The Allegra Biscotti Collection

by Olivia Bennett

  “Is Marjorie still here? Can I at least ask her?” Emma begged.

  Her dad snorted. “I love Marjorie Kornbluth, but I don’t think the woman has worked late a day in her life. But if you want to ask her, be my guest.”

  Emma raced by her father toward the reception area. Marjorie was reapplying her frosted pink lipstick—a sure sign she was about to leave. And considering how impatient Emma acted earlier, Marjorie probably wasn’t about to trip over herself to do something for Emma.

  “Marjorie! Can you please do me the hugest favor in the world? Could you stay like another hour while I work on something? Noah needs to leave and—”

  “He won’t let her stay here alone,” he finished for his daughter, as he joined them up front. His eyes twinkled in a mischievous way, as they often did. He thought it was funny that Emma was asking Marjorie.

  Marjorie looked back and forth between Emma and Noah as she tucked her mirrored, enamel compact and lipstick tube back in her purse. “I don’t know about that. I have plans, and I—”

  “Please?” Emma interlaced her hands together in front of her chest. “I promise to do all the billing for a week.” After my collection is done, she added in her head.

  Marjorie tilted her wrist to look at her delicate antique watch. “I suppose I could stay a little longer. I’m not meeting my sister for dinner downtown until about eight, and it doesn’t make sense to go all the way uptown just to turn around an hour later. If this is all right with you, Noah. I’ll lock up and put her in a cab when I leave.”

  Noah frowned slightly as he considered the plan. “You have cab money?” he asked Emma. She put out her hand and accepted the ten dollars he dropped into it, having spent every last penny on fabric. “Okay. Be home at seven-thirty, or your mom will kill us both.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” She gave him a quick hug. “And thanks, Marjorie! I owe you one.” Emma returned to her sewing machine, adrenaline pumping and raring to sew.

  But the fairly ancient machine wasn’t in the mood to cooperate with her need for speed-stitching. It fought back by pricking her finger with the needle over and over again. Her grandmother should’ve mentioned that the Singer had a temper! She wrapped her fingers in Band-Aids and pushed on. But the only thing that was moving forward was the time. It was now six-forty, but Emma wasn’t any closer to finishing the pockets.

  “Arrgh!” Emma cried out after another needle prick, this time through the Band-Aid. “Why won’t you behave?”

  “Who’s not behaving?” Marjorie asked, suddenly appearing out of the shadows of the darkened warehouse and into the pool of light flooding Emma’s work space.

  “This…stupid…machine!” Emma blurted. “And these annoying vest pockets!”

  “Hmm,” Marjorie said, taking in the scene, “you certainly seem to have your hands full here, honey. This is no rinky-dink operation. What’s all this for?”

  Emma’s back stiffened as she remembered Marjorie didn’t know—couldn’t know—the truth. If Marjorie knew, then her dad would know, and then her mom would know, and then, well, Emma wasn’t sure how she’d react. And there was no way her dad would keep this kind of info from her mom. He was always saying they were a “team.”

  “It’s, uh, an art project for school, and I really need an A. I didn’t complete some other assignments, and the teacher said that if I didn’t—”

  Marjorie rolled her eyes and waved Emma off with her hand. “Spare me the soap opera. Who do you think has been dodging all those calls from Paige Young? Who didn’t let her back here when she came by the other day demanding to see Allegra Biscotti? I know I wasn’t born yesterday, but seriously, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  Emma gaped at Marjorie. Did she hear that correctly? Paige was looking for Allegra—here? Of course! It suddenly made total sense that Paige would come back to the place where she first saw Allegra’s designs to find her. No wonder Paige was having a total text-message meltdown.

  “Don’t bother denying it,” Marjorie continued. “I’m not mad or anything. While you were in school, I saw what you had going on back here. I put two and two together. I’m smart like that,” she said, tapping her finger to her temple.

  So Marjorie did figure it out!

  After Noah had given Emma her work space, Marjorie had never once asked Emma what she was up to when she brought in shopping bags from Allure. Emma thought Marjorie hadn’t even noticed—or cared.

  “Does…does my dad know?” Emma stammered.

  “Nah.” Marjorie shrugged. “I figured you had your reasons not to tell him. Besides, I make it a rule never to get involved in office politics…or family matters,” she added with an arch of her eyebrow.

  Emma felt her shoulders slide down a couple of inches away from her ears. “Oh, thank you!”

  Marjorie reached for her reading glasses, which hung from her neck on a beaded chain, and placed them on the bridge of her nose. Then she picked up Emma’s design sketch of the vest, as well as the close-up sketches of how the pockets were meant to go, wrinkling her nose as she studied them.

  “Slide over,” Marjorie commanded.

  Still in shock over all the new information she just learned, Emma did as she was told, abandoning the chair in front of the sewing machine. Marjorie leaned over to inspect the two pockets Emma had sewn on.

  “I think I see what’s going on here…” Marjorie said. Then she fiddled with some settings, lowered the presser foot and then the needle, revved up the motor, and let it rip.

  “What are you doing?” Emma cried in horror. “Wait! Stop! You’ll ruin it!”

  Chapter 12

  It’s Technical

  “Don’t worry!” Marjorie shouted over the hum of the sewing machine’s motor and the rapid-fire clack-clack-clack of the needle going up and down and in and out of the fabric. “I’m a professional. In my old life, I used to be a seamstress in the alterations department at Bergdorf Goodman.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Emma stared in amazement as Marjorie whizzed over the seam, expertly going around the edge of the pocket piece at what seemed to Emma like hair-raising speed. “Why haven’t you ever told me?”

  “Because you never asked,” Marjorie replied. “I did have a life before Laceland, you know.”

  When Marjorie finished, she let up on the foot pedal, raised the needle and the presser foot, and pulled the vest out to the left. Then she took Emma’s scissors and snipped the two threads.

  “Let’s see what we have here,” Marjorie said, examining her own seam, as well as Emma’s work on the rest of the piece. “Not bad here, honey. Nice even seams. Pockets can be tricky, so don’t beat yourself up.”

  Emma leaped forward and grabbed the vest from Marjorie’s hands. “This is amazing! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  “Sure thing. If you’d like, I can sew the other one so you can see how I’m doing it…without mutilating my fingers in the process.” She nodded down at Emma’s Band-Aid covered hands. “I can even help you with those jacket sleeves.”

  “How did you know I was having trouble with those?” Emma asked.

  Marjorie pointed with a bony finger at the worktable where the body of the jacket and the still unconnected sleeves sat in a heap.

  “They’re the worst if you’re not used to them. Used to trip me up all the time, too. Besides, from the looks of it, I’d say there isn’t much room on your fingers for more Band-Aids.”

  Emma wanted to hug Marjorie. But Marjorie didn’t strike her as the embracing type. Instead Emma handed her the pieces of the fourth vest pocket.

  “I think I’m going to be a vampire,” Kayla announced the next day by Holly’s locker. “My mom said she could have one of the makeup artists from her company do my face for the party—you know, white skin, charcoal around the eyes, long fake lashes, and blood-red lips. How cool would that be?”

  “What are you going to wear?” Lexie asked.

  “Who cares?” Kayla replied. “My makeup will be killer— literally!” she g
iggled. “Ivana, did you decide on your costume yet?”

  “A Hollywood starlet,” Ivana said smugly. “Very retro, you know…early sixties Marilyn Monroe glamour. I’m borrowing my mother’s low-cut black gown, and I bought some superlong white leather gloves. I’ve already booked a blowout.”

  Emma tried not to eavesdrop, but that was technically impossible with her locker next to Holly’s and the ’Bees overflowing into what little space she had. She was shocked to realize that Halloween was this Saturday. She’d been so focused on her deadline. And she was kind of surprised that she hadn’t heard about Kayla’s Halloween party.

  True, she had been ditching lunch in the cafeteria to spend it in the library in a desperate attempt to keep up with her homework, but she realized she must have totally tuned out life at Downtown Day to miss something so obviously huge on the school’s social barometer.

  “What about you, Holls?” Ivana asked.

  “I don’t know yet. Maybe an angel or a devil or something like that. I was going to go shopping after school at the costume store near my apartment, if anyone wants to come.”

  Lexie and Shannon said they’d join since they were still undecided. The bell rang, sending Ivana and her entourage sauntering to class. Holly hung back.

  “You’re coming to the party, right?”

  “Maybe.” Emma gathered her things, closed her locker, and headed down the almost empty hall. Holly was two steps behind her.

  “Emma, you should totally come to the party,” Holly urged. “I bet with all the cool things in your closet you could put together an outrageous costume.”

  “I didn’t think I was invited. Besides, it doesn’t seem like Ivana and the ’Bees want me there.”

  “Of course, you’re invited! Everyone’s invited!” Holly protested.

  Emma stopped and turned to face Holly. “Really? I know I’ve been busy and all, but I don’t remember getting an invitation— or even hearing anything about it before a few minutes ago.”

  The encouraging smile faded from Holly’s face. “Well, um, technically? You weren’t invited like separately or anything because everyone assumed you’d be coming. None of us got invitations either. Plus I can bring whoever I want because I’m practically co-hosting the party. And according to me, you’re invited. Technically.”

  Emma was confused. But she had a feeling that was exactly the reaction Holly was going for as a way to cover up the technical lack of invitation. “Well then, thanks, I guess.”

  The smile instantly returned to Holly’s face. “So does that mean you’ll come? You wouldn’t want to miss another chance to hang out with Jackson now that you guys have actually spoken, would you?”

  At the sound of his name, Emma remembered the feel of his shirt against her cheek during the assembly the week before. Holly didn’t even know that Jackson had walked by Emma’s locker the other day and actually said hi to her—in front of a couple of his soccer buddies.

  “I’ll try,” Emma hedged, knowing that she would need a miracle—beyond the already huge one of discovering Marjorie could sew and was teaching her how to deal with the more complicated seams—to give her enough extra time to figure out a costume and be able to spend a whole night at a party, away from her sewing.

  Holly’s eyebrows knitted together. “That’s it? You’ll ‘try’? I just don’t get it, Em. You know, I’ve really put myself out there with Ivana, telling her how cool and awesome you are, but you do nothing to show her any of that. You don’t even try. You act like you’re all superior or something. It puts people off, Emma.”

  Emma stiffened. Was she really acting that way? Or was Holly bending the truth? I’m acting like I’m superior to Ivana? Oh, please. How was that even possible? Who’s the one with the fan page for herself? Emma was dying to ask. Not me!

  “Look,” Emma started, trying not to let her voice shake, “if you want to hang out with Ivana and all of them, just go ahead and do it. I didn’t mean to get in your way.”

  “But I want to hang out with you, too,” Holly said. “Don’t you want to spend time with me?” She shifted on her feet. Her expression hardened ever so slightly but just enough for Emma to notice. “Look, if our friendship means something, you’ll come to the party. Besides, Em, it’s going to be fun. Remember fun?”

  Feeling guilty, although for what she wasn’t exactly sure, Emma relented. “Okay, okay. I’ll go. For you.”

  “Good,” Holly said, her face softening again.

  “Happy now?”

  “Yes. I am.” And for the first time in weeks, Emma could see the old Holly—the real Holly—in her eyes.

  For the rest of the day, Emma found it impossible to concentrate in her classes. Her body was so tired from staying up late, hand-sewing the detailed trimmings, that she felt almost weightless. Her foot tap-tap-tapped under the desk, anxious to press the pedal on the sewing machine and get back to work.

  Emma opened to a fresh page in her sketchbook, as the rest of her world history classmates chatted before Ms. Lyons arrived, and made a list of the things she still needed to do before Monday. Delivery Day.

  Construct dress and sew in zipper

  Sew jacket lining (collar, cuffs, box pleat)

  Attach vest lining with interior slit pockets

  Sew dress lining (slit, belt)Add buttons to vest and jacket

  “Wearing costumes isn’t my thing,” Clayton Vanderbeck said, and Emma tuned back in. “Maybe I’ll go to Kayla’s party dressed as me.”

  “That would be a scary disguise,” teased Meghan Mahon, who definitely had a thing for Clayton. She giggled. “Or you could be a soccer player.”

  “Yeah, that would totally work since you’re already pretending to be one on the field!” one of the other guys said. Everyone laughed, and the guy began ribbing Clayton about how he messed up a game the day before. Emma tuned back out. She sketched the vest button placement on the corner of the homework sheet she’d actually managed to complete the previous night.

  “Hey, you going?”

  Jackson Creedon. He was looking right at Emma with those eyes. Those amazing blue eyes. And talking to her.

  “Oh, yeah, totally,” she said.

  “Cool.”

  “Are you?” she ventured, not wanting their second conversation to end—ever.

  “Yeah.”

  “Class!” Ms. Lyons called out as she entered the room. “Let’s get started.”

  Emma felt as if she were really filled with helium, hovering high above the classroom. Not only did Jackson specifically ask if she was going to Kayla’s party, but also, and maybe more importantly, he thought it was “cool” that she was!

  She couldn’t wait to tell him about how she’d read—well, looked at—Night below the Surface. We’ll have so much more to talk about than the last time, Emma thought happily. She pictured them standing on the terrace at Kayla’s apartment, maybe a moon rising over the city as the party went on inside. She’d be wearing that adorable fringed flapper dress she’d picked up at the vintage store last year—and that had been living in the back of her closet—and maybe fishnet stockings and her high-heeled, velvet peep-toe pumps.

  First they’d talk about Night below the Surface, and then he’d ask a zillion great questions about her collection. He’d listen to her answers really hard, maybe biting his lip as he told her how much more interesting she was than any other girl in school. He would have such a hard time ending their fascinating conversation that he would offer to take her home…

  She looked down at her list. In between “Sew jacket lining” and “Attach vest lining,” she added, “Accessorize flapper costume for Kayla’s party.”

  Emma clicked her phone shut. Charlie had called—again. Checking on her progress. She knew he felt frustrated. He wanted to do something, but really what was there for him to do? Only she could design and make the clothes.

  She had just finished another successful afternoon sewing marathon at Laceland, thanks to Marjorie. Everything was slowly co
ming together. A full day of sewing tomorrow, Saturday, and she’d be close to done. Marjorie had agreed to meet her there to unlock the door, keep her company, and as they both knew, jump in and save Emma when she hit a snag.

  While Emma waited for the elevator in the lobby of her apartment building, she thought about the pieces tucked in her bag that needed hand-sewing and that she would work on later tonight. She hoped she’d brought the right color thread. Her dad had taken the subway home with her but detoured at the corner to pick up the dry cleaning. As she fumbled around in her bag for her keys, which she could never find, her phone rang. No doubt it was Charlie. Again.

  Resting the phone on her shoulder, she continued hunting. “Charlie, get a life!”

  “Um…excuse me? Emily?” a perky female voice asked. Definitely not Charlie.

  “Not Emily. Emma,” Emma said, stepping onto the elevator, hand still searching through the random buttons, pencils, and papers scattered in her bag.

  “Oh. Sorry. I wanted Emily.”

  Emma finally felt her fingers graze the charm on her key ring. It was a thimble from an old Monopoly game. As a kid, she always picked the thimble. “I think you have the wrong number.”

  Emma stuffed her cell back into her bag, unlocked both locks on her front door, and walked into her apartment. She was hoping that her mom was out somewhere with William. Maybe today was his day with his tutor or when his computer-graphics club met. She could use a few minutes to decompress.

  No such luck. Her mother walked out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her mouth was set in a hard grimace. Never a good sign.