The Allegra Biscotti Collection

by Olivia Bennett

  She could see them hanging out together, her wearing, of course, a matching leather jacket with brass studs, a black lace top, and a white gauzy skirt with lots of stiff crinoline underneath to give it that fun pouf—very rocker chick meets third-grade ballet recital. Emma’s fashion reverie was interrupted by the grating sound of Ivana’s voice.

  “And the manicurist at the spa wouldn’t stop calling me ‘Wanda!’ Can you believe it? I’m like, lady, the name’s I-va-na!” The Ivana-Bees, flanking their leader, shrieked with laughter. Emma didn’t think Ivana’s story sounded that funny, but maybe “you had to be there,” as they said about practically every one of their experiences.

  The three ’Bees paused as Ivana reached out to link her elbow with Holly’s. “Holls, you coming with?” Ivana asked.

  Emma cringed. Ivana had taken her nickname for Holly. Emma had been calling Holly that since the second grade, when they saw a movie about four best friends who made up nicknames for each other. It had sounded like a very mature and cool thing to do back then.

  “Totally!” Holly slammed her locker door shut and slid into formation with the ’Bees. “Ivana, I love-love your sweater. It’s awesome.”

  “I know, isn’t it?” Ivana answered.

  Emma eyed the sleeveless sweater—an obviously expensive cashmere with a small ruffle along the deep V-neckline. The color was just the right shade of lavender to set off Ivana’s red, perfectly flat-ironed hair. Emma had seen the sweater in the window of Shape, the pricey SoHo boutique near school that provided Ivana with most of her wardrobe. Ivana wore it with the same ivory lacy camisole displayed on the mannequin. There are so many other fun ways she could’ve worn that, Emma thought, layering it in her mind with patterned sweaters and tops.

  “Shaye,” Holly continued, “did you do something different with your hair—part it on a different side, maybe? I like it. You should totally wear it that way all the time.”

  Shannon, who was the most tomboyish of the group, probably because she was growing taller without getting curvier, reached up to touch her brown chin-length hair with a confused but pleased look on her face. “I don’t think so, but thanks!”

  Holly turned to Kayla. “That lip gloss is killer, Kay. New?”

  Kayla was like a walking advertisement for Beautylicious, the beauty company her mother had started five years earlier. She bragged about her mother all the time, as if she were the Secretary of State bringing about world peace instead of a makeup artist turned businesswoman.

  Unlike Shannon, Kayla had no problem in the natural curves department. Plus she had been wearing a full face of makeup religiously since the age of twelve, which Emma thought made Kayla look, at times, like she was spending too much time with the clowns at the circus.

  Now Kayla puffed out her lips so everyone could see. “Yeah, my mom just brought it home yesterday. It’s not even in the stores yet. It’s called ‘Fire Starter.’”

  Holly turned back toward Emma. “Hurry up, Emma! We’re going to be late.”

  “Trying!” Emma yanked on her bag. The strap was stuck on something inside her locker. By the time she freed it and closed the door, the group was already halfway down the hall.

  Emma sighed and walked at a normal pace. She couldn’t bring herself to chase after them. Besides, now that Ivana and the ’Bees had swallowed up Holly, Emma knew that she wouldn’t be able to finish their conversation. Or tell Holly about Allegra Biscotti. I’ll grab her at lunchtime to eat with me in the student lounge, Emma decided. She knew Holly would celebrate with her once she found out the big news.

  Emma scooted into the classroom just as Mr. Whitmore was closing the door.

  The crescendo from the lunchroom hit Emma long before she even walked in the door. The cafeteria, which was in the basement next to the gym, was the worst room in the school. The ceiling was low, and the cement floor was painted the ugliest green color Emma had ever seen.

  Since there were no windows, the only light was from the industrial fluorescent bulbs overhead, which Emma thought made everyone look like they had the flu. On top of all that, the lunchroom perpetually smelled like grease, even though the PTA had voted fried food off the menu two years earlier.

  Emma stood in the doorway and scanned the buzzing room until she spotted Holly paying the cashier. I need to grab her, Emma thought.

  Holly smiled when she saw Emma coming toward her. “There you are. You brought your lunch today, right?”

  Emma always packed a yogurt and chips. The mysterious ingredients and origins of the school lunches were too baffling to a girl who never got higher than a B in chemistry. She liked being able to identify her food. “Do you want to go to the loun—”

  Holly cut her off, lifting her tray with one hand and grabbing Emma’s elbow with the other.

  Emma’s heart sank as soon as she realized where they were headed. “Remind me again why we have to sit with Ivana and the ’Bees?” she asked.

  “Because everything’s different now that we’re in eighth grade,” Holly explained. “Plus it’s more fun to hang out with Ivana and the girls than those random people we used to sit with. You have to admit, Em, those kids are kind of weird.”

  “Charlie isn’t weird,” Emma protested, yanking back on Holly’s arm to stop her before they reached the table. “We always had fun with him. He’s our friend.”

  Holly snapped her gum. “Charlie barely eats in the cafeteria anymore. He’s always off in the student lounge listening to his iPod or looking at those weird Japanese comic books. Trust me. He hasn’t even noticed that we’re gone.”

  That was sort of true, actually. Charlie liked being a bit of a shadow, fading in and out without anyone noticing. Plus, he hated crowds. And the color green. But Emma suspected that this new lunch-table situation had more to do with Holly being flattered that Ivana had invited her—and probably not both of them—to sit at her table. For the past few weeks, Emma had been going along with Holly’s new seating arrangement. She figured as long as she got to sit with Holly, maybe it would be all right.

  But so far, it hadn’t been that great.

  “Come on, Em! I’m starving.” Holly gave Emma’s elbow another tug, coaxing her toward the table.

  Reluctantly, Emma gave in. They barely had twenty minutes left to eat lunch and would have even less by the time they got upstairs to the student lounge anyway. As Holly slid into the empty chair next to Ivana, Emma settled down in a seat at the end of table. The Ivana-Bees were in the middle of a heated discussion about their ideas for this year’s first fund-raiser.

  “Last year, the eighth-grade class held a bake sale, and they raised a ton of money,” Shannon said, nibbling on a carrot stick. The way she wrinkled her nose and scrunched up her face reminded Emma of a rabbit.

  Ivana laughed loudly, tossing her long red hair over her shoulder as if she were in a shampoo commercial. “Shaye, you can’t be serious. Remember the last time you tried to bake something? Di-SAS-ter!” Ivana turned to Holly. “She almost burned down her kitchen because she put the oven on broil instead of bake.”

  “The doorman had to come turn off the fire alarm because Shannon didn’t know how to do it!” Kayla added—again just to Holly.

  Holly giggled. “That’s hilarious,” she said. “I so wish I’d been there!”

  Emma snuck a sideways glance at Holly to see if she was faking her enthusiasm. But Holly was totally serious.

  “It was pretty embarrassing,” Shannon admitted, though she seemed more flattered than embarrassed that she was the focus of attention. “But I still think a bake sale is a good idea.”

  “How about something that doesn’t require using the oven—or any fire, for that matter?” Ivana suggested.

  “I know! We could have a car wash!” Kayla leaned forward.

  “Ew!” Lexie squealed. “I don’t want to have to wash some weirdo-stranger’s car!”

  “Um, hello?” Ivana added. “We live in a city, remember? Most people don’t even own cars.”


  Emma pretended to be fascinated with the last dollop of strawberry yogurt in the container. She swirled it around with her plastic spoon. Since she hadn’t joined the Fund-Raising Committee like Holly and the other girls, she didn’t have much to contribute. Nor had she signed up for the Social Committee or the Film Club, even though Holly had begged her to do those with her, too.

  What was weird was that Emma and Holly had never been “joiners” before.

  They had always been happy to move around the edges of all the groups without necessarily being a part of any one of them. Emma could tell who was who just by looking at what they wore. She had sketched them all, fascinated by how clothes ruled the cliques. Each group had their own style, she knew. If your clothes didn’t fit in, than neither did you. For as long as they’d been friends, Emma and Holly had hung out with various kids from all of the groups, but they mostly spent their free time together because that’s what they had the most fun doing.

  Until this summer.

  After school ended, Holly’s workaholic parents had dragged her to their new weekend house in Litchfield, Connecticut. Holly complained to Emma via a torrent of daily text messages about how there was nothing to do and no one to do it with. But then Holly started to sound like she was having fun. That’s when Ivana’s name began popping up.

  Ivana’s mother and latest stepfather had a place in Litchfield, too. Emma was shocked. If she had been stranded on a desert island with Ivana, she would have sooner befriended a lizard than Ivana Abbott. When Emma complained about it to Charlie, he said that it was probably just a “friendship of convenience.” Emma spent the rest of the summer hoping he was right.

  But now it looked like he wasn’t. Around the Ivana-Bees, Holly was different. Emma couldn’t put her finger on how. She just knew that suddenly she felt like their friendship went from being the most natural, easiest thing in the world to requiring a conscious effort to keep it going.

  “Maybe we could put on a fashion show,” Holly said. “That’d be fun, wouldn’t it, Em?”

  Emma looked up, surprised. She had started to draw a new outfit for Ms. Ramirez, the dowdy cafeteria cashier, in her sketchbook. It was coming out like a futuristic jumpsuit. Maybe not the best look. “For what?”

  “A class fund-raiser,” Holly answered. “Don’t you think we could build a catwalk in the gym and get some of the students and teachers to model? Maybe call some boutiques to see if they would let us borrow their clothes?”

  Ivana and the ’Bees faced Emma expectantly.

  “Um, I guess so,” Emma answered.

  “And you could be our fashion expert,” Holly added enthusiastically.

  Someone snickered, but Emma wasn’t sure who. She glanced at the digital wall clock. Four minutes until lunch was over.

  “Or,” Ivana began, turning everyone’s attention right back to her, “we could do an auction. I bet everyone’s parents have something decent they could donate as prizes. It would be so much easier. My cousin is an event planner, and she always says how no one ever realizes how much work it is to do events. Plus they’re super-expensive.”

  “An auction is such an amazing idea, Ivana!” Holly gushed, leaning forward in her chair. Again, Emma was surprised by Holly’s tone. Was Ivana’s idea really that amazing? Hadn’t auctions been done since the dawn of time—or at least, since the invention of school fund-raisers?

  “Actually,” Ivana continued, “I was thinking we could make it a green auction. You know, with all eco-friendly stuff.”

  “I bet my parents could score a free dinner at the organic restaurant they go to practically every Saturday night,” Lexie said. “The restaurant’s owners only use ingredients they can buy locally. That’s green, right?”

  “And my mom could donate a gift bag of her company’s new all-natural makeup line,” Kayla added proudly. “The stuff smells so good! I’ll bring you samples. We have a ton at home.”

  And with that, the girls chattered on, excitedly throwing out ideas, each trying to top the other. Emma’s momentary existence in their plans evaporated into the puke-green floor.

  Emma slid the printout of the Allegra Biscotti post from Paige Young’s blog from her sketchbook. Just looking at it made her heart jump. Her dresses! Hers!

  Emma glanced at the clock again. The bell was just about to ring. Maybe she could get Holly to hang back for a few seconds while the other girls tossed their garbage. Then she could show Holly the blog and quickly tell her what happened with Paige…

  “Holls, don’t forget. We need to stop at your locker before class so you can give me your To Kill a Mockingbird notes from yesterday,” Ivana said, already standing.

  “Right!” Holly leaped up to follow Ivana. “See you later, Em.”

  Emma watched Holly and the girls leave the cafeteria. She wanted to stop Holly, but she suddenly felt glued to her seat, unable and unwilling to run after them. The noise level dropped as everyone headed for the halls. Emma continued to sit, gazing at the paper in the hands. Allegra Biscotti.

  Not being able to tell Holly what happened with Paige didn’t make it any less real. She knew that. She really did. And she didn’t want to be upset—not now.

  Someone important said I was a talented designer, and that’s a really good thing, Emma reminded herself, finally standing to leave.

  Chapter 4

  Killer Dress

  “Hey, watch it, buddy!” someone shouted at the man recklessly climbing up the crowded subway steps two by two and pushing people to the side—including Emma and her mom. After he disappeared, everyone grumbled but kept moving up and out onto the street before fanning in different directions. Just another morning in Manhattan.

  Emma re-wrapped the sheer, crinkly, electric-blue gauzy scarf around her neck as she worked her way up the stairs. She had woken up feeling like a real fashion designer, and a sequin-sprinkled scarf was definitely in order. Her mother paused at the street corner to push her glasses back up her nose.

  “It seems busier than usual today. Or maybe I shouldn’t have had that second cup of coffee,” she said. She eyed Emma. “Have you started studying for the Western civ test yet?”

  It was the same question she’d asked last week. And Emma still had the same answer. Umm…no.

  “Not yet,” Emma replied, praying that, by some miracle, her mom would move on to some other subject. Any subject. But that was as likely as Prada selling their clothes at Marshalls.

  “Why not?” her mom asked. She wanted Emma to take a hard test to get into an advanced Western civilization class that was only offered second semester and was taught by her mother’s best friend, Betsy Ling. Studying for this test would be on top of the two or three hours of homework Emma already had every night.

  “I’ve been pretty busy, especially at work.” But Emma knew that her answer was not going to fly. Not with her mom, who acted like school was more important than everything, including breathing.

  Her mother hiked her frayed, faded public-radio-station tote bag higher up on her shoulder. “I love that you’re helping your dad at the warehouse after school, and it’s great that you’re continuing to practice your sewing after Grandma Grace spent all that time showing you how. But I don’t want you to miss out on all the amazing academic opportunities you have, especially by being able to go to this school.”

  Practice? Emma cringed that her mom thought her designing and sewing was some passing hobby. She thought about telling her about Allegra Biscotti but just as quickly changed her mind. Her mother would suck all the fun out of it. Plus this was about the one-billionth time she’d reminded Emma that she wouldn’t even be attending Downtown Day if her mother wasn’t teaching there. Going to a snooty private school for free was one of the few perks of being the daughter of a teacher. It was probably the only perk, Emma figured.

  “Look,” her mom continued, pushing the rectangular, green plastic-framed glasses that she had been wearing since the nineties back up her nose. “It’s a small class, and Betsy
has a really unique approach that I think you’d enjoy. It doesn’t hurt to at least try getting in, does it?”

  As Emma and her mother turned the corner, the sounds of kids in the enclosed school yard to the side of an eight-story, redbrick school building grew louder.

  “It might hurt a little,” Emma said, letting her fingers run along the chain-link fence, memorizing the diamond pattern to use later, possibly on the bodice of a dress. “It’s not like I have tons of free time.”

  She wanted so badly to tell her mother that she didn’t want to take the test or the class. In her head, it sounded like a simple thing to say. But Emma couldn’t get the words out. Probably because she already knew what her mother’s answer would be. School first. Fashion second.

  Her mother frowned. “Don’t you have some free time at work? I doubt Dad has you working every single minute that you’re there.”

  Emma felt her chest tighten. She spent her free time working on her designs. Her mother had never understood Emma’s love of sketching, even though she’d been doing it since she was eight. And now that Emma was fourteen, the chances of her mother getting it seemed even smaller. Emma’s education was the only thing her mom cared about. Clearly, she wasn’t getting out of this. Her mother had won. Again. She would just have to find the time to study for the stupid test. Somehow.

  “I’ll start reviewing the study guide,” Emma said. Just not today, she thought.

  “Good.” Emma could see her mother reviewing her mental to-do list: Nag daughter about schoolwork. Check. Just then, her mother’s cell phone rang.

  “It’s Vice Principal Manning,” her mother said, squinting at the caller ID. “I just have to speak to him for a sec. We can keep walking, though.”