“Matt, looks like you’ve been served.” Dakota grins.
“Whatever. It’s almost time to clean up anyway.”
I quickly finish sewing the fastener onto my skirt before I clean up, because I want to wear it home. The hem is still only tacked, but I’ll finish that properly next week.
Nina and I clean up our stuff, and I ask her to wait for me while I go change into my skirt in the bathroom.
“Sure,” she says. “Maybe we can go for a hot chocolate or something afterward.”
I wish we had a full-length mirror in the girls’ bathroom so I could see how I look in the skirt. For a minute, I consider standing on the toilet so I can see myself in the mirror above the sink, but knowing my luck, I’d end up with my foot in the toilet, and that would be totally gross and hard to explain to the others. So I have to go on how I feel, and how I feel is awesome—which is how a good outfit is supposed to make you feel, right?
Nina, Dakota, and Matt are waiting for me outside the bathroom door.
“So, where are we heading?” Dakota asks.
“How about Starcups?” I say. “It’s the place to go.”
Matt gives me a skeptical look. He’s MWTMS’s self-styled Mr. Trendy New York Hot Spots. It gets kind of annoying sometimes.
“Well, for coffee and hot chocolate, at least,” I add.
“It’s close and it’s the place where kids from our school go,” Matt says. “Other than that, it’s overpriced and drearily generic.”
Like I said, annoying.
“Starcups it is,” Dakota says. “Lead the way.”
I love how my new skirt swishes around my legs as I walk down the street. I might have to get a new pair of boots to go with it, if and when my allowance ever gets to the level where I can afford new boots.
“What are you going to tell your parents?” Nina says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“About the outfit,” she says. “When they ask you where you got it.”
Great. Another lie I have to come up with. They keep piling up like yellow snow on the street corner after a blizzard.
“Good question. And I have no answer yet.”
“You could tell them I made it for you,” Nina says.
“You’re going to help Aria lie?” Dakota says.
“What’s it to you?” Nina asks, raising her chin.
“Nothing,” Dakota says. “It’s just . . . not like you.”
I don’t want to be a bad influence. It’s bad enough I’m turning into such a deceitful daughter without corrupting Nina with my lying ways.
“You don’t have to,” I tell her.
“I know I don’t,” she says. “But I want to, because you’re my friend. One of the only friends I’ve got in this city.”
“If you’re sure,” I say. “It would give me an out with Mom and Dad.”
“Will she or won’t she? That is the question.” Matt puts on a fake British accent, like he’s narrating a PBS documentary. “Will this rare species from the remote woods of Canada, rarely seen in Manhattan’s noisy streets, adapt to the duplicitous ways of city life?”
“Ohmigosh, you guys,” Nina says, laughing, as we walk into Starcups. “Why are you making such a big deal? It’s fine.”
We order our drinks from the barista, who is dressed in black from top to toe and looks like her mood is that way too. I wonder if she’s having a bad day.
“We’ll go nab some seats,” Matt says.
“Yeah, there are some over by the window,” Dakota tells us as he heads off to hunt for empty chairs.
Nina watches her brother walk away.
“I wish he’d stop acting like he’s my dad,” she says. “Because he’s not. He’s my twin brother. And I’m three minutes and forty-two seconds older than he is, so he has no right to boss me around.”
“Yeah, I know. My parents are totally overprotective,” I say sympathetically. “It’s super annoying. But maybe he’s just concerned?”
“I guess,” she admits. “Sometimes I wish he’d worry a little less so I could just be myself.”
“Excuse me. . . .”
We turn and see a tall, striking woman behind us, dressed in an elegant black pantsuit. I can’t help but notice how ace her accessories are. Fab shoes, a great bag, and really amazing signature jewelry pieces on her ears, neck, and wrists. She knows what she’s doing, fashion-wise, that’s for sure.
“I just love your skirt,” she tells me. “Where did you get it?”
I’m flooded with pride and paralyzed with amazement that someone other than my parents likes something I created, especially someone who is really well dressed and doesn’t even know me.
“She made it,” Nina says before I can get my lips moving.
“Really?” the woman says. “Fascinating.”
Eyeing me thoughtfully, she reaches into her bag and rummages around while Nina and I pick up our drinks.
“I’m Adele Bonrever,” the lady says, holding out a card in her immaculately manicured fingers. “A talent spotter for Teen Couture.”
I have to bite my cheek to stifle a scream of excitement, because that would be totally dorky and not at all New York. Instead I try to act like this kind of thing happens to me every day—which it doesn’t, not even in my wildest dreams.
I take the card and Nina looks at it over my shoulder. It reads: ADELE M. BONREVER. CASTING DIRECTOR. INYOURDREAMS ENTERTAINMENT.
“You want Aria to be on your show?” Nina squeaks.
I hold my breath, waiting for her answer.
“I’d like her to come for a screen test, yes,” Ms. Bonrever says.
The barista calls out a small, skinny vanilla latte.
“That’s me,” Ms. Bonrever says. “How about we sit down and I tell you more about the show?”
We join Matt and Dakota. When Matt hears who Adele is, he jumps up and nearly falls over himself to pull over an extra chair.
“I read that you’re casting the new season of Teen Couture on tvgossipscoopz.com!” he exclaims.
“I am indeed,” Ms. Bonrever says, smiling at him.
Matt’s a native New Yorker like me. We’re supposed to be immune to celebrity gawking because we see famous people all the time on the streets. I mean I live with two of the most famous people of all time. But right now Matt’s fanboying worse than someone from the suburbs of Nowheresville. I think the combination of fashion and potential fame has gone to his head.
“As you may know, Teen Couture is a show where tweens compete in a series of challenges to make the best outfits. The grand prize for the upcoming season is a week shadowing the scorching-hot designer Seiyariyashi Tomaki in his studio”—Ms. Bonrever pauses as Matt lets out an audible gasp of excitement—“and a one-on-one lunch with him where you can ask any questions you have about the industry.”
Okay, Matt’s not the only one freaking out now. This is a chance of a lifetime. I’m better at keeping a poker face than he is, though. My parents are the best actors I know, but I’m no slouch, either. Years of having to sit through deathly boring parties with Really Important People (RIPs), while still being super polite and pretending you’re having a good time, have finally paid off.
“Could be an interesting opportunity,” I say with what I hope is cool nonchalance.
“It’s an amazing opportunity,” Ms. Bonrever states. “Tomaki is an unparalleled genius. To get a one-on-one with him before one’s career even starts is a gift of incalculable value. But only the winner gets that prize.”
I want that prize. I want it more than anything I’ve ever wanted before in my entire life.
“So, Aria, will you come for a screen test?” Ms. Bonrever asks.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Matt visibly deflate. I feel bad for him, but not bad enough to give up my chance at the prize. All’s fair in love and fashion.
“Sure, okay,” I say. “Why not?”
Her crimson-painted lips part in a wide smile.
“Wonderful! I
think you’ll be a terrific fit, and my instincts are rarely wrong,” she says, opening her capacious bag again and pulling out a sheet of paper. “I just need your parents to sign this consent form and return it to my office. Scan and e-mail is fine. Then we can set up a time for the screen test.”
My vision of picking Seiyariyashi Tomaki’s brain about everything I ever wanted to know about the fashion industry over lunch at one of New York’s finest restaurants fades to black as soon as I hear the words “consent form.”
Because given that these challenges are going to involve needles, pins, and other sharp objects of potentially finger-pricking nature, the chances of my parents signing a consent form range from zero to “not in a million years.”
But as I take the form from Adele Bonrever, my smile doesn’t waver. Seriously, it’s a totally Oscar-worthy performance. No lie. But this is the last of my truths. Because I have to figure out how to take part in Teen Couture. And somehow, I have a feeling that’s going to involve a lot of lying.
Chapter Four
SOPHIE AND NINA ARE UNITED in the opinion that I have to find a way to do the screen test—even if it involves subterfuge. Even Matt, who is still totally jealous that Adele Bonrever picked me instead of him, agrees.
“At least if you’re on the show, I can live vicariously in your reflected glory,” he says. “And you can convince them they should pick me for next season.”
“First I actually have to get on the show,” I tell him. “I mean, it’s easy for you, Soph. You can be honest with your parents, because they’re not crazy protective like mine.”
“True,” she agrees. “But that just leaves me with energy to come up with creative ideas to deceive your parents.”
“So what’s the plan?” Nina asks. “Because I can’t think of anything. Forgery isn’t my strong point.”
“Besides, it’s bad enough you’ve started lying since you came to New York,” Dakota says. “You don’t need to turn into even more of a delinquent.”
Nina rolls her eyes. “Okay, Dad.”
“Who are you calling delinquents?” Sophie says. “We’re creatives.”
Dakota snorts, but we choose to ignore his backwoods cynicism.
“Your parents already think you’re in the Chess Club, right?” Matt asks.
“Yeah,” I confirm. “That was Lie—excuse me, Creative Explanation—Number One.”
“Don’t they have a field trip coming up to the regional heats of the International Chess Federation Tournament?” Matt says. “I heard Alex and Sundar talking about it in math class.”
“That’s it!” Sophie exclaims. “We’ll get a permission slip for the chess field trip, then photocopy it on top of the consent form for Teen Couture. Then all you have to do is get one of your parents to sign it when they’re doing something else. Parents will sign any old school form when they’re distracted.”
“That’s brilliant,” I say. “It could actually work.”
“Of course it could work!” Sophie says. “You think I’d propose a plan doomed to fail?”
“No,” Dakota says. “You’re beginning to terrify me with your evil genius.”
“It’s not evil, exactly,” Nina argues. “More like creatively cunning.”
“I like the way you think,” Sophie tells her with a smile.
Dakota frowns. I’m pretty sure he thinks Sophie, Matt, and I are bad influences. Hopefully he’ll realize we’re not once he gets to know us better.
I approach Alex Lobachevsky after school and ask him if he can get me a field trip permission slip.
“Why do you want it?” he asks. “You’re not in the Chess Club. You’re not even interested in learning to play chess well. Only ‘enough to fake it.’ ”
He does air quotes to emphasize my lameness.
“I have my reasons,” I say.
Apparently vague, unspecified “reasons” aren’t good enough for Alex.
“Ten dollars,” he says.
“What?”
“I’ll get you the permission slip for ten dollars.”
“You’re going to charge me for a permission slip?”
“This is the situation,” he says, pinning me with a sharp gaze from behind his black-rimmed glasses. “You need this permission slip for ‘reasons,’ which it’s obvious have nothing to do with going on the field trip. That means this paper has value to you. I will provide the paper to you as a service for compensation. It’s called capitalism.”
“As American as apple pie, right?”
“Even more American than apple pie,” Alex says. “Now, do you want the permission form or not?”
I don’t just want it. I need it. Desperately. The problem is, I don’t have ten dollars to hand over.
“How about five dollars?” I say, holding out the crumpled bills that I do have. “That’s all I have on me.”
Alex hesitates, then decides that five dollars in hand is better than nothing.
“Ms. Thornbrier, you have yourself a deal,” he says, pulling a blank form out of his backpack.
“You had it all along?” I ask, outraged, grabbing it before he changes his mind.
“It’s mine. I’ll tell Mr. Jackson I lost it and I need another,” Alex says, grinning over his shoulder at me as he walks away. “Good luck with your subterfuge, whatever it is.”
Alex is probably going to be the head of a big corporation someday.
But instead of being mad, I decide to look at the five dollars I just paid him as an investment in my future. The power of positive thinking and all that.
With both the Chess Club permission form and the Teen Couture consent form in hand, I head over to the office-supply place two blocks away, and using one of the glue sticks in the copier area, I glue the top of the Chess Club paper to the bottom of the consent form. After photocopying it to make it look like a single sheet, I cut out the bottom of that sheet and lightly glue it to the real consent form, so that just the signature area shows. That way I can get Mom to sign the real paper, and then just take off the fake sheet and fill in the rest.
I text a picture to Sophie: What do you think?
Looks good! She texts back a thumbs-up emoticon. Catch her when she’s distracted.
I thumbs-up her back and head home. I know Mom doesn’t have a party tonight, so there’s a good chance she’ll be working at her home office. She tries to do that on the nights there isn’t an event so she can spend more quality time with me—even if quality time means she’s troubleshooting for an upcoming soirée on her laptop or phone.
Sure enough, when I get home, Mom’s there, but she’s at the kitchen table with her cell phone glued to her ear and her laptop open in front of her.
“Can you hold on a sec, Snow?” she says. “Aria just walked in.”
“Hi, Mom,” I say, dumping my backpack. “Are you going to be long?”
“I might be,” she says. “I’m on the phone with Rosie White Charming’s mom. She’s doing a feature piece on Enchanted Soirées for the front page of CharmingLifestyles.com.”
“Cool!” I say. “I won’t hold you up while you’re making money to pay for my glam life.” I take the form out of my bag. “I just need you to sign this permission slip for a Chess Club field trip, okay?”
“No problem, honey,” Mom says, unmuting the call with Mrs. White Charming. “Hey, Snow, thanks for holding. Yes, we’ve been selected to do some of the most prestigious fund-raisers this year. Honestly, I think it’s because they like having Bernhard show up in his dress uniform. He adds cachet.”
I slide the form under her hand as she laughs at whatever Rosie’s mom replies.
“I know having their picture taken with a handsome prince seems to encourage people to write bigger checks. Bernhard says he’s doing his bit for charity.”
She scribbles her signature and continues the conversation as I exhale slowly and carefully take the paper away.
“Thanks!” I whisper, then grab my stuff and make a beeline for my bedroom.
After carefully removing the Chess Club top sheet, I fill in the rest of the consent form, take a picture of it, and e-mail it to Adele Bonrever. I tell her I’m excited to have the opportunity to try out for the show and look forward to hearing from her. I make sure to put my cell-phone number, and to give a fake number for Mom’s. No way do I want them to call her. That would put an end to my dreams before they begin.
Then I try to watch another chess video in case Dad challenges me to a match this weekend, but all I can think about is when I’m going to hear about the screen test.
The one adult I confide in about my potential appearance on Teen Couture is Ms. Amara. I go to see her after school on Monday but beg her to keep it a secret for now.
“My parents are a little overanxious about needles and stuff, given . . . my family history,” I explain. “I just want a chance to do the thing I really love. And this is it.”
“It certainly is an amazing opportunity,” Ms. Amara agrees. “I’m uncomfortable with hiding it from your parents, though.”
“I’ll tell them if I get on the show,” I tell her. “There’s no point freaking them out if I don’t even make it past the screen test, right?”
“Reasonable enough, I suppose,” she finally agrees. “We also want to make sure you’ve got some good techniques up your sleeve if that happens.”
She agrees to meet with me after school an extra afternoon a week to help me learn more about draping, tucking, and other things that might come in useful in a competition. If I get selected for the show, that is.
On Tuesday afternoon, I get a call from Adele Bonrever that she’s set up an audition for me the following Wednesday after school.
“Do I need to prepare?” I ask, nervous suddenly.
“If you’ve got any other outfits you’ve made, bring them. Otherwise, sketches will do,” she says.
“Oh, I’ve got plenty of sketches,” I tell her.
“Great!” she tells me. “And don’t worry. It’s all very relaxed. We’ll ask you some questions and look over your sketches. Nothing to lose sleep over.”
Fairest of Them All Page 3