by Ronni Arno
I put my hands in the pocket of my hoodie. “I want to talk to you.”
“Why?”
“Because I—I think I can help.”
“What makes you think I need help?”
“Summer told me what happened.”
“Whatever,” Connor mumbles.
“I want to help.” I practically have to yell because he’s standing about ten feet away from me.
“I don’t want your help.” He starts dribbling again.
“But my parents can fund your project. I’m sure that they—”
“You think I’d take help from your parents?” He stops dribbling and throws the basketball down.
“Why not?” I say it so softly I’m not sure if he even hears me.
“You mean your supposedly dead parents? The parents you’ve been lying to me about since we met? Those parents?”
“I’m so sorry I lied to you. I really am. But I want to make it up to you.”
“You can’t make it up to me. And for sure you can’t make it up to me by having your very alive parents feel sorry for me.”
“It’s not like that.” This time I look right at him.
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want their help.” He speaks of my parents as if they’re the greatest villains of all time.
“Why not? What’s the difference where you get the money from, as long as you get it?”
He laughs, but it’s not a ha-ha kind of laugh. “You totally don’t get it. But of course you don’t. Your parents are alive!”
“Okay, so I don’t get it.” Now I’m getting mad. “Why don’t you explain it to me, then?”
“That’s just it! I shouldn’t have to explain anything to you. I never had to before when you pretended to understand what it’s like to grow up without parents.”
“I know, I know. I made a huge mistake. I tried to explain to you why I did it—”
“If you really did understand, you’d know that if I took money from your parents, I’d constantly be reminded of the fact that my project was possible because of your parents, which would remind me of the fact that I’m all alone in the world. At least before, I thought I was alone with you—” He shakes his head and walks away before I can say anything else, and I’m left standing on the basketball court by myself.
I sit down on the blacktop and hug my knees to my chest. I can’t blame him for not wanting to talk to me. And I definitely can’t blame him for not wanting to take money from my parents. But he is acting so immature. Shouldn’t he do everything he can to get that observation deck built? Doesn’t he know he doesn’t have to be in this alone, even if he thinks he does?
And then it hits me.
He doesn’t have to be in this alone.
I leap up and run back toward the dorm. I know exactly how to get that observation deck built—and how to win Connor back.
I will my legs to move faster.
When I finally reach the dorms, I swing the door to my room open and find Summer eating pancakes out of a plastic container.
“Did you find him?” she asks in between bites.
“Yes.” I crawl under my bed and pull out my box of fabric.
“And?”
“He won’t even hear me out.” I carefully lift everything out of the box until I find what I’m looking for. “Aha!”
“What? What’s aha? And why do you suddenly look so happy?” Summer walks toward me.
I hold up the unfinished dress, the dress that’s going to solve all my problems. Then I pull out a crinkled, rolled up paper and flatten it on my desk.
Summer stares at it over my shoulder. “Holy wow.”
I turn around and see that her mouth is hanging open. I have to admit. It’s the most amazing design I have.
“I designed this dress for my mom last Christmas. I rolled up the sketch and tied a big velvet ribbon around it.”
“She didn’t like it?” Summer asks.
“She never opened it. She got a call from her agent on Christmas morning. Some work emergency. So she left. By the time she came back, she’d forgotten all about it. It was still under the tree the next week when she left for the countrywide auditions for America’s Next Cover Model, so I packed it up.”
“But you started making it?” Summer looks at the dress in my hand.
I shrug. “I thought maybe I could give it to her next Christmas.”
“It’s incredible,” Summer says. “But how’s it going to help Connor?”
“We’re going to auction it off and use the money for the observation deck.”
“But it’s for your mom.”
“She doesn’t know that.” My voice shakes a little.
“You think we’ll get enough for it? That observation deck’s pretty expensive.” Summer cocks her head to one side.
“We will if supermodel and TV star Celestine Cruz models it.”
“You want your parents to come to the fashion show? To Midcoast?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t want them to. But they have to. It’s the only way to save Connor’s observation deck.”
“But you said he wouldn’t take the money from your parents.” Summer raises an eyebrow.
“The money won’t be coming from my parents. It will be coming from the people who buy the dress. He can’t turn all of them down.”
Summer’s eyes get wide. “That’s brilliant!”
“I know, right?”
“A website! We’ll need a website so people can bid for it online.”
“Can you make a website that fast?”
“Totally. You know I always get As in tech.”
I rummage through my desk and hand Summer the check that I got for winning the Spotlight Project. “Here.”
“What’s this for?”
“The website. I can’t ask you to do all this work for nothing.”
“Bea.” Summer raises one eyebrow. “That’s what friends do.”
I’m still holding the check out to her, but she ignores it.
“But—” I start to protest.
“Put that money toward the observation deck, and let’s get to work.” Summer opens her laptop and begins typing away. I’m suddenly grateful that Summer pays attention in tech class.
I pull out my sewing machine. I only have one chance to save Connor’s observation deck. And maybe, if I’m really lucky, my friendship with him too.
Chapter
32
I CAN’T WAIT until eight o’clock. I text my parents and ask if they can talk sooner.
While I wait to hear from them, I pull the box of fabric out of my closet. I slice and sew and stitch as fast as my fingers will let me, following the specs on the design. I silently pray that my mother’s measurements haven’t changed much since Christmas.
While I’m busy bringing the sketch to life, Summer’s working on the website so people can bid on the dress from their phones during the fashion show. She only stops to attend the Parents’ Weekend dinner with her family. I don’t know how long she’s gone for, but she opens the door in a huff.
“Have you talked with them?” She hands me a doggie bag.
“No.” I look at the time. Ten after seven. I lay my head down on the desk, careful not to touch the dress. “I’m afraid it will be too late.”
“Nah.” Summer shakes her head. “The fashion show isn’t till tomorrow afternoon. There’s still time.”
I hold up the almost-finished dress. “What do you think?”
“Wow, Bea.” Summer walks over and gently touches the fabric. “It’s the best one yet.”
“I think so too. It’s simple and elegant, just like my mom.”
“She’s going to love it.”
“I hope so. I just wonder if—”
Just then my phone rings. It’s my parents on FaceTime.
When their faces appear on screen, they look panicked.
“What’s the matter, baby? Are you okay?” Mom is in full makeup. She must be getting ready to do a taping.
“What is it?” Dad looks tired. Or maybe that’s his worried look.
I take a deep breath. “I need you to be here. Tomorrow.”
“Are you sick?” Mom asks.
“No.” I shake my head.
“Are you in trouble?” Mom’s voice is higher than normal.
“Not exactly.”
“Bea, what on earth is going on?” Dad asks.
And then I start to cry.
“What is it, hon? Why are you so upset?” Mom moves her face closer to the camera.
I take a deep breath, and I tell them.
Everything. The words spew out of my mouth, like they’ve been waiting at a starting line behind my tongue for months, ready to sprint.
I tell them how I told everyone that my name was Bea and that my parents were dead. I tell them about Connor and Cassandra and the photographers at the Spring Fling. I tell them about the Spotlight Project and how I won. I tell them that I didn’t want them to come to Parents’ Weekend so that people would come to my fashion show for me—not to see them. And then I tell them that none of that matters now because Connor needs to have his observation deck funded. And I need their help.
I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for them to answer. It’s quiet for so long that I worry that they hung up. I open one eye and peer at the screen. They haven’t gone anywhere. It’s way worse than that.
Mom is crying.
And I start to cry. Again.
“How could I not know that you design dresses? I’m your mother. And not only that, I made a living as a fashion model!” Mom dabs the tears from the corner of her eyes with a tissue.
Dad puts his hand up to the camera. He calls this a virtual hand hold. I put my hand up to the screen so it’s touching the image of his.
“So will you come?” I wipe my eyes with the back of my other hand.
Mom and Dad are having a psychic conversation. Mom’s eyebrows are furrowed and Dad’s lips are pursed. Not a good sign.
“It’s not that easy, Bea. I’m in San Francisco. Your mother has a live taping tomorrow. Even if I didn’t play tonight, I’m not sure I’d get there in time—”
The tears bubble up in my eyes again. I try to swallow them back. I don’t want to upset my parents even more. This is my fault.
“I don’t see how I can get out of the taping tomorrow,” Mom says. “A lot of people are counting on me here. I just wish we had known sooner.”
“I’m sorry,” I say in a small voice. I can’t even look at the camera, so I look down at my desk. A giant knot forms in my stomach.
“We’re sorry, hon,” Mom says. “Are you going to be okay?”
I force my head to nod. “Yeah, I’ll think of something.”
“Good luck, Bea.” Dad smiles. “We’re so proud of you.”
“We really wish we could be there,” Mom says.
“I know,” I say.
I get off of FaceTime and look at Summer.
“What now?”
“We can still auction off the other dresses,” Summer says.
“Yeah, but we’ll never make enough.” The knot in my stomach tightens.
“It will be a start,” Summer replies.
I stare at the dress I made for Mom. For a second I think maybe one of the other models could wear it, but it wouldn’t feel right.
It was made for her.
Chapter
33
ONE HOUR TILL fashion show time.
Summer and I are in the auditorium setting up. We roll a red felt runner down the stage and put up signs printed with DESIGNSBYBEA.COM on them. Mrs. Kearney lets us borrow the plants from the lobby, so we line the stage with pots of flowers and greenery.
Once the stage is done, we place a program on each chair. Summer designed and typed the entire thing, and even included pictures of the models wearing my designs. The cover of the program is bright orange.
We’re on the last row of seats when Holly comes in with a few of her friends.
“The decorations look great.” She looks around approvingly. “Where do you want us?”
Summer leads the girls backstage to the dressing room, where all the dresses are neatly hung up, waiting for someone to breathe life into them. I stayed up late last night to put the finishing touches on Mom’s dress, just in case I decide to have someone model it. Even though it was made for her, it really is special and could bring a lot of money for the observation deck.
After I finish placing the programs on the seats, I sprint to the dressing room. Summer, Katie, Antoinette, Holly, and six of Holly’s friends are lined up at the mirrors, finishing up their hair and makeup. I gasp out loud when they all turn to look at me.
They look amazing.
“Are you ready?” Summer grabs my hands in hers and squeezes. Her hair is highlighted with hot pink spray, which matches the sash on her silver dress perfectly.
“You’re wearing eye shadow?” I’m staring at the silver sparkles above her eyes.
“Only for you.” She blinks her eyes several times. “This stuff itches like crazy.”
There’s a knock on the door. “Two minutes,” says the voice from the other side.
Katie squeals. And then runs to the garbage can to throw up.
“Are you okay?” I sprint over to her while Summer grabs a handful of towels off the shelf.
“I think I’m nervous.” Katie takes one of the towels from Summer and wipes her face. Holly drags a stool to where Katie is standing and leans her into it. “I don’t feel so good.”
“It’s okay, Katie. Just sit here for a while.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “Can I get you a glass of water?” She nods, and I grab a glass next to the sink and fill it up.
“Thank you.” She takes a sip.
“One minute,” the voice on the other side of the door booms.
“Are you going to be okay?” Summer asks Katie.
“I don’t know.” Katie’s voice cracks. “Sometimes I get stage fright.”
A part of me feels terrible for Katie, but another part of me wishes she had told me that before. “Don’t worry, Katie. Just stay here until you feel better.”
“But your dress. It’s so beautiful.”
“It’s more important that you feel better.” She gives me a lopsided smile. I can’t worry about this now. We have less than a minute to get out there.
“Okay, girls.” Summer claps her hands. “Let’s line up, just like we practiced.”
The girls are lined up within seconds, and Summer leads them down the hall to the stage entrance.
“I’ll be there in a sec.” I feel bad leaving Katie in here alone.
“I think I’m okay,” Katie says, and takes another sip of water.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yes.” Katie stands up and smiles. “Let’s go break a leg.”
Katie runs to catch up with the other girls. Before darting backstage, I scan the audience. The auditorium is packed, but there’s no sign of Connor. My heart feels heavy, until I remind myself that it’s hard to recognize faces in just the light from the lobby. He might be there—maybe I just can’t see him.
I line up behind the models, who are squealing and holding each other’s hands. Since I’m last in line, I can’t see what’s happening on the stage, but I can certainly hear it. The music blares for about five seconds, and then it is lowered. A voice booms from the speakers. It’s Mr. Zabar, our drama teacher–turned-emcee.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Midcoast Academy’s Special Project, Designs by Bea Miller!”
Claps and cheers fill my ears. Summer peers out from the front of the line and gives me a thumbs-up. The music changes, and Summer struts onstage. The crowd goes wild, and I have to throw my hands up to my ears to dull the noise.
As the models take the stage, Mr. Zabar describes each dress in detail. I know he’s reading from the cards we gave him, but if I hadn’t written the words myself I never would have known. He sounds lik
e a fashion maven.
“Summer is wearing a silver silk chiffon dress with a layer of shiny sequins lining the spaghetti straps. The hot pink sash adds a splash of color, and the hem is designed to float through the air like a silver cloud.”
Summer skips across the stage so the audience can see the bottom of the dress hovering just above the runway. Even though I wore that dress before I ever came to Midcoast, it’s completely obvious that it was made for Summer. Summer takes her spot on stage left, and Mr. Zabar continues in his announcer voice.
“Antoinette is wearing a knee-length royal blue strapless taffeta dress with a ruffled skirt. Silk ribbon trims the ruffles for added depth and sparkle.”
Antoinette giggles as she struts up and down the runway, spinning at either end. Her skirt poofs out as she does, and the ruffles shimmer under the spotlights.
Mr. Zabar goes on to describe Holly’s “metallic retro design with an asymmetrical neckline for a funky look your friends will never forget.” Holly waves when she gets to the end of the runway, and the slit dolman sleeves gleam like liquid aluminum foil. I give myself a mental fist bump because that’s exactly the look I was going for.
The rest of the girls take their turn on the runway, and I’m the only one left behind the curtain. I can hear my own heartbeat over the music. Any minute now Mr. Zabar is going to—
“And now, meet the designer herself, Bea Miller!”
I close my eyes and take the deepest breath ever. I imagine myself like my mother, gliding instead of walking. Back straight. Shoulders back. Big smile. Once the image is implanted in my brain, I open my eyes and head for the stage.
As soon as I walk through the curtain, the sound hits me like a wall of bricks. People are cheering. Clapping. Yelling. I can’t see anything except the lights pointed right at me. They’re almost as bright as the stars outside. An image of Connor showing me the Big Dipper flashes through my mind, and I wonder if he’s here. I wonder if he knows what we’re about to do.
When I get closer to the edge of the stage, I can see the audience. And they’re standing up! They’re standing up and clapping. I look down to be sure my feet are on the ground, because I could swear I’m floating.
“Designer Bea Miller is wearing an orange cotton poplin dress with a sweetheart neckline. The sporty white buttons run down the bodice, leading into a belted, pleated skirt that’s part frilly, part flirty. This design is perfect for a spring stroll, or a picnic in the park. Pair this dress with a strappy sandal for fancier occasions or with a pair of Keds for a more casual look.”