by D. M. Paige
Text copyright © 2013 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.
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Cover and interior photographs © iStockphoto.com/Julie Weiss (girl);
© iStockphoto.com/Jordan McCullough (title texture).
Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Paige, Danielle.
Size 0 / by D. M. Paige.
pages cm. — (The opportunity)
Summary: “It’s been one student’s dream to work in fashion, but her internship with a trendy LA clothing company leaves her with reservations about how models are treated and how fashion affects body images”—Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978–1–4677–1372–6 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper)
ISBN 978–1–4677–1676–5 (eBook)
[1. Fashion—Fiction. 2. Models (Persons)—Fiction. 3. Body image—Fiction. 4. Internship programs—Fiction. 5. African Americans—Fiction.] I. Title. II. Title: Size zero.
PZ7.P154Si 2013
[Fic]—dc23
2013006523
Manufactured in the United States of America
1 – SB – 7/15/13
eISBN: 978-1-4677-1676-5 (pdf)
eISBN: 978-1-4677-3346-5 (ePub)
eISBN: 978-1-4677-3344-1 (mobi)
In order to succeed, your desire for success should be greater than your fear of failure.
—Bill Cosby
Dear Ms. Roberts,
I am Harmon Holt. Yes, that Harmon Holt. And I am pleased to welcome you into the Holt Internship Program.
I am investing in the future. Every year, I select ten students who best exemplify the Holt legacy. Allow me to recognize your talent, your ambition, and your heart. You, Thea Roberts, are one of the ten.
If you accept, you will be spending the summer interning with one of the world’s most talented designers, Lorelei Roy, at her studio in Los Angeles. All expenses will be covered by the Holt Foundation.
It may be hard for you to see this now, but the distance between the two of us is measured only in hard work and an opportunity. I am giving you the opportunity. The rest is up to you.
Good luck,
Harmon Holt
ONE
“You know those moments that can change your life? This is that moment, Thea Roberts.”
Ms. Hampton, my guidance counselor, always spoke like the inside of a Hallmark card. But this was over the top even for her.
Her office was wallpapered with inspirational posters: “Hang in There,” “You Can Do It,” and “It Gets Better.” The “Hang in There” poster was faded and its corners were all bent and it actually had a picture of a kitten hanging on a tree.
I looked at Ms. Hampton with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. I had never been called into the guidance counselor’s office for an unscheduled visit. I didn’t get in trouble. Not ever. But judging by the too-wide smile on her face, that wasn’t the issue.
Ms. Hampton clapped her hands together and let out a little cheerleader squeal. Then she handed me a blue envelope.
The last time someone handed me something that changed my life, I was six. My gram had given me a sewing needle and thread. “Buy a girl a dress, she wears it for a season. Teach a girl to sew, she’s clothed for a lifetime,” she’d said.
At the time, I hated that Gram wouldn’t buy me a new pair of jeans, the kind that everyone else was wearing. But once I learned how to use that little needle, it became my new best friend. I’d been sewing ever since. First, I copied what my friends were wearing. But later, I was making one-of-a-kind clothes that other kids actually wanted to copy.
I turned the envelope over in my hands. It was light as a feather.
One little piece of paper can’t change my life, I thought.
But I ripped open the envelope, unfolded the matching blue paper, and started to read.
My eyes scanned the page. Twice.
And I am pleased to welcome you into the Holt Internship Program …
Lorelei Roy …
All expenses …
“Lorelei Roy is my favorite designer!” I said. “How did this … ? There must be some mistake … I didn’t even apply.”
I looked from the fancy embossed stationery to Ms. Hampton’s smiling face.
“There hasn’t been a mistake,” she said with a certainty that I didn’t share.
TWO
Harmon Holt, like the other donors to our school, had always stayed as far away from our campus as the stars were from Earth. Rich people donated things like the new “healthy” vending machines in the cafeteria or the new band equipment or the new paint supplies. But donors didn’t give once-in-a-lifetime opportunities. Or did they?
“You have been selected for a very prestigious internship,” Ms. Hampton said.
“I don’t understand. I didn’t apply,” I said, rereading the words.
Harmon Holt. As in Holt Entertainment. Holt Airlines. Holt Enterprises.
The Holt logo, two intertwined H’s, was everywhere from the credits on movies to the labels on clothes to the liner notes of hit albums.
There was even a mention of him in my econ book. But Harmon Holt was a name and not a face. He stayed behind the scenes, rarely making public appearances. So getting a personal letter from him was like getting a personal letter from my favorite member of my favorite boy band. And yet, there it was, a letter from a billionaire addressed to me.
I was waiting for the catch. People don’t just hand you anything out of the blue. Not for free. At least, not once in my sixteen years.
“Harmon Holt? The Harmon Holt? But how?”
“You know, Mr. Holt is one of the school’s biggest donors …” Ms. Hampton said.
I looked out the window. The one thing Holt couldn’t change was the view. The school faced a string of ugly, empty, old buildings. Clinton High had been cleaned up, but that made its surroundings seem that much worse.
“Mr. Holt requests recommendations from me, the principal, and your teachers,” Ms. Hampton continued. “When his assistant mentioned that there would be an opportunity in fashion this year, you were the only choice. Mrs. White made copies of your portfolio. I sent him footage of last year’s fashion show.”
Mrs. White was my favorite teacher. She gave me extras studio time and helped me with my fashion illustrations after school. The school’s fashion show was on YouTube, but it had only got five hundred hits. One for every student at Clinton. It was so weird thinking of Harmon Holt watching my show. And picking me.
“You know, you could be a model yourself,” Ms. Hampton said as she returned from finding a permission slip for me to give to Gram.
I had heard that sentence dozens of times before, but it was almost always followed by a pause. A pause that usually meant, if only I were thinner. I might have been five feet nine and blessed with my gram’s pimple-free chocolate skin. But I wasn’t skinny like those girls in magazines and on runways.
“Yeah. All I’d have to do is stop eating,” I said.
Ms. Hampton’s face fell. “I’m sorry, I didn’t meanto …”
“Don’t worry about it. Who wants to be a walking hanger for clothes when I can design them?”
Ms. Hampton’s smile returned. She looked like she was considering writing down what I said and adding it to her poster wall.
“You leave a week from Friday.”
I looked at Ms. Hampton’s posters again. Clinton High was a school for dreams and dreamers. Or at least that’s what was written on the plaque outside the school. But I had never dreamed this big. Los Angeles! Lorelei Roy! I hadn’t ever even been out of DC, let alone to Los Angeles. This was really happening!
THREE
“Earth to Thea.”
My BFF Bonnie demanded my attention, twirling one of her superlong locks with her finger.
I was still getting used to the hair. Bon had gone Beyoncé blonde last month. The blonde hair complimented her caramel skin and made her look like the star that she was destined to be. I wasn’t jealous. I liked my own brown hair, the way it hung in waves down my shoulders. Bon wanted me to go blonde with her so we could be twins. But we could never actually be twins. At five feet one, she was like eight inches shorter and about thirty pounds thinner.
“Earth to Thea,” she repeated.
We were sitting at our table at lunch. I was already in LA in my head, in a fashion showroom. Bonnie knew something was up. She had been my best friend since first grade, when she offered me a piece of Bubblicious kiwi strawberry gum. Bonnie was always giving me things: clothes she didn’t want anymore that I could make over into something new and advice about boys, which I desperately needed.
“Spill it,” she demanded before taking a gulp of her chocolate milk.
Looking around the cafeteria, I could feel the end of the school year in the air. We were all winding down. Yearbooks had been given out on Monday, another Holt perk. No one had to buy them this year. And our usual crew of theater geeks and art kids was all over the cafeteria, everyone signing one another’s yearbooks. Some people were used to saying good-bye. But Bonnie and I saw each other every day. We had since we were five. If I went to Los Angeles, it would be the first time we’d been apart in forever.
The words came out in a rush.
After I’d told her everything, I worried that I was somehow letting her down—leaving her behind. Bonnie had things she wanted to do too. She was going to be an actress. But we were supposed to spend our summer together. Working at the local froyo shop to save money. Or getting jobs together at the mall.
But Bonnie didn’t look disappointed. She looked thrilled. She hugged me, punching the lunch tray out of the way and squeezing me tight.
“You know what this means,” she said over my shoulder.
“What?” I asked, trying to avoid a mouthful of blonde hair.
“You need to sew a whole new work wardrobe.”
“But what about our summer?” I asked, breaking the hug and studying her pretty face.
Bon and I looked over at Dom at the exact same time. Dom was currently in the corner of the cafeteria, surrounded by a gaggle of girls. They held their yearbooks for him to sign like he was someone famous.
Bonnie and I shared everything. Our secrets. Our clothes. And our crush on Domino James—the hottest guy in school, who happened to be one of our best friends. He hadn’t shown the least bit of interest in either of us, though. Not in the crush kind of way.
Dom was an artist like me. But he was fearless like Bon. This summer was supposed to be the summer things were different. The summer Dom noticed one of us. I figured it would be Bonnie. I figured that it was already Bonnie and that Dom was being nice to me because he liked her so much.
Bonnie was going to be an actress. She already starred in every school play, and she posted videos of her short films online. She wanted to get into a good drama program in New York or LA or at Yale. But that was a whole year away. Right now, all she could do was perfect her acting and save money for school.
Bonnie was going to make it all the way. I just knew it. It was weird how I could be 100 percent sure of that and not at all sure for myself.
“Who cares about summer? This is it, Thea!”
“But …”
“No buts,” she said with authority.
“This is your chance! Thea Roberts, fashion star! It’s really happening.”
“But what about you?” I blurted, pushing my baked french fries around with my finger.
“Me? I can take care of myself. Besides, now I won’t have to compete with those twenty-foot legs of yours. Dom is all mine.”
I looked up just as Bonnie broke into a smile. And I laughed, finally feeling it. Nothing really happened until I told Bonnie about it.
I was going to Los Angeles, to work for Lorelei Roy!
FOUR
When I got home, I found Gram in her studio. The attic smelled like oil paint, even with the windows open and a little fan blowing. On Gram’s easel was the rough outline of a person’s face in flesh-colored paint.
Gram looked up and smiled the smile that she reserved just for me. She adjusted her hair with her paint-covered fingers, then wiped her hands on her denim button-down.
I ran over and hugged her.
“What’s gotten into you, Little Bean?”
I hadn’t been little for a very long time. But I was born premature, and the name stuck.
“You’re getting paint all over yourself, Thea,” Gram continued.
I squeezed her tighter. I didn’t care.
The security guard nodded at me.
“You’ve only got ten minutes till closing,” he warned with a smile.
DC is a city known for its politics, not its fashion, so most people probably don’t go to the Smithsonian for its costume wing. I guessed that maybe I was its most frequent visitor.
I walked past the gowns of the First Ladies before reaching my final destination.
The dress was encased in glass. I had seen it the first time during a school tour of the Smithsonian. The other kids were interested in the presidential stuff. But I was all about the costume wing.
Michelle Obama’s first inaugural dress was made out of cream silk. It was one-shouldered and elegant. And it had these gorgeous beaded flowers all over its flowing skirt. This dress represented a huge historical moment. One that I would never forget. The First Lady had used a new designer, Jason Wu. And in one night, Wu’s whole life had changed, just like the new First Lady’s did.
I whispered out loud to the dress. It was silly, but I did it anyway. “You won’t believe it, but I’m going to LA.”
I was ready.
FIVE
A guy at baggage claim stood holding a sign with my name on it.
My gram’s extra-large pink suitcase was making its way around the baggage carousel. But I ignored it.
I couldn’t stop staring at the guy with the sign. Because he was literally the best-looking person I’d ever seen in real life. Better looking than Dom. And he was waiting for me.
“Ms. Roberts,” he said with a smile.
“Are you … him?”
I’d never seen a picture of Harmon Holt. This guy didn’t look quite right, though. He was well dressed and older. But he didn’t look like a boss—much less the boss.
“I am not him,” he said in a smooth New York accent. “But I work for him. You may call me Mr. Bosley. Think of me as H’s right hand.”
“I’m Thea. But you know that already,” I stammered and then giggled.
“Which one is yours?” he asked.
I pointed out my bag, wanting to apologize for how ugly and heavy it was. My face suddenly felt warm from embarrassment.
Bosley picked it up effortlessly and led the way out of the airport. When Ms. Hampton told me that someone from Holt’s staff would meet me, I guess I was expecting a secretary or an intern. Not Harmon Holt’s right hand.
“Ms. Roberts, Mr. Holt is very impressed with you.”
“Why?” I blurted.
He raised a perfect eyebrow.
“Why me?” I continued.
“H has an amazing track record. He’s never been wrong.”
“Oh
,” I said.
Bosley held the door for me as we headed toward a fancy SUV. I would have said more, but I was still trying to wrap my head around the idea that Harmon Holt had this much confidence in me.
Inside, I admired the interior of the nicest car I’d ever been in. Then I saw the Hollywood sign whiz by my window. I pressed myself closer to the SUV’s window. Palm trees lined the streets. White stucco mansions with terra-cotta roofs sat on stone driveways.
“You’ll be staying with a host family. They’re friends of Holt Enterprises. They’re happy to lend out their guesthouse.”
Guesthouse? I thought I’d be staying in a dorm at one of the state colleges.
“Like charity,” I said, sounding bitterer than I expected. I guess I’d been prepared for something different. A place with other kids.
“Like a favor for Mr. Holt. When Mr. Holt helps you, he expects nothing from you except to pay it forward.”
“So this family I’m staying with, he helped them once upon a time too?” I asked, filling in the fuzzy picture I had of Holt. Did the billionaire really spend all his spare time playing fairy godmother?
Bosley looked at me a long beat. I nodded as if I understood.
Harmon Holt had his name on buildings and planes and credits in movies and liner notes on albums. I wanted my name on one thing—those little labels that are sewn into the back of clothes. But wanting something and actually having something, like Harmon Holt did, seemed pretty far apart.
My jaw dropped when we pulled into the driveway of a huge house at the end of the block.
SIX
“You start work tomorrow at 7 a.m. sharp. Your host will drop you off. If you work past 9 p.m., Lorelei’s company will provide a car. And here’s a bus schedule, just in case.”
I nodded at everything Mr. Bosley said. He got out and opened the door for me.
“Thank you for everything,” I said, really meaning it.
He handed me a card with his info on it.