by Julie Murphy
Henry offers me a wink, and I do my best not to beam and to maintain my coolish model swagger.
When I step backstage, Jenny, Chloe, and Sara Claire give me high fives and thumbs-ups while Stacy takes the runway.
My heart pounds in my chest, and I can barely even remember what I just did. It’s all a blur, like when you zone out at the wheel and immediately wonder how it is that you even got home.
After we’re done, the lights come up, and we’re all led out onstage like cattle, where Lucy Mackenzie is waiting for us. Lucy’s hair is cut into a sharp, long bob that’s so perfect I can practically imagine the painstaking efforts her hairstylist had gone to for it to be so precise. She wears a baggy black linen tunic with matching pants and a chunky neon-yellow necklace. She’s the kind of designer who doesn’t wear the type of clothing she produces, and it’s the kind of disconnect in fashion that I’ve never quite understood. I can see all the ways she could seem cold and unapproachable, and yet, she’s created this empire—albeit crumbling—and that’s something I have endless respect for. Even if, after getting to know Henry better, I can’t help but wonder what kind of expense her success has cost her.
“You’re all such lovely girls,” Lucy says as she eyes us discerningly. “Though I think some of you let the clothes wear you.” She looks directly at Sara Claire, one beautifully shaped eyebrow raised.
Jay nods knowingly, and I’m trying my best not to be just a little bit annoyed. I love the world of fashion, but the idea that it’s this mystical thing only meant for a select few is bullshit. And Lucy Mackenzie—a department-store staple—should know that better than anyone else. Yes, clothes can be art, but they’re also a necessity. So many people in this industry act like clothing is for everyone, but fashion is only for a select few. The truth, though, is that clothing is fashion and fashion should be for everyone because clothing should be for everyone. And clothing for everyone is a first, small step to equality for everyone. Getting opportunities and access is a whole hell of a lot easier when you look the part.
“But I see one of you has taken liberties with my work,” Lucy says. “Step forward—”
I step forward and my stomach bubbles, and I truly hope no one else heard that.
“Cindy,” Henry supplies. “Mother, meet Cindy.”
“Hi, Lu—Mrs. Mackenzie. I’m a big fan of LuMac,” I tell her in a hurry before she can get a word in. “In fact, I’m a Parsons alum too. We have that in common. I just…I was so excited to hear we’d be coming here today, but as you can tell, I’ve got a…fuller figure.” I want to say fat, but I don’t think I have the time to also explain that fat isn’t a four-letter word. “And when I couldn’t find anything on the rack in my size, I decided to…reinterpret your work.”
She steps onto the stage. “That’s a judicious way of saying you had to make do.” She touches the fabric of my top and runs her fingers along the edges of the tie dangling along the front. “Jay, is this the Marlena cover-up from the 2019 resort line?”
“Indeed it is,” Jay says as Henry watches, obviously a little out of his depth.
“And the skirt?” she asks.
“Holiday collection 2018. The Charlotte shift dress,” Jay tells her.
Lucy crosses her arms. “You wear it well, my dear. And I like to see a bit of resourcefulness. The curves…suit you.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly, even though what I really want to say is that I shouldn’t have to be resourceful and that it’s my body, so of course it suits me.
“I didn’t realize this was Project Runway,” Addison mutters from the other side of Jenny.
I step back into line as Lucy talks to a few other girls, and on-brand for Sara Claire, Lucy seems a little unsure as she asks her, “May I?”
Sara Claire nods and Lucy touches her hair. “Bottle or natural?”
“Uh, a little bit of both?” Sara Claire says.
I’m starting to get the feeling that Lucy Mackenzie was not an easy woman to grow up with.
Once Lucy is done with her inquisition, she steps back down and whispers to Jay, who nods in agreement.
“Ladies”—Jay nods—“you all did a fantastic job here today, but here at LuMac, we always have a soft spot for rule breakers, so the winner of today’s runway challenge is Cindy!”
I straighten at the sound of my name as my hand flies up to my chest. “What? Me?” I won something! I’ve never even won an Instagram contest, and now I’ve won a Before Midnight challenge. I clap giddily while trying not to gloat.
A few of the other women pat me on the back, and sitting beside Lucy, Henry smiles widely as he tilts his chin down to congratulate me. Good job, he mouths.
I do a little curtsy in response. (Key word: little. This pencil skirt isn’t budging.) In this moment it feels so silly to be here with all these ridiculous games and rules when just last night we stood in the gift shop like two completely normal adults who weren’t pseudo dating via a reality television competition.
After we share a glass of champagne for the camera—this show will literally toast to anything—we’re instructed to get dressed in our own clothes so we can film a tour of the office with Jay and Henry.
We all wave bye to Lucy, none of us brave enough to actually approach her, and when she steps out the back door and into a black SUV, there is a collective sigh of relief from everyone. Even Henry. Especially Henry.
Upstairs, we’re led into a bright and open office with tons of real plants and a huge reception desk in the shape of the blocky LuMac logo with an LU running up the side of a very square M.
“LuMac is an independent brand, and while many have tried, Lucy has resisted the urge to merge with a larger conglomerate and maintains majority ownership. This independence is what sets LuMac apart, but it also means that every decision counts in a very big way,” Jay says as we weave in and out of workspaces.
Henry nods grimly and wraps his knuckles on a door with his name on it. “And this is my office.”
Addison lets out a dramatic Oooooo. “Genius at work!”
Miraculously, I don’t puke. As the group moves on, I hang back and peek my head inside. I don’t know what I expected, but this is not it. The office furniture is sleek and minimal with a bright white desk and ergonomic desk chair. A low-sitting midcentury sofa in a soft-looking camel-colored leather sits in front of the window. By the wall is a console with an old record player, and beneath that are crates full of records. It’s easy to imagine Henry sitting there on the couch, zoned-out during a conference call as he combs through the records. There are papers covering every surface and file boxes placed haphazardly all over. It’s the kind of office someone actually works in. On the desk is one single framed photo: little Henry on his father’s shoulders with his mom laughing hysterically as a wave crashes over the three of them.
“I would’ve cleaned first if I knew you’d be snooping,” Henry whispers, his voice tickling my ear.
I jump back a little and find my back pressed against his torso as the rest of the group turns the corner.
Instead of stepping away from him, I lean my head back against his chest and look up, allowing myself this indulgence. “It’s nice to know you actually work here and aren’t just cashing a check.”
His laugh is bitter as he presses his hand to the small of my back and guides me forward so that we can rejoin the group. “Trust me when I say I’m not cashing many checks here.”
Before I can manage to ask Henry more, he’s swiftly rejoined Jay at the front of the line.
We make our way up a stairwell as Jay explains that each floor is a different micro brand, acquired by Lucy herself, and that with the help of Henry, she’s created a mentor program to help each brand establish itself. Henry’s eyes light up when Jay explains the program, and I think it’s the most excited by LuMac I’ve ever seen him.
Once we’re done filming, Henry is swept away, and all the women congregate downstairs, where a small group of paparazzi and a few Before Midnigh
t fans have gathered.
“Does this mean we’re famous?” Jenny asks.
Jay laughs as they sit perched on the counter. “Enjoy it while you can.”
I detach from the group and make my way over to Jay. “Thanks for the tour,” I tell them.
They smirk and hop down before tapping the tip of my nose with their finger. “I like you. Lucy isn’t so sure, but I like you.”
“Oh really?” I ask, crossing my arms under my chest. “Well, you want to know what I don’t like? Her size range.”
Their brows pinch together. “I’ve been telling her this for years. The future isn’t exclusive. It’s inclusive.”
“See. You get it! I love LuMac,” I tell them. “I always have. But I’ve never been able to wear it. Do you know how many people would flock to this stuff if it were available in their size? This isn’t just about politics. It’s good business.”
They shake their head. “Studies show plus-size consumers don’t invest in luxury pieces.”
“What the studies don’t show is the lack of luxury pieces being offered. Fat people want options. All the luxury pieces out there look like mother-of-the-bride dresses. Lucy has been on the first wave of major fashion moments before. Now isn’t the time to be left behind.”
“Oooooh,” they say, fire in their eyes. “I really do like you. I can see why you’re our Henry’s favorite.”
I fail to hide my annoyance when I say, “Well, maybe one of these days, he’ll actually pick me for a date.”
Jay smirks. “That boy’s a hard read sometimes.”
“Ladies!” Zeke calls. “Let’s load it up!”
“Thanks again,” I tell Jay. “I hope our paths cross again one day.”
“I’m betting on it,” they say with a wink.
Mallory and Zeke herd us out to the fifteen-passenger van waiting for us as cameras flash and what is now a whole ton of fans scream our names.
“Cindy!” someone yells. “You’re my style icon!”
My heart flutters, and I think I might levitate at any moment. “Thank you!” I call back into the crowd.
“Cindy!” another—almost familiar—voice calls. “Cindy!”
A hand reaches past Zeke, who is literally standing between me and fifty Before Midnight–obsessed fans. A head bobs over his shoulder and it’s—
“Sierra!” I shriek.
My best friend wriggles past Zeke and gives me a tight hug. “Holy crap! What is your life? What is even happening?”
“Cindy, we gotta move,” Zeke says with a warning in his voice.
I look up to him. “Should I remind you who’s keeping whose secret?”
His lips press into a thin line as he lets me squeeze under his arm while he continues to help the remaining women into the van.
Sierra is wearing a ribbed black maxi dress with huge red sunglasses and bright yellow platform Tevas.
“I wish I could stay and talk,” I tell her, suddenly feeling like I might be on the verge of tears. “And PS, you look delicious. Did you get the gig with Opening Ceremony?”
“Yes, and it’s all I’ve wanted to talk to you about! I mean, besides all this.” Her mouth wrinkles into a pout, and I can see tears welling in her eyes.
“Don’t cry,” I beg her. “If you cry, I’ll cry.”
She nods furiously. “There’s just so much happening, and there’s so much I want to talk to you about and—I’ve seen you on TV, but it feels like I’m having a one-way conversation and I just—”
“Cindy,” Zeke says.
I take both Sierra’s hands in mine and squeeze tight. “I gotta go, but I’m so proud of you for landing that gig. I miss you so much it hurts,” I tell her. “I love you, and I promise we’re going to have a major catch-up sesh when this is all over. I promise-promise.”
She gives me another hug and slides something into the pocket of my jeans.
“Smooth operator,” I whisper.
“You know it, baby!” she says, swallowing back tears.
Back at the hotel, the valet helps us out of the van and the concierge is waiting for us with camera people also in full swing.
The concierge, a round man with an olive complexion, thick silver hair, and a matching mustache, says, “I have a note for a Ms. Cindy.”
I gasp and push forward to the front of the crowd. “I’m Cindy! That’s me!”
He smiles with a chuckle and hands me the note, which I quickly tear open.
“Is it a date?” Sara Claire asks, peering over my shoulder.
“Of course it is.” Addison pushes through all of us and storms off into the hotel lobby.
Stacy rolls her eyes. “Forget her. She has the temperament of a thirteen-year-old.” She shakes her head. “Actually, scratch that. My thirteen-year-old niece would never.”
I croak out a laugh, but I can’t get to my room fast enough. A solo date. Henry and me. And about fifteen crew members. I didn’t expect to be this anxious, but my nerves are more frayed than a Canadian tuxedo.
Upstairs, I have a few hours to myself, so I pace the length of my room until all I can do is crash face-first into the freshly made bed. There’s nothing I can do to prepare for this. No homework or studying. All I can do is the hardest and most terrifying thing of all. Be myself.
I didn’t expect to be invested in this. I wasn’t prepared for this guy to be someone I can’t get out of my head.
I’m full of jittery energy, and I’ve got to do something to occupy myself or else I’m going to be bouncing off the walls by the time I go on my date. I reach into my suitcase for my pencil bag and sketch pad. Lying down on my stomach with the view of the city spread out before me, I open my pad and just let myself doodle. Everything from flowers to patterns to just signing my name over and over again. The last few times I’ve attempted sketching, this insurmountable pressure hung over my head, but today I decide to just let my pencil lead me. This morning at LuMac when I had no other option but to act felt freeing in a way. My choice was to innovate or walk down the runway naked. Backed into a corner and left with no other alternative, I created…something. Something that, it turns out, I was quite proud of. And for the first time in a very long time, I’m sitting down to sketch. Not because I have to, but because I want to.
An hour before my date, Irina, Ash, and Ginger descend upon my room armed with everything they need to turn me into a princess, and I’m still sketching. I hide my sketch pad away with my nearly dead walkie-talkie and let them groom me. After this morning’s near catastrophe, Irina even scoured the city for size-eighteen-and-up options.
Even still, I scroll through the rack of dresses she’s rolled in, fully expecting to have to wear the backup dress I ironed just moments ago. I appreciate her efforts, but nothing on the rack is what I would call striking.
“I bring you every dress in the city and still nothing to your liking?” she asks incredulously.
“It’s not that,” I say. “And don’t give me that ‘every dress in the city’ crap. Surely you can at least admit that the options out there in my—”
There are three quick knocks on my door, and Ash rushes over to answer it.
Beck is standing there sweaty and short of breath. “I got it,” she tells Irina.
Irina gives a sly grin as she takes the dress bag from Beck.
“What is it?” I ask anxiously.
Irina’s only answer is to hang up the dress and unzip the garment bag for me to see.
“Wow” is all I can manage to say. My fingers brush against the most luxe silk I’ve ever felt in my life. I pull the dress fully out of the bag to find a dramatic high-low gown in ice blue.
“Ahh,” says Irina with satisfaction. “The Dolce and Gabbana.”
I eye the tag. A D&G dress is guaranteed to run small, even though it’s probably part of their recent extended sizes. It’s still a European-based designer who is more interested in dressing “plus-size” starlets who are just a size ten with big boobs than in dressing actual human beings
with normal lives.
Beck shakes her head. “Irina had me clear across the city in the middle of rush hour, trying to get these people to let us borrow it for the night.” She turns to Irina. “Which, by the way, is definitely the job of an assistant or a junior producer.”
“But, Beck, you are so convincing. Never send a child in to do the job of a professional.”
Beck shrugs. “It did require all the network television wooing I could muster. Apparently this thing is a sample for next season.”
“It’s not even available for purchase yet?” I ask. “Will it even fit me?”
Irina tilts her chin as she pulls the dress from the rack. “It could work.”
I shrug, trying to sound nonchalant like I’m not completely in love with this one-of-a-kind find. “Can’t hurt to try.”
After sitting for Ash and Ginger to do my hair and makeup, I take the dress into the bathroom as Irina retreads the floor I’d paced just hours ago.
As I’m shimmying out of my jeans, a piece of paper falls to the ground. Sierra. After getting the date today with Henry, I completely forgot that not only did I see my best friend today, but she shoved a note into the pocket of my jeans. I’m struck with the absolute bizarreness of my current life. One day this will all feel like a surreal dream.
I open the letter with my name scribbled across the top in Sierra’s curling handwriting.
Cin,
I have about a thousand and one questions and since this is a letter instead of a text thread and you can’t give me the gratification of an immediate response, I’ll just tell you what I think you need to hear and save my questions for later.
I don’t know how or why you landed on this show—I mean, Erica, obvi, but you know what I mean. However, I do know this: If you’re going to be there, you have to let yourself stand in the spotlight. Don’t be meek or shy. You tried that sophomore year and it didn’t work out so well. Remember? Julian and Elise took all the credit for your big group project. Be the Cindy I know, and stop doing this halfway. Be a showstopper. I can see your little brain going into overdrive every time you’re on camera. It’s the overthinking tailspin I know and love. But you’ve gotta trust yourself. It’s what I’ve been telling you all year. You’ve made it this far in one piece, right? You’re there for a reason…