by Chloe Taylor
Ms. Austen smiled and stood up, then offered her hand. “Hi, Zoey! So what brings you here instead of to third period?” she cheerfully asked.
Zoey’s throat went dry. The whole thing was so disappointing, and having to talk about it out loud made it feel more real.
“I . . . I just wanted to tell you that I’m really sorry. . . .” She gulped. “But I’m not going to have a dress after all for the fashion show on Friday night.”
“What?” gasped Ms. Austen, looking sincerely upset. “Please.” She gestured to the plush chair next to Zoey. “Sit down and tell me what happened. I don’t understand. . . .”
Zoey sat. She breathed in the roses. Or was it the principal’s perfume? Whatever it was, it was nice. She inhaled again, hoping it would steady her. It did a little, but not enough.
“I . . . I made it. . . . And then yesterday I brought it into school . . . and, well, I thought if I left it in the auditorium, it would be safe until Friday, but . . . I was wrong.”
“Why? What happened?”
“I . . . I don’t really know. There were these paint cans, I guess, on a shelf above it, and . . . somehow . . . one of them fell down.”
“Oh no!” Ms. Austen leaned in. “And it’s ruined?”
“Pretty much.”
“I am so very sorry,” said Ms. Austen. She truly looked as if she were. “And there’s no way you can make another now by Friday, I suppose.”
Zoey shook her head. “No. I don’t see how. You see . . . I have this social studies paper to do for Mr. Dunn by Friday too.”
“Ah, I see.” Ms. Austen nodded slowly
“The thing is . . . I asked him for an extension.”
“Yes?” said Ms. Austen. “And what did he say?”
Zoey took a deep breath. “No . . . but he wouldn’t let me explain!” She sat up on her hands and leaned toward Ms. Austen. Her heart was racing now. “But if you told him, Ms. Austen, he’d have to listen and change his mind.”
The principal sat back. “And how long have you had this assignment?” she asked.
Zoey considered the question. “Two . . . two and a half weeks.”
Ms. Austen rubbed her chin slowly, and Zoey knew her answer before it came out.
“Well, Zoey, you had every right to ask for an extension, but I have to respect Mr. Dunn’s answer as well. This is, after all, a school, and as such, schoolwork must come first. I wish there was something I could do, but I’m afraid this is all up to you. It would be such a shame, but if you can’t create a dress and finish your paper, then we’ll just have to wait till next year to have one of your designs in the fashion show.”
Zoey nodded.
“But,” she went on, “this doesn’t mean you have to miss being in the show altogether. It’s not the same thing at all, I know, but you could still model a dress. It’s only Tuesday, so there’s still plenty of time for you to pick one out to wear Friday night.”
Zoey shrugged. She knew Ms. Austen meant well, but being at the show without her dress would only make her feel even worse. “Thanks, Ms. Austen. But I don’t think I could.”
“I understand,” said Ms. Austen. “I’m sorry, Zoey. I really am.”
She rose from her chair, and Zoey did too.
“By the way, what’s your paper on?” she asked as she walked to the door.
Zoey heaved the name “Athena” out along.
“The goddess of weaving. How perfect for you.”
Weaving?
“I thought she was the goddess of war and stuff like that.”
“Ah.” Ms. Austen’s smile was wise and also warm. “Keep doing your research.”
- - - - Chapter 11 - - - -
Thank You Sew Much!
Wow! Where did you all come from? Heaven or what? What can I say but thank you all for telling me not to give up on this dress! I’m following your advice and taking a shot at doing a simpler version. You’re right, I’m probably the only one who will notice what’s missing or different. And no, I couldn’t get an extension on the social studies paper (I know!), but that’s actually okay. Mr. Dunn’s probably right, and besides, I’ve learned a lot about Athena. Did you know that she was the goddess of weaving and arts and crafts and not just of war and wisdom? I did a little drawing inspired by her while I was waiting for Dad at the gas station (since that was the only second I had that wasn’t spent sewing or writing). Notice the draping of the fabric . . . very ancient-Greek-inspired chic!
And now, back to the modern (but not at all Greek) tragedy of my dress for the fashion show: I can’t tell you what I’ll be able to make now, with so little time. But all I can do is my best, right? And yes, music fans and ex–band geeks (your words, not mine) . . . you’re all 100 percent right. It is for a good cause! And just as soon as I have something to show you, you’ll be the first to know. TTYS!
“Dad? Are you ready? I think we’d better go.”
“Almost!” Zoey’s dad called down from upstairs. “Just looking for that tie you like.”
Zoey sighed and returned to pacing across the front hall rug. She wasn’t sure if it was nerves that were making her so jumpy or exhaustion from being up late the night before. She paused by the mirror and gauged her outfit one more time—at least what she could see of it from the waist up. She’d decided on black (since it was, after all, what Daphne Shaw always wore at her shows) and gone with black jeans after sewing a row of black beaded ribbon down each side, tuxedo-pants style. She paired them with an oversize silver shirt from her mom’s closet (for good luck). Well, on her mom it was probably a regular shirt, but on Zoey it was more like a tunic, and she had to layer another shirt underneath. Her favorite part, though, was the vest, which she made out of the black remnants Jan gave her the first time she went to the fabric store. The front was solid, and the back had a zigzag pattern on one side, and black-and-white check on the other.
“Dad.” She groaned. This was torture. She had to get to school! Libby hadn’t even tried on the second dress she’d made yet . . . since Zoey had just finished it that Friday afternoon. It was sure to need some last-minute tweaking, and who knew how long that would take?
Right now, while she was waiting, the dress hung on the back of the coat closet door. She’d tried her best to give it the same feel of the first dress. She’d managed to salvage most of the buttons and gotten more gold braid—though it was much thinner—at A Stitch in Time.
When she walked into the store, she headed straight to Jan, who was standing at the counter. She began to tell Jan about the ruined dress, but Jan stopped her before she was done.
“Wait! Zoey! I know the whole story! I heard about the Sew Zoey blog at my quilting circle last week, so I started reading it a few days ago and caught up on the blog posts. I didn’t realize Sew Zoey was you until I saw the sketch of your dress. I was hoping you’d come back here so I could tell you in person how much I love your blog!” She walked around the counter and gave Zoey a big hug.
“Really? You read Sew Zoey?” asked Zoey.
“Yes, I do. And that’s how I know you’re in a pinch. I want to help, if I can. You know, we’ve all had these things happen to us. A few years ago we had a crazy hurricane come through and my whole shop flooded. The insurance didn’t cover half the damage, I’ll tell you that right now.”
“So what’d you do?” asked Zoey.
“What’d I do? I’ll tell you what I did. I decided right then and there that I was done with this retail stuff. It was a sign that it was time to retire, I thought . . . and then my customers started to call. ‘When are you reopening?’ they’d ask me. ‘We can’t live without you!’ they’d go on. And when I told them I was closing up shop, do you know what they did? They offered to help. They came in here and cleaned for me and went around collecting donations to rebuild my stock.”
“Really?” said Zoey.
Jan put her hand on her hip. “Why in the world would I lie to you? In fact, that’s just why I’m going to help you, little lady. Paying
it forward, as they say. Everything you need to make a new dress, it’s on the house!” Jan declared.
“Thank you so much, Jan!” Zoey exclaimed.
Of course, Zoey didn’t have time to sew a new dress as complicated as the first one, but Jan had a solution for this problem too. “Go simple,” she said. “And go with something you know like the back of your hand. I’m thinking of the first things you made this summer. Those dear little beach cover-ups. Remember those?”
“Yes . . . ,” Zoey said, rather halfheartedly. “But that’s kind of . . . beachy . . . don’t you think?”
Jan looked at her over her glasses, down her nose. “Well, if you make it out of white terry cloth, yes, certainly. But out of that gorgeous red fabric you picked out last time? Absolutely not! And if I remember correctly, that pattern was one size fits all, yes? No measuring. No fuss. You won’t even have to take time cutting out a new pattern. Just use the one you have and voilà!”
“Oh right!” Zoey said as the light bulb went on over her own head.
Jan was totally right, of course! She made a new dress that looked a lot like the original one. And today was the big day, and she was ready to go, dress in hand. But where was Dad?
Zoey heard footsteps coming downstairs.
At last!
But it wasn’t Dad. It was Marcus. “Wow, where are you going?” she asked him. “Got a big date?” He was wearing a shirt with an actual collar and a jacket over that.
He grinned. “What do you mean, where am I going? I thought there was a big fashion show tonight and my little sister was the star designer!”
“And you’re coming? Marcus? Really?” She’d never even thought to ask him if he would.
“Well, sure.” Marcus shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asked.
Oh, for a million reasons, thought Zoey, starting with the fact that the idea of watching a bunch of middle school girls parade around in borrowed dresses had to be the last thing he would want to do on a Friday night.
“I mean, if you don’t want me to come,” he started. “If I’ll embarrass you or something, I totally get it.”
“No . . . come! I want you to.”
Ding-dong.
Zoey spun around, surprised again, this time by someone at the door. She pulled it open. “Aunt Lulu! Whoa! It’s really raining outside, huh!”
Her aunt nodded as she shook out her umbrella and stepped in from the front porch. “Pouring!” She leaned over to give Zoey a peck on each of her cheeks. “Ooh! Is this it?” She stepped up to Zoey’s dress and traced one of the buttons. “I love it!” She smiled at Zoey. “And you look pretty fabulous yourself. You too, Marcus!”
Zoey grinned. “Thanks, Aunt Lulu.”
“Thanks!” said Marcus, with a twinkle in his eye. “I was going for fabulous.”
Zoey playfully stuck her tongue out at him.
Finally, her dad appeared on the landing. “Sorry I’m late. The father of the designer has to look sharp!” He was wearing Zoey’s least—not most—favorite tie. It was the one with big yellow ovals that looked like either pineapples . . . or radioactive grenades. She smiled up at him and made a mental note to make him a cool tie. “Oh good, Lulu, you’re here!” he continued. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”
Zoey shared Aunt Lulu’s umbrella from the car to the school lobby, but then she said good-bye. “I’ll see you guys after the show,” she told her family, eager to find her friends backstage.
She ran a few steps down the hall, then paused and turned around.
“Thank you guys so much for coming,” she said, dashing to give them each a quick hug.
“Break a leg,” said Marcus.
“Isn’t that more for actors?” Aunt Lulu asked.
Marcus shrugged. “I don’t know . . . Break something else then, Zo.”
Her dad squeezed her tight. Then did it again. “Your mom would be very proud of you, Zo.”
Zoey kissed him and hurried to the backstage entrance, where Libby was waiting.
“Sorry I’m late,” Zoey said, panting.
Libby smiled at her. “It’s okay. I haven’t been here that long. . . .”
“Are you ready?” Zoey asked her.
“Not really.” Libby winced.
“You’re going to be great!” Zoey told her. “I can’t thank you enough for doing this!”
“I just hope I don’t trip or anything. . . .”
“Don’t be silly! But if you get nervous, just look for Kate in the crowd. She told me she’ll be cheering you on!” Zoey replied. “Shall we go in?” She nodded toward the door.
Libby took a deep breath and nodded. “I guess so,” she said taking Zoey’s dress bag.
Backstage, a dozen girls were getting ready.
“Yay! There you are!” someone called from across the room.
Zoey turned to see who it was. A pretty girl in an indigo dress was waving. Zoey didn’t recognize her until she flashed a smile full of braces.
“Priti!” Zoey gasped. “Wow! You look amazing!” Priti ran up and gave her a hug.
“I know! Isn’t it great!” she said, spinning around to show off her dress. “I told my mom she has to bid on it or I’ll never talk to her again.”
“Yeah? And what did she say?” joked Zoey.
Priti rolled her eyes. “She laughed and said she would.” She leaned in. “Have you seen Ivy yet?”
“No, we just got here . . . why?” said Zoey.
Priti grinned. “Oh, just wait.”
As it turned out, though, they didn’t have to.
Priti bit her lip. “Ooh. Here she comes.”
Zoey turned and so did Libby, to see Ivy teetering up between Shannon and Bree. Her face was hidden behind thick layers of makeup.
“She looks like she should be in a pageant,” murmured Libby.
“I know,” replied Zoey under her breath. “And look at those shoes. Four-inch platform heels? How’s she going to walk in those, do you think, without holding on to Shannon and Bree?”
Ivy didn’t seem worried about that. Though she seemed surprised when she noticed Zoey. Her mouth fell open . . . then she turned around.
“I’d walk away too if I were her,” said Priti.
Zoey didn’t really blame Ivy, though. She didn’t think Ivy could be that mean, to ruin the dress on purpose. But she also couldn’t figure out how the paint fell by mistake or how the garment bag became unzipped. Maybe she would never know what really happened, but she was just relieved that everything had worked out.
“Fifteen minutes!” Zoey heard someone holler.
“Oh my gosh, Zoey!” Libby grabbed her arm. “We should hurry. I have to get dressed!”
Zoey nodded and unzipped the garment bag. “Here!” she said with a satisfied sigh. She pulled out the dress and handed it to Libby.
“Ooh! It’s too cute!” she and Priti both squealed. “It looks a lot like the first one.”
But as soon as Libby held it up to her body, their voices faded away.
“Um . . .” Libby’s face was a collage of a bunch of emotions—none of them very good.
Zoey’s stomach, meanwhile, was about to evict the few bites of pizza she’d managed to swallow at home.
“Is it meant to be that short?” asked Priti.
“No,” Zoey said. “Not at all.”
She’d meant to make it just like she’d made the cover-ups for her and Kate and Priti—one size fits all. But she’d completely forgotten that five-foot-nine Libby was not a one-size-fits-all girl.
“I don’t know if I can wear this,” said Libby miserably, as if she’d done something wrong. “I mean, not without shorts . . . or something . . . you know?”
Zoey nodded. “No. Of course! It’s all my fault. I’m sorry, Libby. What a stupid, stupid mistake.”
That’s what happened when you tried to sew a dress—and write a social studies paper—in just a few days.
Suddenly someone tapped Zoey on the shoulder. She turned. It was Mrs. Diaz,
the assistant principal.
“Zoey,” she said, “have you seen Ms. Austen? She’s been looking all over for you!”
“Really? No.” Zoey looked around. The principal! she thought. The knot in her stomach wound its way to her throat. The idea of facing Ms. Austen and confessing her latest disaster was almost too much to bear. She turned toward the exit—her closest escape route—and then she heard her name.
“Zoey! There you are!”
She turned to see Ms. Austen walking up in her black dress from that morning, to which she’d added a long rope of pearls. She’d put her hair back in a slick ponytail and swapped strappy red heels for her black patent pumps. In her hands she held a clipboard and a long garment bag. It was all Zoey could do to say “Hi . . .” back. And not burst into tears.
“I am so glad to find you,” said Ms. Austen. “I should have called you, I know. But the day got away from me, and well . . .” She sighed. “I knew I’d eventually catch you here. Anyway.” She held out the garment bag to Zoey. “This came via overnight delivery today, after school—with your name on it. We’re all wondering what’s inside.”
Her name on it?
“There’s a note,” said Ms. Austen. She motioned to a square white envelope taped to the front.
Zoey plucked it off and lifted the tab and pulled out a creamy white card. It took her two tries to read the bold, black handwriting on the card.
Dear Sew Zoey,
Keep up the good work!
Best of luck,
Fashionsista
“What does it say?” asked Priti.
Every face around her, including Ms. Austen’s, seemed to be asking the same question.
“It’s . . . it’s from one of my blog followers,” said Zoey slowly.
“Well, open it!” Priti said.
Right . . . Zoey took the garment bag from Ms. Austen and slid the zipper down. The sides fell open to reveal a startlingly familiar-looking dress.
“No. Way.” Zoey’s lips formed the words without making a sound. It was an exact copy of her first dress—right down to the braided cord! The only difference was that this dress was clean and new . . . and made of the kind of luxurious fabric that Zoey drooled over at A Stitch in Time but couldn’t actually buy.