by Kelly deVos
Everything in the whole place is white. White walls. White runway. White chairs. White GM gift bags embossed in white.
From my seat, I spot Lois Veering as she makes her way in. They put her in the fourth row, which, in fashion, means you might as well be dead. I hope I don’t have to talk to her. I’m not sure what I would say.
Her old first-row seat is occupied by her former assistant, new Par Donna editor, Celine Stanford, who I secretly suspect might be a robot. Her head whips from side to side like the Terminator scanning a crowd for Sarah Connor.
I’m struck by this sort of paranoid idea that people are looking at me, checking me out. The dress Gareth gave me to wear makes me look a bit more like my mother than I would like. Then two boring guys in off-the-rack suits take their seats on either side of me. I find out that one of them is Gareth’s business manager and the other is his lawyer. They are staring at me. Not in the way a man might stare at a woman because he’s hot for her. But the way you watch someone when you’re trying to figure out if they’re a threat to you. When you want to know what their weaknesses are.
Gareth walks the runway at the close of the show. I catch his eye for an instant. There’s this moment when I feel like it’s him and me, alone and connected in the tent. I shake that off. That idea is bizarre too.
Afterward, Celine Stanford tweets one word.
@CelineStanford: Meh. #GMSpringSummer
I’m not surprised. I can see Stanford’s yawn reflected in the dress I’m wearing. I found out that a Crista-Galli is an Argentinean tree that yields waxy, suggestive flowers in an eye-popping shade of bloodred. But the polished polyester dress inspired by that exotic sight is somehow bland. And derivative. The flowing skirt of 1980s Halston. The plunging neckline of Gucci-era Tom Ford. The popsicle-colored palette of Gareth’s own past collections.
On my blog, I always try to be real. Even though assholes shouldn’t be allowed to be charming, maybe I am charmed by Gareth Miller. Maybe I can’t accept that someone so talented would be the brains behind a snoozer of a Spring/Summer collection. But for the first time, I find myself trying to look for positive things to write about. There was a maxi dress with a unique pattern of tiny, grinning saguaro cacti twirling braided ropes. The jewelry was nice.
I don’t see Gareth after the show. The GM people are busy behind the scenes, uncorking champagne, guiding editors into photo ops and distributing swag bags. It’s all the right things but it feels off somehow. Reese puts me in a Town Car and sends me back to the Refinery.
At this point, I’m pretty sure I’m done. That I had my Cinderella moment with a famous fashion designer, and now it’s back to real life. I’ve got nothing to complain about, really. I even get an email from Lucy, my contact at NutriMin Water, telling me how thrilled they are about the tweet and the increased traffic to my blog.
And honestly, I’m ready to go back. I’ve got a full day of classes on deck on Monday and will be spending my nights up to my armpits in indigo dye for a project for my Textiles 201 class.
The next morning, I say goodbye to Piper, hit the hotel’s gym for my usual five miles on the treadmill, and finish packing for my three o’clock flight back to Phoenix. I’m planning to head to the airport early and am pulling my bags to the door when the phone rings. It’s Reese. “Hey, Cookie. Sleep okay?”
“Yeah. Great. I’ve had such an awesome trip. Thanks for everything. And thank Gareth for me too, okay?”
There’s a pause. “Why don’t you tell him yourself? He’s hoping you’ll meet him on the rooftop in a few minutes.”
I check the clock. It’s a few minutes before ten, which is checkout time at the hotel. “Okay. Should I do that now? Should I take my luggage downstairs first?”
“Don’t worry about that,” Reese tells me. “I’ll arrange for you to get a late checkout. Just get upstairs as soon as you can.”
She hangs up, but I’m standing there still clutching the hotel phone. My mind is racing through a total freakout. I’m wearing a pair of heather gray sweats and a T-shirt that I planned to sleep in on the plane. I haven’t done my makeup, and my hair is in a messy bun secured by the only ponytail holder I could find.
I shimmy into a midi skirt I made from an old 1980s videogame bedsheet and an atomic pink sweater I knitted that has cutouts on the shoulders. I spend about ten seconds wondering if I should add a pair of neon leg warmers to my outfit, but realize I don’t have time to pull off the retro irony. There’s two minutes for foundation, mascara and blush and nothing I can do about my hair. It would take too long to fix it.
Ten minutes later I’m leaving the elevator and making my way onto the semideserted rooftop, which hasn’t opened for lunch yet. A few of Gareth’s people cluster in the back corner, all clad in jeans and black tees as if that’s the official GM uniform or something. They’re in the middle of some kind of a debate.
“I’m saying you should think about it, Gareth. Consider the suggestion, that’s all. Darcy may have a good idea here.” I recognize the speaker. He’s the manager who sat next to me at the show.
“The retail preorders were strong. Same as last season. And the season before that.” Gareth’s voice. My heart beats faster. I hate Gareth Miller. I also hate that he looks so good.
“The same means no growth,” Mr. Manager says. “We have an opportunity here to do something outside the box.”
“Yes,” Gareth agrees in an irritated tone. “Let’s give it 110 percent and hit the ground running with an idea designed to show how we push the envelope over here. Have I left anything out? I do so love these business clichés.”
The manager responds with equal anger. “Well, what’s your plan? Ignore the fact that this collection is not being received the way we want? The way we need it to be?”
“The preorders were the same. We have to—”
Mr. Manager must know Gareth pretty well because he cuts through him. “We have to accept that buzz for the current collection drives the reception of the next one. When we do Fall/Winter in March, we need to have people talking about something besides these clothes. Darcy’s idea gives us that.”
When Gareth doesn’t reply, Mr. Manager says in a huff, “It’s not just you here, Gareth. Not everyone has a private ranch and a ten-figure bank account to fall back on. You have two hundred employees who want to keep their jobs.”
Gareth sighs. “A nineteen-year-old blogger?”
Typical.
For the first time, a woman speaks. I assume this must be Darcy. “I guess she’s good enough to screw but not good enough to train?”
“I’m not screwing her,” Gareth says.
“Okay, so that’s still on your to-do list,” Mr. Manager says.
Blargh. Not only is Mr. Manager a major asshole, somehow the idea of Gareth keeping a list of women he wants to sleep with seems right in character. I never want my name on that kind of list.
I’m coming closer to them now. I can make out that Darcy is a small, thin woman in her forties with purple hair cut in a sharp pixie. She too is wearing the standard black T-shirt. I’m not sure if I should clear my throat or say something to let them know I’m there. My pulse races as I duck behind one of the restaurant’s service stations.
Gareth ignores Mr. Manager. “And my point is that there’s nothing to suggest she knows how to design clothes.”
“She’s a sophomore in the fashion program at Arizona State.” Darcy passes her phone to Gareth. “Supposedly quite good.”
Gareth holds the phone close to his face. I can’t imagine what he’s looking at, since I haven’t posted any of my own work on my blog.
“Moreno thinks she’s something of a prodigy,” Darcy says.
“Lydia Moreno?” Gareth asks, his face going blank.
FAT: Day 6 of NutriNation
The first time I see Dr. Lydia Moreno’s name is on an interview letter. My Clothing te
acher, Mrs. Vargas, sets it up. She’s getting worried that I don’t seem to have a plan beyond finding a fairy godmother to pay my Parsons tuition.
Mrs. Vargas holds me after class and hands me the letter. “I’ve set up a meeting for you,” she says in a tone that leaves no room for argument. “I know. I know. Parsons. Parsons. Parsons. But you should also be aware that next year ASU is adding a brand-new fashion-design program to their college of fine arts. They’ve been poaching faculty from places like FIDM, Parsons and RISD and shelling out big bucks for workshop presenters like Michael Kors. The program could be a good fit for you, and because they’re new, they have scholarship options that aren’t based on your parents’ income.”
She circles the meeting time and location with a red pen. “And I know Lydia Moreno. She is absolutely the best. Your talent and her direction would be an unstoppable combination. Take your application and your five best pieces.”
This is how I end up pushing my garment rack through a ridiculously large parking lot, across University Drive and up the Arizona State campus.
Because I’ve got no money, I have to park in the cheapest lot, which is on the opposite side of the universe from where I need to go. My rack won’t fit on the free shuttle, so I have to trek through a school that’s basically the size of a city. It feels like I’m walking forever past brownish structures with impossibly long names like the George M. Bateman Physical Sciences Center.
I’m having ten million feelings all at the same time. I’m nervous. Sorry for myself because I don’t really want to go to ASU. And sort of relieved to have something to do after school besides think about how empty my stomach is.
It’s been almost a week since I started NutriNation, and I’ve been hungry every single second of every single day. Sometimes, when I’m sitting at my desk in class, I have one of those moments from cartoons where the person in front of me suddenly looks like a giant, basted turkey.
My rack clicks and rattles as it rolls through the mostly quiet campus. Everybody I walk by seems to have it so together. They’ve got canvas knapsacks and cups of coffee and are probably going off somewhere to talk about whether the universe is real. They mostly give me the side-eye as I pass.
The meeting is in a place called Discovery Hall, and the way-not-to-scale map I printed out is pretty much no help in finding it. I have to circle around a few times before I finally work up the nerve to ask someone where to go. Another guy clutching yet another cup of coffee points to a beige structure. It’s sort of ridiculous that the building itself has SCIENCES lettered along the top, along with the names of a bunch of dead guys, yet the words Discovery Hall appear nowhere.
Copernicus’s name is on the building, but I’d like to see him try to find it.
Discovery Hall is small, and it’s not too much trouble to find room B125. The office is tiny and already cramped, even though it’s only me and my rack in there.
I stand and wait for Dr. Moreno.
I wait long enough that I start to worry. What if there is no scholarship? What if there is no new fashion program at ASU? What if the universe is not real? I tug down the ribbing of my sweater. Make sure the seam of my A-line skirt is positioned perfectly on my side.
Thanks to the smack of flip-flops against the tile floor, I hear someone coming.
This is the first time I see her. She’s got a tight bun, a makeup-free tanned face and a Diane von Fürstenberg wrap dress made from a blue floral print.
She extends her hand. “I’m Dr. Lydia Moreno.”
“Hi. Hi... I’m...I’m...” I don’t exactly know why I’m so intimidated by Dr. Moreno. I’m contemplating how she’s kind of fabulous and how the DVF dress is made of a printed fabric I’ve never seen before. Dr. Moreno must have sewn it. And also, isn’t it marvelous that DVF sells patterns for her dresses so that anyone with a will to sew can have one?
“Cookie?”
“Here,” I say automatically. I’m a complete idiot. It’s not like she’s taking attendance or something.
“Right,” she says, fighting back a laugh. “You’re Cookie Vonn? Theresa Vargas has told me all about you.” She’s sitting at the small desk in front of me now and motioning for me to sit.
“Yep. Yes. I’m Cookie. That’s me.”
Dr. Moreno smiles. “Sorry about the cramped quarters. We’ll be in the art building once the program starts next fall, but right now we have to settle for office space wherever they can squeeze us in.”
I nod but am distracted again by a stack of messy boxes near the desk. On the very top is a diploma from Parsons in a slim, stainless-steel frame.
“You went to Parsons?” I take my seat. The narrow chair squeezes my thighs.
“Went there. Taught there.” Moreno says this like it’s no big deal. Like she hasn’t lived my dream life.
She watches me for a second. “Okay. Who is it? Marc Jacobs? Tom Ford? Gareth Miller?”
“What?”
“You’ve got that look. That I want to go to Parsons just like fill in the blank.”
“Claire McCardell,” I say.
She grins. “Going way way back in the day, huh? Well, I love her too. American Sportswear at its finest.”
“Yes!” I say with way too much enthusiasm. “She’s probably the best American fashion designer of all time. And no one has heard of her. Well, I bet Ralph Lauren and Tommy Hilfiger have heard of her, because there’s no American look without McCardell. I mean, the Popover Dress. Ballet flats. Playsuits. The book What Shall I Wear? And ooh, the Future Dress. Claire McCardell went to Parsons and...” I trail off, suddenly realizing that this line of discussion might cost me the only educational option I have left.
Dr. Moreno doesn’t seem offended and laughs again. “And you think you need to, as well? McCardell chose Parsons in her day because there was nothing else to choose. Neither of us know what she would do if she were sitting in your chair.”
No, I don’t know what McCardell would do if she were sitting in my chair. Probably not be feeling stuffed into it like a hot dog in a bun the way I do.
“Okay,” Dr. Moreno says with a wave at my rack. “Let’s see what you got.”
Clothes.
All the awkwardness evaporates.
I got this.
I unzip my first garment bag. “Okay, here’s my first piece. A plus-size Bettina Blouse in sky blue, hand-dyed, raw cotton. People always say learn from the best. Hubert de Givenchy was the best of the best, and the Bettina Blouse was one of his most famous creations. My Clothing teacher told me I was wrong to make a size-twenty shirt with puffy sleeves because fat people don’t need padding. But careful tailoring and trimming is the secret to making it flattering to all figures.”
Dr. Moreno pops out of her chair and takes the hanger from me. “Ruffled broderie-anglaise sleeves. Good. The Point de Gaze lace is a very nice touch. Add something dainty to something voluminous. Smart.”
I return the blouse to the rack and pull out my next outfit.
“Ah,” Dr. Moreno says as I unzip the bag. “Your homage to McCardell.”
I grin at her. “Yes. Plus-size, brick red, plaid skirt and blouse in bright white cotton faille. This look is my tribute to her classic designs. And yes, I did a big, bold plaid. Many designers say plus-size should stay away from plus prints, but they’re wrong. The right cut is everything.”
“Are all your pieces plus-size?” she asks.
My confidence wavers a bit. “Um. Yes. That’s what I do. Plus-size fashion.”
“Good,” she says simply.
I can’t help but grin. Nobody ever just says good.
We go through my remaining pieces. My hand-knit cashmere sweater. The jacket I made from Grandma’s old, threadbare Pendleton blanket. My own take on the Popover Dress, made from a worn and distressed denim ombré.
Dr. Moreno checks everything. The stitching. The ga
rment structure. The placement of seams and darts. When she’s finished, we sit again.
She takes out a notepad and places it on the desk alongside my application. “Okay, Cookie. Tell me, why is fashion important?”
Oh, I got this too.
“Fashion is art, and I’m not just talking about the Chado Ralph Rucci exhibit locked up at the Met. It’s one of the few kinds of art that everybody gets to participate in. Fashion turns each of us into our own museum. We curate ourselves at the closet door each morning. And for some people, that’s the only creative decision they ever get to make. It’s a pair of khakis and a T-shirt, but to the guy who picks them, it’s an exhibition. Of style.”
Dr. Moreno smiles. “And what motivated you to focus on plus-size fashion?”
I shrug. “Claire McCardell said all women deserve great clothes. Today, some women have access to them and others don’t. I want to design for the girls other designers refuse to dress.”
As I pack up my stuff, Dr. Moreno says, “Of course, we’ll be sending out the official notifications in the next few months. But between you and me, you’re a shoo-in for the scholarship.”
“Oh. Oh. Thanks. Thank you.” I put all the enthusiasm I can muster into this statement.
Dr. Moreno helps me zip up my garment bags. “Give it some real thought, Cookie. You want to be a tiny fish swimming around in the Parsons shark tank? Okay. But you’ll get the same education here, and you’ll be a big fish with opportunities I guarantee won’t come your way at Parsons. As my mama always says, Más vale ser cabeza de ratón que cola de león. Better to be a mouse’s head than a lion’s tail.”
Right now, standing next to slim and trim Dr. Moreno, I feel like an oversize fish in a small room.
She smiles and shakes my hand. “Hope to see you next fall.”
I make a clumsy show of trying to get my rack out of the door. “Oh. Um. Thanks. Thank you.”
The last thing I see as I leave the office is Lydia Moreno’s foil-stamped Parsons diploma, mocking me from its casual perch in the corner.