Alterations

by Stephanie Scott

  “Games,” I echoed without momentum. And I daydreamed my life away. I stood by as the boy of my dreams took another girl to prom while my Saturday-night plans involved creating virtual outfit combinations to post online.

  “Hey, what happened to you? You’re all scratched up.”

  Resisting the urge to bolt, I looked at Liam. His face showed no disgust, only curiosity. “I—there was a bush out front.” No, too soon. I was not reliving this. It was bad enough Liam suspected I was stalking his brother. Liam calling me out felt like having the covers ripped off me while I was sleeping. “I should go.”

  I didn’t wait to see if he’d tell me not to. We didn’t exactly have that kind of relationship. We didn’t have a relationship period.

  And you don’t have one with Ethan either.

  I rushed through the doors of the staff kitchen and kept going. Through the back hall and out the side door. I jogged around the terrace garden toward the cobblestone path, winding through palm fronds and the floral landscape to our apartment. The limo had already started off down the drive. I doubted anyone in it looked back.

  Liam’s comments made me feel so stupid, so small. He picked up on my fascination with his brother without any knowledge of my secret Laurenti data-gathering Pinboards. All these years I’d been watching Ethan, Liam had been around to see it.

  Back in the safety of my room, I collapsed on my bed. It would’ve been better if I’d never seen the dresses, Ethan in his (amazing) tux, or that stupid purse.

  I rolled over and something wrinkled in my pocket. I pulled the envelope from my skirt’s pocket and opened it. The card was slim with a cartoon figure of a posh-looking girl in sunglasses walking a little Scottie dog. The preprinted message inside was a little expected, but cute:

  Happy Birthday to a real trendsetter!

  Only the name signed beneath wasn’t Gigi. It was signed

  Liam

  Johnny Cash needed coaxing. I pressed the foot pedal halfway down until the sewing machine’s motor whirred to life. I applied more pressure and the needle picked up speed. Each threaded dip into the fabric settled my breath into a comfortable in and out. Stitches had order. Neat and straight and predictable.

  “I thought you were going to fashion camp to learn sewing,” Maya said through a mouthful of popcorn, perched on my bed. Her voice had a rasp to it—she’d always spoken that way, like she’d just walked in from an all-nighter at a club. “Come on, let’s go out to a movie or something.”

  I shook my head, not bothering to look up from the hypnotic stitches. “I can’t get to New York and be the first person voted out. That would be humiliating.”

  A piece of popcorn sailed onto my fabric. “It’s not a reality show. Wait, is Tim Gunn going to be there? You didn’t tell me Tim Gunn was part of this.”

  I flicked the popcorn aside. “I wish! Anyway, you know what I mean. I only have a few weeks until I leave. I want to be prepared.” Practice. Research. Organization. Those were my standbys. I’d already had nightmares about dropped stitches and drop-crotch pants; loose-threaded, puckered seams taunted me while the streets crawled with people wearing droopy, sagging leggings they insisted were “chill.” Those pants were not chill. Those pants were a travesty!

  Maya walked over to where I sat at my sewing table. “You sure are churning out these accessories. You’re like a regular sweatshop up in here.”

  “Hey. That’s nothing to joke about. I read a very disturbing online article on child workers in Malaysia.” Because now that school was out, I had all kinds of time to read about child labor in Malaysia.

  “I’m gonna miss you, you fashion freak.” She swatted me with a scrap of cotton batting. “My butt’s going to be working all summer. So far this week I’ve got an interview at a dry cleaners and another at a hot dog place down in the fiduciary district.”

  I snort-laughed. “I think people call it the financial district. Anyway, you’ll be working so much, you’ll barely miss me. But you’ll miss me, right?”

  “We could be hanging out somewhere right now if I could pull you away from this beast.” Maya swept hair from her eyes. Dark like mine, her hair pointed straight down, just past her shoulders, while my waves meandered toward the middle of my back, thick and unruly.

  A familiar rumble sounded outside. My attention snapped to the window. My tiny, narrow bedroom had a bonus: not one but two windows, both of which overlooked the front of the Laurenti house. Optimal views of the circle drive. Ethan’s SUV stopped within sight.

  “Please tell me the reason you’re staying in isn’t because of him.”

  The SUV’s passenger-side door opened. Ethan’s lean arm muscles tightened as he hoisted a bag over his shoulder. Arms solid from swimming laps and the push-ups he probably did for soccer training. The door closed, and he walked with ease around the vehicle, his shirt fitted tight enough to move with him, but loose enough to lift up at the side from where the bag caught the hem.

  A sharp clap sounded in my ears. “Amelia. Snap out of it!”

  I blinked and reluctantly removed my gaze from the window. After what happened with the purse and the pricker bush and running into Liam during prom pictures, I’d steered clear from either Laurenti brother for weeks. Though, I didn’t rule out me seeing them.

  “He’s just a guy, you know.”

  “Huh?” I turned, wondering whether I’d heard her right.

  Maya stared at me. A just-barely-there sense of judgment laced her tone. “Ethan. He’s just a guy.”

  I couldn’t formulate a response. Maya, my closest friend, was the one person besides me who understood the amazingness of Ethan. We used to write stories when we were younger, where Maya’s ended with her racing off in a tricked-out sports car in some caper like the Fast and Furious movies, while mine finished with accepting an Academy Award for costume design and jetting off to France with Ethan on our honeymoon. She’d helped me write all the happily-ever-afters. She was the only person who knew about the secret Laurenti Pinterest boards. Now she was reducing Ethan to just some guy.

  “You know he’s more than that.”

  It wasn’t like I drooled over Ethan just because he was hot (though, obviously, he was hot). I’d watched him grow into who he was now. Optimistic, friendly, funny. Mami was always telling me never to settle. She’d had me young, and my dad hadn’t stuck around long enough for me to remember. Mami said I should wait for a guy who would treat me the best. What better guy than the one I knew everything about?

  Maya chewed at her lip. “Look, A. It’s just—”

  “Just what?” Maya wasn’t one to stall.

  She paced behind me in the narrow strip between my desk, the bed, and the door. “It used to be fun, you know, seeing what the rich kids were up to. Sneaking into the kitchen where your abuelita was working, stealing cookies or whatever. But you and the Laurentis live in different worlds. We’ve got our friends, they’ve got theirs. They go to white-boy fancy prep school, we keep it real at public. Different worlds. I figured you’d grown out of your crush by now.”

  My skin flamed. Crush? A crush didn’t describe years of invested feelings. I’d worked hard to get to a friendly and respectable place with Ethan. I wasn’t about to grow out of it.

  “Hey. Don’t be offended. I’m not saying he’s out of your league. I’m only saying you put him on this pedestal sometimes, and he’s just a guy.”

  What else could I say without sounding like I was defending myself? So what if I had a framed photo of the Laurentis? Our lives intersected all the time. We practically lived together. I knew them like family.

  She shrugged. “Besides, you’ve got a fashion empire to start.”

  A fresh wave of panic built up inside me. Fashion empire. New York. All of it so intimidating.

  Outside, Ethan’s voice carried over. I couldn’t hear the words, but he and Liam were talking out in the circle drive. The lilt and pitch of Ethan’s words were like cashmere silk across my skin, comforting and familiar. The
Laurentis were an ever-present soundtrack running in the background of my life.

  Going to New York meant leaving the Laurentis. It meant leaving everything I knew. My life where I knew the fit and the styles. Leaving put me in a place where I didn’t know what to expect.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  One of my favorite daydreams involved a middle-of-the-night call from Paris from a fashion designer whose head seamstress walked out. I would book a flight, and just as one heeled foot stepped inside the taxi, Ethan would grab my hand.

  “Where are you going?” Concern would filter through pleading winter-gray eyes.

  “Paris,” I’d say with a sigh. “I just booked a red-eye.” (In movies people were always booking red-eye flights.) “It’s Fashion Week.”

  “Oh,” Ethan would say, because he’d totally understand the gravity of the situation. Fashion Week was when all the designers showcased their collections for the press and the fashion community. It was do or die!

  “Don’t go,” he’d say. Or, in an alternate version, “Let me come with you. I can’t let you go alone.” He’d close the gap between us in one step, bringing a hand to my cheek. His touch, silk soft but strong as he pulled me close. Our lips hovered a breath apart, capturing the longing between us—

  “You gettin’ out, miss? Meter’s still running.”

  The taxi. We were here. I could barely determine where I was with endless city blocks of concrete and glass mixing up my sense of place. I handed over the cash Mami had given me for taxi fare and exited onto the sidewalk. The words “New York Fashion Institute,” just as arty in sign format as on the letterhead, loomed overhead.

  I’d made it. Hollow limbed, I pushed myself and my brand-new Pro Traveler suitcase through the revolving doors. Inside, white marble coated every surface—the floors, columns, and a long desk beside a sign noting: High School Summer Interns Check In Here. A group of students waited nearby. I texted home to let Mami and Abuelita know I’d arrived, my fingers fumbling at my phone’s screen.

  A woman walked out from a hall and clapped her hands a few times. “Attention everyone! Welcome to NYFI.” She pronounced it like a word: Nye-fee. “Please follow me.”

  I filed in with the waiting group into a lounge area with couches and white leather marshmallow chairs. A girl with bright pink highlights against onyx hair walked ahead of me. She dressed in what was easiest described as clothing an anime character might wear. Like maybe she’d come from a Con or belonged in a Japanese fashion blog. Two girls in pretty sundresses, one with super-cool spiky hair and the other with runway model-level makeup, appeared to have come together as besties. Oh, unfair. Why hadn’t I thought to force Maya to come with me?

  I aimed the Pro Traveler toward a free spot along a wall of windows. The glass reflected a sweaty girl weighed down by too many layers. A girl who was neither pro nor traveler, despite what her suitcase label indicated. I positioned myself on the floor with my back against the cool glass, shoving my carry-on bag on top of the suitcase. Out the window, the distance between this building and next door was so narrow, only sunlight squeezed into the space. It was as if a slice of Miami followed me.

  As a distraction, I dug out my planner and admired today’s stickers. “New York” spelled out in fun lettering along with my intentional doodles surrounding the date in the calendar square. The next day’s square: blank. And the day after. And the day after that.

  The program director started a roll call. Toward the end of the alphabet, a girl hustled in hauling a giant duffel bag and a suitcase on wheels. She parked herself next to me.

  “Desiree Williams.”

  The girl’s hand shot up. She fanned herself. A scarf tied at her temple pressed against tight black spiraled curls. “Whew. That was a crazy-long trip.”

  The program director set aside the student list. “All right. If you have someone here you would like to room with, please pair up now. If not, we will assign a roommate for you.”

  Desiree turned to me. Her face was angular, cheekbones set high, with a chin that ended in a fine point. “Let’s be roomies.” Her voice was strong and convincing, like she could get me to do anything. “What’s your name?”

  “Amelia.” I leaned forward as I spoke at the same time she swung her duffel. The bag nailed me in the face, pushing me back into my own tower of luggage. My carry-on fell over and an unsecured pocket emptied onto the floor.

  Her hand flew to my arm to help me up. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  I rubbed my face. “That was my fault, totally.” Day one pocket dump.

  “No, I was the one not paying attention.” Desiree righted the bag and picked up the scattered papers—my travel itinerary, the e-ticket from the plane. “Here.” She handed over a small framed photo. The Laurentis’ most recent family portrait, which Gigi gave Abuelita every year. A last-minute addition to my bag.

  I jammed the frame into the carry-on. “So, where are you from? I’m from Miami.”

  “Ah!” she said, like this made sense. “I was thinking someplace south. You’ve got Miami’s vibe down.”

  My hand flew to my necklace, a long green-and-yellow-beaded piece with chunky chain links connecting them together. I couldn’t decipher Desiree’s style by region. Skinny cropped pants accentuated her lanky frame, and a drapey shirt rested effortlessly against her brown skin.

  “I’m from San Francisco.” She let out an audible breath. “My flight sucked. I got in last night and stayed with my auntie’s friend, but that was in Brooklyn. Let’s just say I have had a serious tour of the subway system and I’ve been here less than twelve hours.”

  “San Francisco—our gardener is from there! We call him Frisco.” Before I could correct myself to say that Frisco wasn’t actually my gardener, the director clapped a few more times and told us to pair up.

  “So are we roommates, or what? I can already tell we’ll be awesome together.” Desiree’s confidence radiated in pulses so live I practically tasted the energy.

  I needed energy. Confidence. In front of me sat a girl with blond hair, long on one side and shaved on the other. A silver earring dangled to her bare shoulder. Her draped shirt came from Prada’s spring line. My own tie-dyed tank and maxi skirt seemed hopelessly cheap and unoriginal. Every student in the lounge looked New York chic while I was closer to Zoolander’s Derelicte. I nodded and forced a smile to kick my nerves to the curb.

  “Since we’re all here,” the program director said in a voice that carried over the chattering. “Tonight, we’ll host a mixer for you all to get acquainted. We’ll go over more details on the program schedule and the Final Fitting Runway Spectacular!”

  A chill ran through me. A runway show. How awesome! Excited murmurs rose up across the room.

  Desiree leaned in. “Isn’t it cool? Your own work on the runway.”

  “It’s our work on the runway?” That was entirely different. I wanted to go to a runway show, but no way was I ready to have my garments walk in one.

  Before we could discuss more, our group was led outside and down the street to the dormitory. The NYFI buildings appeared to have been dropped right in the middle of Manhattan, like pebbles on a sidewalk, with apartments and law offices and deli sandwich shops sprouting between them like determined weeds pushing up from the cracks.

  At the dorm, after riding five floors up an ancient elevator, Desiree bolted inside our room and claimed a bed. The room had movable desks and a blocky wardrobe and dresser. Two windows, like my room at home, with a radiator sticking out from the wall beside the empty bed.

  “Nice view,” I said, noting a rooftop garden across the street and a few floors higher.

  “Oh Lord, tell me it isn’t true.”

  I whipped around to Desiree. “What?”

  “There’s … there’s no closet.”

  I surveyed the room—she was right. “At a fashion design school? Seems …”

  “Like a HUGE oversight.” Desiree paced in a circle. “Did you see how much stu
ff I brought?”

  “Hey. There’s extra storage under the bed. These are drawers.” I pulled at a handle at the base of the bed frame. A drawer opened at a crooked angle. “I think I’ll be good with these drawers and my suitcase. It has this whole fold-out mechanism you can use as a temporary closet.” Abuelita had gone all-out. She may have been waiting for one of us to go somewhere as an excuse so she could buy the luggage off a TV shopping network.

  Desiree sat down on the bed. “I’m being ridiculous. First hour in, and I’m already complaining. You can call me Des, by the way.”

  “I was freaking out the whole way here. You’re the only person I’ve talked to.” Admitting this chipped a small chunk of my anxiety away. We were both nervous about being here. That was a comfort.

  Des buzzed around the room. She laid printed fabric over the dresser top and flipped on a small lamp she pulled from her giant suitcase. Instantly the room switched from cell block to cozy.

  She took out a framed picture. “This is my boyfriend.” A tall guy with a lean build smiled, his skin a few shades deeper brown than hers. “A bunch of my friends graduated this year, and they’ve all got stuff going on this summer. My boyfriend heard about this internship. He’s the one who suggested I come here.”

  Immediately, I thought of Ethan. “Do you miss him?”

  She smiled, looking over the photo. “Yeah, I do. I’ve got my own plans, though. I want this summer for me.” She set the frame on the windowsill. “How about you? Do you miss your boyfriend? I assume he’s one of the guys in the picture I almost destroyed. Sorry again, by the way.”

  Hmm, no that’s just the family my mom and grandmother work for. I take framed pictures of them wherever I go because that’s completely normal.

  But Desiree didn’t know that. She didn’t know me. For as much as I’d daydreamed over Ethan, it might be nice to edge a little closer to those dreams. Test them out. A few more times hanging out with Ethan and my stretch of truth might be reality anyhow.

  “Yeah,” I answered her with a note of longing. “It’s going to be tough to be apart. Ethan, he’s at soccer camp now. His family has a vacation home in the Hamptons, so there’s a chance he might come into the city.” True, the Laurentis had a house on Long Island. I’d fantasized a few times about how easy it would be for the family to whisk into New York for a few days this summer while I was here. Since it wouldn’t happen, no worries.