“Katy-girl.” Jorge reached out and tapped on the back of my hand with his index finger. “Not forever. Parsons is your dream school.”
“It was Mom’s dream, too,” I said softly. I blinked as I looked down at the sketchbook, the page blurring as my eyes filled with tears. I had always planned to go to Parsons School of Design after high school, so I could study fashion and then launch my career as a designer, like famous alumni Anna Sui and Marc Jacobs and Donna Karan. Mom and I had been talking about my Parsons application since preschool, practically.
But then she had gotten sick, and it had taken all my effort just to get through high school and graduate. I hadn’t put together a portfolio for my application, and even with health insurance, there wasn’t exactly a lot of money left over, what with the hospital bills and Mom having to close her store.
I didn’t have any regrets about how I’d spent senior year. I would never regret a single moment I’d spent with Mom. She had been my priority, as she should have been. It just meant there hadn’t been any time for Parsons.
“She’d want you to go, Katy,” Jorge urged me. He sounded so certain that this was the right thing to do, that it would definitely happen for me. “She’d want you to at least apply. You’ve been dreaming of this for so long.”
“Maybe next year,” I said, although I wasn’t so sure. Being at Parsons without Mom there to see it seemed almost more painful than not going at all. I already thought of things I wanted to tell her about a million times a day. How could I handle doing something we’d dreamed of together for so long without being able to share it with her?
“Yes, next year for sure. But if it’s not for Parsons, what’s the dress for? Nothing that gorgeous should just be theoretical.”
“Well, it’s not for Parsons, but it is for something pretty exciting. Maybe even more exciting.” I wasn’t sure where Lacy’s and Parsons would fall on a list of “Katy’s Favorite Things.” It would be like choosing between my red coat with the Peter Pan collar and my heart-shaped clutch. Impossible! “Rex London is hosting a fashion show for emerging designers at Lacy’s. And I’m one of those emerging designers!”
“Rex London? Like from-TV Rex London? Hosting a fashion show? At Lacy’s?!” I was nodding so vigorously I felt like a bobblehead. A dopey, ecstatic, grinning bobblehead. “Oh, Katy!” Jorge pulled me into a hug so enthusiastic I slid off the barstool a little. “This is your big break! At your favorite store in the world! And Rex London is really hot!”
The relative hotness of Rex London had never even entered my mind, but the man certainly knew how to wear a suit. I filled Jorge in on everything I knew so far. I’d gotten all the details on the fashion show in an email from Rex London’s assistant mere moments after Veronica had hung up. She was almost scary-efficient. I had no doubt Veronica would be running all of Lodge Industries—maybe all of the world—in no time at all.
“Girl, I can see it now.” Jorge held up his hands like he was a director framing a shot. “Mrs. Lacy herself will fall so in love with your designs at the fashion show, she’ll throw a ton of money at you to start your own line, and by next fall, everyone will be wearing a Katy Keene original.”
“Maybe.” It was unlikely, but it was hard not to get swept up in the excitement and the possibility. “Honestly, I don’t even need my own line. Right now, I’d take any job at Lacy’s. But they’re not hiring. Not even in the stockroom.”
“Honey, the stockroom? You’re too cute to be tucked away back there.” Jorge frowned. “Let’s just focus on you becoming a rich and famous designer. Now, tell me about your dress.”
“Well … this was what I was thinking.” I flipped back to the page I’d been sketching on. “The silhouette is almost a little ’40s, with the strong shoulder and the narrow waist. But not, you know, too costume-y. But I don’t know … something doesn’t feel quite right …”
“Seriously?” Jorge’s brow furrowed. “I love it. I mean, I’d wear it. But of course, the most important thing is that it feels right to you.”
“Yeah.” I tucked a piece of hair behind my ears, smoothing it down, like that might help me smooth my frazzled thoughts. “I don’t know. I need to start sewing right away—I’ve got less than two weeks until the fashion show—but I just don’t know if this design is enough. This dress needs to be perfect. I only get to show one look, and that’s what Rex London—and everyone at Lacy’s, and anyone else in the fashion world who comes—will see me as. This is it. My one shot. I can’t mess it up.”
“Katy-girl, you are not throwing away your shot, and neither am I.”
“Oh my god, right! We’re not supposed to be talking about me; we’re talking about you.” I flipped over to a clean sheet of paper. “What about a Henley?” I started sketching, the lines of Jorge’s shoulders coming to life on the page. “Suspenders might be too much, but a Henley feels kind of late-nineteenth-century-stock-boy suggestive. You could pair it with your brown pants and leather boots.”
“This could work.” Jorge leaned over my shoulder, watching as the sketch took form. “Not gonna lie, I kind of want to wear suspenders …”
“I’m certainly not going to stop you. Life needs more suspenders moments.” My phone vibrated on the bar. I picked it up—a text from KO.
“Lover boy?” Jorge asked. “What’s the handsome heavyweight up to?”
“He’s training.” I clicked open the text. “We were supposed to meet for dinner at the Starlite after, but he just texted me to cancel. He’s got this new sparring partner and apparently they’re in a real groove.”
“Well, we certainly wouldn’t want to mess up a boxing groove.” Jorge smiled. “More time for me to have you all to myself.”
I smiled back. Of course, I was always happy for more time with Jorge, and a little more sketching time certainly wouldn’t hurt, but it wasn’t like KO to cancel plans. Still, I shouldn’t be selfish. I’d been leaning on him so much recently, and I always wanted him to know that I supported his boxing, just like he supported all my dreams.
“Let’s stay for the show,” I said. “Maybe a little Beyoncé is exactly what I need to get this dress right.”
I turned back to the page and looked down at my dress. What was wrong with it? Well, there was nothing wrong with it exactly. But maybe that wasn’t the problem. There wasn’t enough right with it. I’d liked it at first, but the more I looked at it, the less special it was. Maybe I should start over. Maybe I shouldn’t do a dress at all. Would a jumpsuit be better? Or something that showed off my tailoring?
Since I was a replacement, I’d have less time to work on whatever I ended up presenting than everyone else had. They’d already probably finished their designs. They may even have finished sewing and were just doing adjustments. The timeline was so tight. How could I ever come up with the perfect thing before the show?
I wished I could show it to Mom. She’d know exactly what to do. Even when a design was just a sketch, she could tell, instantly, whether the skirt would hang strangely, or if a hemline would hit awkwardly. She had a sixth sense for seeing something and knowing whether or not it would be magic on the hanger. I wished I had that gift.
No, I just wished I had Mom.
“If you stay for Beyoncé, and you don’t dance when those horns come in for ‘Crazy in Love,’ I’ll kick you out of this bar myself!” Darius appeared from the back, a bottle of something bright blue in his hands. “I haven’t forgotten that y’all aren’t twenty-one yet!”
Jorge ignored him and looked at me, his warm brown eyes serious.
“Katy-girl. The dress is good. You are good. No matter what you make, your talent will shine through. Don’t overthink it.” He ruffled my hair, like he was trying to shake all the thoughts out of my brain. I wished it was that easy, but it wasn’t.
How could I not overthink it?
One dress.
One shot.
It had to be perfect.
IT WAS WORSE THAN I’D THOUGHT.
Usu
ally most auditions were at the Pearl or Ripley-Grier, two buildings with endless warrens of audition rooms and studio spaces, or at the Equity Building. Even if you weren’t Equity, you could wait in the hallway for a chance to be seen, but as I learned the first time, the chances of that were slim, and you weren’t allowed to use the bathroom. The privilege of peeing was reserved for Equity members only. As I’d waited in that line, I’d remembered the minor riot that had broken out in New York a couple years ago when the girls waiting to audition for America’s Next Super Model had gotten into a scuffle about holding places in line to find a bathroom.
Hopefully, there wouldn’t be any riots in the Hello, Dolly! open call line. They were holding the auditions downtown at the Private Theatre, a well-respected venue that had workshopped a lot of new musicals before they transferred to Broadway, and that ran free Shakespeare in the Park every summer. Ethan Fox had come up at the Private, so it wasn’t a surprise that he’d be starting out Hello, Dolly! here, too.
It was 7:00 a.m. and the auditions weren’t scheduled to start until 11:00, but the line was already down the block. I shuffled into place behind a clean-cut white guy my age with brown hair. He looked like a Ken doll, or like a propaganda poster from World War II celebrating the vitality of the all-American boy. But he was working it.
Some people chatted in line, but like many a reality TV beeyatch before me, I wasn’t here to make friends. I popped my headphones on and listened to a playlist I’d made of nothing but Broadway overtures, hoping the instrumental music would keep me calm. The line continued to fill in behind me, and by 9:00 a.m., it had wrapped around the block.
By 10:00 a.m., the news vans showed up.
“Unreal,” I muttered. Just like the Hair open call I’d seen with Ma when I was little. Not surprisingly, the news vans went straight for the people who’d showed up in full costume, a move I never understood. And, like, if you’re gonna come in costume, don’t be so sloppy. It looked like Party City had held a going-out-of-business sale—buy two hideous hats and we’ll throw in a dented parasol for free. All the queens at Molly’s would have been horrified by how much straight-up busted was on display.
Finally, at 11:00, the doors opened. I was far enough away that I didn’t move at all, but a ripple of excitement moved down the line regardless.
We were moving so slowly it was killing me. I hadn’t been part of anything this painful since Darius tried to hit the whistle tones while testing out a Mariah act. No tea no shade, D could always work it, but Mariah was in a league of her own. Kind of like the hottie in front of me. Every once in a while, I’d catch a snatch of All-American Boy vocalizing in front of me. He sounded good. Really good. But I’d just have to block him, and the rest of my competition, out.
After seemingly endless hours, I finally made it inside. Where, of course, I waited some more. Finally, at the end of the hall, a monitor stood with a clipboard. She took my name and a copy of my headshot, and directed All-American Boy into the room. Only minutes later, he was back out. I tried to read his face for signs of confidence or disappointment, but he still looked blandly pleasant, like he was about to model knit wool beanies in a J.Crew catalog. Maybe he was. He had great bone structure.
“You’re up,” the monitor said, nodding at me. “Break a leg.”
I nodded back at her, then walked into a small black box theater. Everything was black, from the walls to the floor to the seats in the audience. There was a black piano in the middle of the room, the black paint on the floor scratched to reveal wood underneath from where it had been moved. A bald, older man with glasses sat at the piano, his hands poised expectantly at the keys. Behind a table at the front of the audience, there were three men and a woman. And one of those men was Ethan Fox.
Oh my god. I’d assumed they’d be running multiple audition rooms with different casting people, that we’d have to clear who knew how many hurdles before we saw the man himself, but there he was. I shook off my shock, smiling in a way that hopefully looked friendly and professional.
They want it to be you. That was what Ma had said before every audition in school. Remember, m’hijo, they are waiting there, hoping you will be the one to solve their problem. To be exactly what they’re looking for. Sing for them like you know that they want it to be you.
“Jorge Lopez,” I introduced myself, dropping four copies of my headshot and résumé on the table in front of them. A more intense version of me brooded back up from the headshot. I probably shouldn’t have taken those pictures when I’d been feeling so dramatic, but oh well.
“Jorge! From Jason’s class.” Ethan Fox knew my name. I glued my smile into place to keep my jaw from dropping open. “Jason says this kid can really dance,” Ethan addressed the other people at the table.
“Then let’s hope he can really sing,” the woman said, flipping my headshot over to look at my résumé. I winced slightly, hoping it wouldn’t immediately disqualify me that I only had school credits, nothing professional. But everybody has to start somewhere, right? “Jorge, what do you have for us today?”
“ ‘All I Need Is the Girl,’ from Gypsy,” I said. Which, LOL, I never needed a girl, but the song was right in my range. I walked over to the piano and handed my sheet music to the pianist. He spread it out. I’d brought the whole song, even though I knew I’d only get sixteen bars. Wishful thinking, maybe?
“Tempo?” he asked.
I hummed the first bar, tapping my foot to the rhythm I wanted. He nodded and turned back to the sheet music.
“Ready whenever you are, Jorge,” Ethan said.
Breathe. Don’t forget to breathe. Right. Breathing was very important. It was just me and the piano and this room.
And a panel of judgmental, unsmiling people who would decide my fate, but, you know. No pressure.
The pianist started, a little faster than I’d hoped, but that had probably been my fault. The nerves must have made me tap too quickly. And just like that, the intro was over, I took a deep breath, and I sang.
I sounded good. Really good. Everything flowed easily, the sound filling the black box. I searched their faces for signs that I was crushing it like I thought I was, but it was like looking at a brick wall. In just a few heartbeats, it was over.
Sixteen bars was nothing. I couldn’t believe how long I’d waited, just for the chance to sing for less than a minute—in the hopes that I’d impressed them enough for them to want to see me again. And there were so many people willing to do that.
Well, this business was something else, and you had to be a few bristles short of a makeup brush to want to be part of it.
“Great, thanks.” They weren’t smiling exactly, but they weren’t frowning, either. “We’ll definitely want to see you for the dance call,” Ethan said, and I exhaled so forcefully, with such relief, I was surprised it didn’t knock the pianist over. “Does tomorrow at six p.m. work for you for callbacks?”
“That works.” I could be there at six p.m. Six a.m. Four a.m. Anytime! Ethan Fox wanted me to come to the dance call! I’d dance on a subway grate if he needed me to! On the sidewalk on trash pickup day! I’d even dance in Long Island!
This could happen. This could actually happen.
No, this would happen.
I picked up my sheet music and thanked everyone, my heart soaring. Now, all I had to do was dance.
And nobody danced like me.
Transcript from Let’s Give ’Em Something to Pod About, Episode 85
CHLOE: Welcome to Let’s Give ’Em Something to Pod About, your source for everything you need to know about everyone you need to know, here in the only city worth knowing about. I’m your host, Chloe van Sant, and we have an unbelievable guest here today. But first, a word from our sponsors.
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And, back to the main event. I am absolutely thrilled to welcome our guest here for her very first time on the pod. You know her, you love her, you can’t get enough of her. It’s the one, the only, Pepper Smith!
PEPPER: Cheers, Chloe. Thanks for having me.
CHLOE: Oh my god, the accent. I can’t. It’s just too cute.
PEPPER: You’re the one with the cute accent.
CHLOE: Stop. Podlettes, can you even with her? Pepper, we are so lucky to have you back in New York.
PEPPER: I love New York. The energy, the people, there’s always something happening …
CHLOE: Do I detect some subtle shade at our neighbors across the pond?
PEPPER: Not at all, Chloe. London is just a very different city. It’s apple pie and chocolate oranges.
CHLOE: Cute. So your departure from the mother country did have something to do with a certain swoon-worthy royal romance?
PEPPER: Ah, Chloe, you mustn’t believe everything you read in the tabloids. I’ve never been one for dwelling in the past. I’m much more interested in what happens next.
CHLOE: Message received. And I think we’re all very interested in what happens next. What’s the plan here in New York?
PEPPER: Fall in New York is exquisite, isn’t it? I’m so pleased to be here for Fashion Week, one of my favorite times of the year.
CHLOE: No surprise there. Podlettes, I wish you could see this jumpsuit—the wide legs, the deep V, the sunny yellow shade. It’s to die for. I’ll be sure to post it on our Insta—give us a follow @PodAbout. So Pepper, any shows you’re particularly excited for?
PEPPER: I’m actually most excited for something that’s not part of the official Fashion Week lineup.
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