-tehk-see. Pardon me.”
“Wait!” Jade called after her. “Was that Finnish? Are you speaking Finnish? So it’s true? You’re not really a fashion don’t? You’re a do in disguise?”
Mickey ignored her and walked away, even as Jade was shouting after her, “Hey, wanna sit at my table at lunch?”
JC was right. All it took was “rebranding” herself to make people like her. That and a little white lie or two…
When she took her seat in Apparel Arts, Gabriel pulled his chair closer to hers.
“What happened to you?” he whispered.
Mickey shrugged. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He means you don’t look like a freak anymore,” Mars volunteered.