“Katy Keene.” I shook it. “Love the suspenders.”
“Katy Keene. Felix’s replacement. We got an email about you,” she said, eyes widening. “Good luck.”
“Yep, that’s me.” I smiled, hoping I looked more confident than I felt. “Do you know what happened to Felix, actually?”
“Nah-unh.” She shook her head. “And do not ask. They’ve been very clear that Felix’s departure is not up for discussion.”
“Got it.” I nodded. “Anything else I should know?”
“Normal stuff. Don’t be late. Don’t bother Rex with the little stuff. Don’t talk to anyone official unless they talk to you first.”
“Are there official Lacy’s people here, too?” Maybe this would turn into a job opportunity more quickly than I’d thought! “Like, is Gloria here? Gloria Grandbilt?”
“Gloria? God, no.” She shook her head emphatically. The elevator dinged and we both stepped out onto the sixth floor, into a hallway with cream walls bearing framed black-and-white sketches of fashion designs with ’50s silhouettes. I’d never been up to the sixth floor before. “Don’t you know? About her and Rex?”
Here’s what I knew about Gloria Grandbilt: The woman was an absolute legend. She ran the personal shopping department at Lacy’s with a perfectly manicured iron fist. Since she started at Lacy’s, she’d been responsible for dressing every celebrity, socialite, and style icon who walked through the doors, and she was also behind the creation of nearly every trend in that time, too. Allegedly, Karl Lagerfeld once said, “If you want to know what everyone will be wearing tomorrow, look at what Gloria Grandbilt is wearing today.” There was also a rumor that no one had ever seen her sweat.
Here’s what I didn’t know about Gloria Grandbilt: whatever Deja was talking about.
Deja leaned closer, her already low voice now pitched to an almost unintelligible volume.
“They hate each other,” she whispered, looking around like she was worried that the walls had ears at Lacy’s. “You know Rex London used to be a personal shopper here?” I nodded. That much I did know—thanks, Veronica. “He was the first male personal shopper Lacy’s had ever had, if you can believe that. Gloria really stuck her neck out to get him the job, so the story goes. Mrs. Lacy was against hiring a man, but Gloria said Rex London had the best eye she’d ever seen—apart from her own, of course.”
“So what happened?” I whispered back.
“Rex got cast on Project Catwalk and quit with no notice. One day, he just didn’t show up to his shift. A shift where, by the way, he was supposed to be dressing Tom Hanks for awards season.” Deja’s eyes widened with significance. “He hadn’t pulled the looks he was supposed to, either. Gloria salvaged everything, because she’s a genius, but it was almost a disaster. And if Tom Hanks wasn’t so nice, it probably would have been a disaster, anyway.”
“Yikes.” I winced, imagining how stressful that must have been.
“She’s never forgiven him for abandoning her like that. And there’s never been a man in the personal shopping department since,” Deja concluded. “They’re all Gloria’s Girls, and I do mean that literally. Come on. This way.”
“I’m surprised Lacy’s is hosting this fashion show for him, then.” I followed Deja down the hallway, the black-and-white sketches becoming more modern as we made our way toward wherever we were going.
“Like they were going to turn it down?” Deja snorted derisively. “No way. Rex London is probably the most famous former employee they’ve ever had. Mrs. Lacy is way too smart to turn down the kind of business a Rex London fashion show is going to bring in. She’s just going to keep Gloria safely sequestered on the personal shopping floor. Or maybe she sent her to Paris. Who knows. Either way, I promise you, we’re not going to see a single shiny blonde hair on that stylish head.”
Huh. That was kind of a disappointment. Part of me had hoped I might meet Gloria and somehow impress her enough to get a job interview, but even if that wasn’t an option, I would have loved to just be able to see her.
Deja grabbed a golden door handle and pulled open a set of cream-colored wooden doors. Inside, there was a flurry of activity, most of it centered around a raised dais in front of a three-way mirror. Very Say Yes to the Dress. Around the room, other designers brought clothes out of garment bags, hanging them on racks.
There was so much color, so much texture, my eyes could barely focus on any one garment. They bounced from dresses to shirts to pants, everything so impressive. It all looked so professional. I clutched my garment bag a little tighter to my chest, suddenly self-conscious about my dress. How would it compare with everyone else’s work?
“Katy Keene?” A man with bright blue hair, glasses, a clipboard, and a harried expression stood in front of me. “I’m Andy Holtz. Rex London’s assistant. We spoke over email?”
“Oh, yes, of course, hi!” Once again, I extricated my arm out from under the garment bag to shake hands, feeling like I was juggling fabric. “I’m Katy. It’s so nice to meet you. And thank you so much for this opportunity; it’s really incredible—”
“Yes, it is.” He cut me off, gushing. “It’s an incredible opportunity that literally thousands of designers would kill for. You are so unbelievably lucky to be here! Everyone wanted this gig.”
“Right.” My smile faltered as I thought about the thousands of other designers who wanted to be here. “Well, I’m definitely very grateful—”
“You’re a hard person to vet, Katy Keene,” he said teasingly, waving a finger at me. “You don’t have much of a social media presence. Most of these other designers have quite a substantial following. Your Instagram is set to private.”
“Oh. I, um, didn’t realize that was a problem.” I did a mental catalog of my Instagram, which definitely did include some outfit-of-the-day posts featuring clothes I’d made, but also included a lot of selfies of me and KO, blurry videos of Jorge dancing at Molly’s Crisis, and a very thorough documentation of my quest for the best slice of ninety-nine-cent pizza in the city. It didn’t exactly scream professional designer.
“Oh, it isn’t!” he rushed to reassure me. “Not necessarily. It just made it very hard to discern whether or not you were the caliber of designer Rex would feel confident putting in a show that he attached his name to.” His eyes bored into my garment bag like he was trying to see its contents with X-ray vision. I clutched it even tighter, protective of my poor dress. “But don’t worry! I’m sure it’s great. The word of Veronica Lodge is good enough for Rex, so it’s good enough for me.”
He was smiling at me, but somehow his unrelenting enthusiasm was just making me more nervous. I felt so cute when I left the house in this polka dot dress and cropped navy blazer this morning, but now I felt wrinkly and sweaty. Not Rex London material.
“Right,” he said. “Find a place on the rack and get set up. Can’t wait to see what you’ve got! And don’t worry if it needs a couple tweaks. Rex understands that everyone else has had weeks to fine-tune their designs with him.”
Exactly what I didn’t need to be reminded of, but I smiled brightly at Andy one last time, anyway, before he buzzed off toward another unsuspecting designer. I would be professional and pleasant if it killed me. My smile feeling brittle, I hung my garment bag on the rolling rack nearest the door, but before I got out my dress, I couldn’t resist pulling out my phone. Did everyone here really have a huge Instagram following? A quick search of Deja Birungi pulled up her account and all eighteen thousand of her followers. Holy cow. I scrolled through her feed, full of gorgeous, quirky looks and expertly tailored pants. Thank goodness my Instagram was set to private. In comparison, it was kind of embarrassing.
Back on my feed, I noticed KO had posted a new photo. It was a black-and-white shot of Jinx in the boxing gym, her gloves framing her model-perfect face, a single bead of sweat dripping down the side of her forehead, like it had been painted there by an art director. It was a beautiful shot, the interplay of darkness and light adding cu
rves and shadows to the already gorgeous planes of Jinx’s face. KO had captioned it “Killer Queen.”
I looked back at my Instagram. We’d both been so busy, with this Rex London fashion show and KO’s time at the boxing gym, there weren’t any recent photos of me and KO together. I had to scroll back quite a bit to find a picture of the two of us at Coney Island this summer, attempting to Lady and the Tramp a Nathan’s Famous hot dog, with very poor results. I had mustard in one of my eyebrows, but I looked radiantly happy.
But since then, we’d done no leaf peeping, no pumpkin patching, no apple picking.
I knew we still had plenty of time for those things … but I missed him. Would we ever get the chance to really start our best fall ever?
“Katy?” Andy was back in front of me, still smiling, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, are we keeping you from something important on your phone? Do you need to step out into the hallway?”
“No! Oh my gosh, no! I’m sorry, I was just—I’m just sorry.” My cheeks flamed with embarrassment. Wow, really professional, Katy. Quickly, I shoved my phone back into my cross-body bag, where I vowed it would stay, permanently, and unzipped the garment bag—like my skills at speed-unzipping could somehow make up for the poor first impression I’d made.
“Designers!” I turned to the doors. Rex London was instantly recognizable, with his tan skin, dark eyebrows, and signature pouf of silver hair. He was even shorter in real life than I’d thought he was, but his slim three-piece suit was perfectly tailored. Most people wouldn’t pair a plaid suit with a floral button-down, but on Rex London, it just worked.
“He’s a genius, isn’t he?” Deja was back at my side, whispering, her eyes glowing with admiration. “I aspire to that level of pattern-mixing greatness. Just watching what he puts together for his own look every day has been a master class.”
I nodded happily. There was a glow around Rex London. I wasn’t sure if it was the special sort of buzz that changed in the air around a celebrity—like that time Jorge and I saw Sarah Jessica Parker walking down Christopher Street and we almost fell off the stoop we’d been sitting on—or if he was just so well-moisturized that it was coming from his skin.
“Today, we’re doing our last look on the racks, and then we’ll start fitting.” Rex placed his hands in front of his mouth, almost like he was praying. “Let’s get these looks ready to walk, people!”
Fitting! This was so exciting. I’d never worked with a professional model before. I’d only ever made clothes for me or my friends.
“When are the models coming?” I asked Deja, grateful that I hadn’t missed any of the fittings with them. Maybe I wouldn’t be as behind as I’d feared!
“What are you talking about, Katy?” Deja tilted her head quizzically. “We’re the models.”
“JORGE!” KATY FLEW THROUGH THE door of Molly’s Crisis, her red silk scarf trailing behind her like a flame. That girl understood the importance of a personal brand. Not that Katy would have ever described herself as having a personal brand, but she had a look that was all her own. Very retro-cutie-Eleganza. Like Minnie Mouse’s more sophisticated big sister. “I’m having a crisis!”
“No better place to have one.” I smirked. “I wonder what Molly’s original crisis was?”
Even if anyone knew the answer to that, there was nobody here to tell me. I looked around the empty bar. Technically, they weren’t open yet, but the door had been unlocked. Seriously, somebody needed to give me Darius’s job. If I ever left the bodega unlocked when we were closed, the New York Post would run a story titled “Bodega Bloodshed!” because Ma would literally murder me.
“Maybe it was getting a once-in-a-lifetime spot in a fashion show and then realizing she had to model her own designs!”
“OMG, Katy-girl, are you serious?!” I couldn’t keep the excitement off my face, even though Katy looked panicked. “I love this for you!”
“Well, I don’t love this for me! I hate this for me!” As she started taking off her navy blazer, I realized the buttons were tiny strawberries. She was too cute.
“Are these new?” I tapped a strawberry button. “I’m living for them.”
“Yes, I was digging around at Lou Lou Buttons and I couldn’t resist. It really transforms the jacket, doesn’t it? But forget the strawberries!” She dropped her coat on the bar stool, revealing a red silk dress with tiny white polka dots, puffed sleeves, and fabric-covered buttons marching all the way down the front. That Katy Keene look, perfect as always. “I can’t do this! I’m not a model!”
“Okay, you’re not a model, but you can do this.” I plucked the umbrella out of my ginger ale, then tucked it into her hair, behind her ear. “It’s just walking, Katy. You can walk.”
“In a casual way! Not a professional, runway, fashion kind of way! With everyone looking at me!”
“They won’t be looking at you, they’ll be looking at your dress. That’s what matters. And forget the modeling for a second. What did Rex London think about your dress?”
“My dress. Oh my god. My dress.” She face-palmed herself. “I left it at Lacy’s. I don’t even know if I was supposed to. I was just so preoccupied I forgot about it.”
“Girl, did you just run out of there in a panic after they told you that you were going to model?” I frowned. “That’s not a great look.”
“No, I didn’t panic run!” She leaned over to take a sip of my ginger ale. “They ended up cutting the fitting short today. Rex had some kind of emergency with the filming of his makeover show and had to leave early. He hasn’t even seen my dress yet.”
“Well, he’s gonna love it, whenever he sees it. And why haven’t I seen it yet?” I demanded. Usually, Katy always showed me what she was working on, every step of the way. “I thought you’d at least text me a pic of the finished product.”
“Yeah, I will.” She avoided my eyes guiltily. “I just … I don’t know. I’m still not feeling sure about it. Maybe I should go back uptown to Lacy’s to grab it, so I can tinker around with it a little bit before Rex sees it.”
“Don’t tinker too much. Remember what Coco Chanel said about taking off one accessory before leaving the house. Or what I said before the homecoming dance freshman year.”
“I still can’t believe I thought fingerless gloves were a good idea.” Katy shook her head.
“Even the fashion greats make mistakes. And you’re gonna be one of the greats. So text me a picture of that dress, please!” She nodded. I hoped she would. I wasn’t used to seeing Katy lacking confidence, especially when it came to the clothes she made. She was so good, and usually, she knew it. “In the meantime, cover girl, let’s put some bass in your walk.”
“I don’t know how to put some bass in my walk. I don’t even know what that means.” Katy dropped her head into her hands, moaning. “I am so screwed.”
I skipped over to the sound system in the back. They should just give me a job here; I knew where everything was. Despite having grown up above our bodega, I had a feeling my own special set of skills was suited more to song selections and serving drinks than frying egg sandwiches and selling Flamin’ Hot Cheetos to the kids from PS 187. Maybe they’d even let me sing. Sometimes, they had performers who weren’t in drag.
And hey, if I was a Broadway star, they’d probably be begging me to sing.
After my last callback, though, that was a big if. Ethan Fox’s comments wouldn’t stop rolling around in my head. Like, I knew he was the director, and it was his vision, and ultimately, it was a commentary on the character, not on me, but it still felt personal. Too personal.
Like I was the problem, not my performance.
I still hadn’t decided if I was going back for the next round of callbacks. And if I did go back, would I try it more masc? Steal some clothes from one of my brothers and give them exactly what I knew they wanted? Or would I still read it the way I saw Barnaby?
It felt like way too big of an opportunity to just give up. This was literally
everything I ever wanted, and the director was rooting for me. He wanted it to be me—literally. Things like this didn’t happen to kids fresh out of high school, but somehow, it was happening for me.
I plugged my phone into the auxiliary cord and scrolled through Spotify until I found “Vogue.” Sometimes, the classics were classic for a reason.
Madonna blasted through the speakers. Katy looked perkier already. She snapped along with the song as she followed me up onto the stage.
“Strike a pose,” I instructed, along with Madonna.
“Vogue,” Katy whispered back to me, framing her face with her hands.
“Definitely don’t do that, though,” I said. “Pretty sure literally vogueing is frowned upon in high fashion circles.”
“I know that at least.” She rolled her eyes, smiling. “I’m not that hopeless.”
“Pretend this is the runway.” I held on to Katy’s shoulder and steered her stage left, turning her until she faced the wings backstage right. The stage at Molly’s Crisis was too narrow to walk toward the audience, but it would work this way. “Now, pick a point to focus on. Stand tall, keep your limbs loose, place one foot in front of the other, and walk with long strides.”
I was so glad my summer of bingeing reality TV had paid off. Between watching Project Catwalk and America’s Next Super Model and Drag Race, I was practically an amateur runway coach at this point.
Katy stomped down the faux-runway like an adorably tiny T. rex.
“Relax your hands!” I shouted. She flared them out like she was attempting a casual jazz hand, then she balled them into fists, then she cupped them like a Barbie.
It was … not great.
“Why are my hands so weird?” She waved them at me, flailing, once she hit the other side of the stage. “Have my hands always been so weird? Why didn’t you tell me I had weird hands, Jorge?!”
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