Amy swiped through more Pinboards. “You have a lot of prep school stuff tagged. Do you go to one?”
“What?” Those boards were set to Private, but because she had my phone they were unlocked for viewing. Don’t panic. Act cool.
“I read about academies and prep schools all the time,” Amy went on without bothering to wait for an answer. “I’m sure going to one is nothing like in books. Or is it? How about your boyfriend? Does he go to school with you?”
I swallowed my bite of sandwich, which seemed to be sticking to every part of my tongue and mouth. “He goes to an academy, yeah.” Well, true that Ethan went to one, just not the boyfriend part. My fingers itched to get my phone back, but if I made a big deal of it, she’d get suspicious.
“I bet they have great proms.” She looked up and handed me back the phone.
“Yes.” Now this, I could talk about. I’d done my research. I told her about the last three years of prom themes at Ethan’s academy and how I couldn’t wait to go next year. We talked school dances for a while until Amy brought the conversation back again to boyfriends.
“So, are you two serious?” She sipped her organic juice, eyes wide and waiting for intel.
I licked my lips. This question was more direct. The best approach was probably noncommittal. “We’re sort of on again, off again.” I supposed I could tell her we broke up, and that would end the discussion. Or backtrack and say Des had been mistaken—but Des really thought Ethan and I were going out. We’d had that whole conversation, plus how else would I explain the framed Laurenti family photo in our room?
“What’s up between you now? On or off?”
“Um …”
“Did he break up with you?” Amy’s eyes grew wide. “Oh my gosh, he broke up with you. When? Did he break things off right before you came to New York?”
This was happening too fast. “Being apart for the summer and everything, it’s complicated.” Shoot. This was not what I’d told Desiree.
Amy nodded. “Right. Summer vacation can be detrimental. A lot of my friends break up when school lets out. The upside is you’re free and single for the summer.” Her voice hitched up at the end like her upside was meant to console me for the nonexistent breakup we were apparently confirming. “Although, didn’t Des say Ethan might visit this summer? Oh, no. Will that be completely awkward if he shows up when you two are off for the summer?”
“I doubt he’ll come.” Thankfully that was true. Ethan had soccer camp. I doubted the family would travel up to their Hamptons vacation house so soon after the boys returned home.
“Well, if he’s here, we have to meet him,” Amy declared.
Oh, wait, no. “Probably not. I meant if I’d see him while he’s here, I’d have to meet up with him off campus.”
“We have to meet him.” She leaned toward me, her hand on my knee. “For your emotional support, first and foremost. Plus, I want to meet him if he’s half as cool as you.”
“As cool as me?” If I looked up “cool girl” on Urban Dictionary, I’d see Amy’s picture, not mine. I may have managed online fashion profiles, but there was a reason I didn’t put my own face in the profile. I just wasn’t comfortable showcasing me. “You’re the one who should be on a style blog.”
“Aw, thanks.” She tugged at her pink plastic beaded necklace. “That’s sweet. At my school back home people think I’m a freak. They call my fashion playing dress up, like I’m a little kid. One guy started calling me China Doll and I’m not even Chinese, I’m Japanese American. I mean, I was born here.” Her features softened with hurt, then brightened again. “I feel so much more like I belong here, with other creative types. Don’t you?”
“Yeah. I can talk sewing machines and fall fashion lines without sounding like a weirdo. And you’re definitely not a freak. Not even a little.”
After workshops ended for the day, I found a corner chair in the student lounge for some much-needed alone time. I started to check Ethan’s social sites for updates, but instead I returned to the prom Pinboards. Every outfit inspiration had a connected Ethan story. A soft pink satin gown had us at an art deco restaurant and to a 1920s-themed prom. A black gown with a feathered skirt was meant for a masquerade ball.
These Pinboards used to comfort me, like a reliable friend. My daydreams had dimension, and I could visualize all the different avenues my life could take. Those boards were mine and not anything I shared. Amy holding my phone hostage was like she’d cracked open my diary.
And to be honest, looking over them now felt a little embarrassing. Most of these pins I hadn’t touched in months, since before I’d been quarantined in my room with the flu.
My thumb hovered over the Delete button. Impulsively, I tapped the icon and a box appeared: Are you sure you want to permanently delete?
I hit the Back key. Permanent deletion? Way too final. These boards were part of me. Parallel lives had been created, and entire afternoons wrapped up in elaborate daydreams. The daydreams may not have been real life, but they showed me what could be. The pins symbolized everything I felt about Ethan.
If I peeled away those layers, well, I wasn’t sure what I’d discover underneath.
CHAPTER SIX
The next few days the internship schedule was so packed, I wouldn’t have time to contemplate the fate of my fantasy inspiration boards, anyway. The only time I really had to think came at the end of the day in our room.
I started a habit of looking over the city each night, resting my arms against the metal track of our dorm room’s sliding window. Des and I had our ritual: we shucked off our shoes and tossed our dirty clothes into a heap on the floor. No nagging parents to tell us otherwise. I’d slip on my nightshirt and perch at the window while Desiree readied for bed.
Electric summer air tumbled through the window’s screen. The city pulsed with life no matter what the clock read. Something about the constant flow of traffic let me process my thoughts.
I had plenty to think over after a full day on sustainable design and intermediate-level pattern making. I shut my eyes and saw the chevron poly-wool blend fabric I’d been using for my skirt project. Not a long hippie skirt, but a short one inspired by Mod fashion, which we’d learned about in a fashion history workshop.
“Hey, girl.” Des exited the bathroom. “That skirt you had on today is cute. You have this like, muted, earth-vibe thing. Not quite hippie but … something.”
“Thanks. That’s exactly it.” Des got it. She got me. “I alter a lot of thrift store clothes. I give them new life. Then they’re unique. Mine.”
“You make the skirts you wear? Show me.”
I pulled out a folded skirt from my suitcase. I’d added panels of different fabric along the sides. “And this.” I showed her an old lady blouse I’d reconstructed from an online tutorial, creating an asymmetric collar and new beadwork. I’d never worn it out, and packed it in hopes I’d be brave enough to wear it here.
“These are good. They look like boutique clothes.”
I felt my cheeks grow warm. “Thanks. I experiment a lot. This is all my best stuff.” Which still felt lame compared to what the other interns wore, even though I’d been trying really hard not to compare myself.
She collapsed on her bed and clicked off the lamp. “I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. My feet are numb.”
“I’d give anything for my abuelita’s orthopedic shoes.”
Desiree cracked up. “We need to design some kickin’ orthopedics. Leather boots with chains on the side, but with those comfy insoles.” A siren’s wail carried up from the street. I heard shifting sheets like Desiree was rolling over. “My boyfriend cannot tolerate if I wear cute shoes and then complain about having to walk somewhere. I carry spare flats in my purse.”
“Whereas I wear the spares by default,” I admitted with a laugh. I preferred my heels to be in their rightful place: on a shelf on display where they looked pretty versus on my feet where they caused me to walk like a crooked-legged bird. I
was the one who made the sensible shoe comments in my relationship. And by relationship, I meant with Maya. “So, what’s your boyfriend like?”
“Oh, he’s the next comedy sensation, if you ask him. He does open mic night, though I’d rather do karaoke. Less pressure to actually be any good. We order Chinese and watch horror movies. You know, typical I guess.” More shuffling of sheets. “How about you and Ethan?”
I rolled onto my back. Here was my chance. Come clean about Ethan. I didn’t like lying to Desiree. I could tell her right now he and I were on the outs. Or that we’d never been enough in to be out in the first place.
“Is everything okay?” she asked when I didn’t respond.
“Yeah, things are great.” Even in the cover of dark, my shame at lying about a boyfriend felt too painful to reveal. My best tactic was diversion. “Do you go to dance clubs in San Francisco?”
“What?” She laughed. “I live outside the city, and most of those places I’m too young to get in. I do the party thing. Kids from school hanging out. I’d rather chill with a few friends. Crowds and all kind of get to me.” Sounds of a shouting man and a distant, desperate dog took over for a second. The room quieted again. “So, what else about Ethan?”
Diversion: fail. “Ethan is really laid-back. He’s funny. Sweet. He’s been MVP on his soccer team the last two years.”
“So he’s sporty. Do you play, too? I never got the soccer thing. The travel leagues and all that.”
“No, me neither. I limit myself to watching the World Cup with my cousins. Oh, another thing on Ethan. He volunteers at the animal shelter, or at least he used to.” Or, had, once. When the family adopted Wombat, within days Mr. Laurenti was yelling at the dog for making messes (I’d be angry too if a street puppy dropped stink on my nine-thousand-dollar mohair rug). Ethan took Wombat to training classes and worked with the dog himself.
“What about you and Ethan? What do you do together, just the two of you?”
I closed my eyes. An entire film festival of options passed through my mind. All fake. As much as I knew about Ethan, and as many daydream scenarios as I’d envisioned, saying them out loud as if they were real felt … wrong. I sat up. “Look, Des. Ethan is … he’s not my boyfriend.”
The sheets rustled across the room and Des’s outline came into view. “You broke up? When? While you’re here?”
“It’s fine.” Tears blurred my vision. My stupid daydreams about Ethan never felt so lame. I couldn’t believe I lied to my new friends just to … to what? Feel cool? To justify bringing another family’s photo with me to New York?
Beside me, the mattress dipped. Desiree threw her arms around me. “You’re crying. Did he break up with you today? Did he do it by text?”
I sniffled. I couldn’t bring myself to dump out the truth. Way, way too humiliating. “At least it happened now, before school starts.” Funny how mad Maya made me when she said I should grow out of my Ethan crush. I had no intentions of giving up on Ethan when I got home, but at least here in New York, I had to set him aside.
Desiree sat back. “Remember when you said this summer you want to know what you want?”
I nodded. I always thought I’d known what I wanted, but now I wasn’t sure.
“Maybe figuring out yourself will help. This break might be your chance.”
Finally, Desiree and I had the chance to hang out during the day on our all-program trip to a design studio. We walked the long city blocks hand in hand, a true example of the buddy system. “It’s like first grade all over again,” I told her as we passed a stairway emerging from beneath the sidewalk from the subway line.
Desiree swung our arms like we were kids. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask. What are you doing for your personal project?”
The optional thesis. Turned out, everyone was doing one, even if it wasn’t required. Desiree already told me about her business plan to add clothing and accessories to her family’s gift shop.
I shrugged. “I just want to learn as much as I can. I don’t care about competing.”
“If you set a goal for yourself, then you’ll push harder. It’s not about winning against somebody else. It’s about pushing yourself to do what you thought you couldn’t.”
“I guess.”
Des sighed. She had that mentor-in-training look about her, like I was in for one of her talks. “Amelia, for real. I saw your sketches, they’re good. You have ideas. Good ones. Take it to the next level, you know?”
“I’ll think about it.” I didn’t have a clear vision for myself like some of the students did. I liked making clothes and posting about fashion online. “I wrote my one-page report on Carolina Herrera, this Venezuelan designer who created dresses for Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis and Michelle Obama.” Celebrity fashion blogs were cool and all, but designing for a first lady was a serious accomplishment. “I’d love to do that someday.”
We walked past a stone church surrounded by iron gating. It struck me how pretty the church looked among endless office buildings and storefronts.
“That’s it!” Des broke our hand-holding connection and started skipping sideways. “You can design a gown for your project.”
“Except, then I would have to actually make a gown. That would take forever. Plus, it sounds expensive.”
She shouldered her way around a group of gawking tourists, their necks stretched back as they marveled at skyscrapers with complete disregard to their actual surroundings. “You can use your free time in the workroom to up your game. And before you say, what free time? We’re given time for projects, along with a budget. We can shop the sale section of the fabric store and use the free embellishments in the workroom.”
Well, when she laid it all out, it sounded almost stupid not to. With my vow to set Ethan aside, I needed something to show for my time here.
Desiree hummed, something she did when she knew she was right or was about to be right. “You do remember the part about the runway show. If you enter a project, you get to fit a model and everything.”
The whole idea of a runway show had seemed way too overwhelming when it was first introduced. I hadn’t wanted any involvement, even though my favorite show was Project Runway, and yes, even though I posted fashion pictures for eleven thousand followers under the username RunwayGirl12. That, I believe, would be irony.
Now, in only a few days’ time, the idea seemed less impossible. The realization so obvious and profound. “Oh my gosh. I have to make a gown.” My mind raced with possibilities. I visualized my prom Pinboards. All my inspirations rolled into one dress—no, far too much. I’d have to pick something. “Maybe Mod inspired, like Mary Quant with the checkers and A-line skirts. No, too casual. I could do mermaid style. Or sleek.” I snapped my fingers. “I can do an inspiration board to go with my piece. One gown but with different styling options.”
Desiree made a squealing sound. “I love seeing you so excited! I’m glad you’re giving this a chance.”
“Des?” I stopped walking. I didn’t recognize anyone on the street ahead of us. No students in sight. “Where are we?”
A man in a suit huffed loudly when Desiree blocked his path. “Sorry!” She looked at me, then back behind us. “Umm …”
“What’s the address where we’re going?” I pulled papers from my tote.
“I didn’t bring the agenda.” Her voice scaled up a notch.
A group of runners filed past, like ten of them, which edged me toward the curb just as a taxi rolled up and its back door flung open.
“Coming through!” the woman from the cab said, as if that passed for a simple “Excuse me.” Hey, it was my chunk of curb first.
“Okay, okay, okay.” Desiree was muttering to herself.
“We can’t have gone too far off. Let’s double back a block. I’ll look up the studio on my phone. What was the name again?” The designer was newer, not a recognizable label yet, at least not by me.
Desiree wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t know. I hate getting lost.
I hate all these people.” She winced as another person walked past, gruffly commenting how we were blocking the sidewalk.
I grabbed Des’s hand. “Let’s turn back. We’ll take a right at the next corner. That makes the most sense.”
We passed over a sewer grate and Desiree yelped.
“What?” I scanned the area for muggers, dogs off leash, or rude women exiting taxis.
“The sewer, it could suck us down! We’ll be lunch for street rats!”
“Des.” I faced her. I lightly palmed her shoulders and she twitched. Her face had morphed from her usual bright expression to fear drawn into every feature. Her gaze shifted everywhere but to me. “Des, we’ll find it. I can always text Amy, and we’ve all got the director’s cell number.”
Her breathing came in quick gasps. “All right.” She nodded, her eyes unfocused.
“We’ll be fine. Just hang on.” I steered her into the alcove of a shop while I finally found the agenda, wadded up beneath a bunch of freebie dance club postcards I’d taken from a coffee shop. I looked up the studio address on my phone, and pulled out a paper map we’d been given the first day. “Got it. Des, you ready?”
She steadied her breathing and nodded. I guided her, shaking, back into the flow of sidewalk traffic as we ventured back toward the last intersection. While we waited to cross, I texted the program director to let her know we were on our way.
Ten minutes later, we caught up with everyone who were currently listening to an introduction in the studio’s lobby.
“Amelia?” Desiree held back by the door, the fear fading from her eyes. “Thanks.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Funny thing about setting goals was, now that I’d decided to go for the thesis project, the evening dress was all I could think about. I filled my planner pages with tasks to check off. The internship schedule allowed for workshop hours, but it would never be enough unless I managed my time between class sessions and planned activities. The instructors kept reminding us this was only a taste of design school. Once we enrolled, the challenges would increase in intensity.
Alterations Page 5