“Hey, Mom.” Emma hung her brown trench over a pile of off-season coats layered on the coatrack. “I’m starving. What’s for dinner?”
Her mother’s frown deepened. “We need to talk. I need to know what’s been going on with you.”
“What do you mean?” Emma’s stomach tightened.
“Come on, Em. I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.” Her mother paused, waiting for her daughter to fill in the blank.
Was the blank Allegra Biscotti? Emma fumbled for a response. Was she walking into a trap?
Her mother crossed her arms and continued. “Your grades, Emma? I checked them online today. You got a D on your geometry quiz. And a C-minus on your biology test. And there was a note about you turning in your essay on War of the Worlds three days late.”
“I had a hard time keeping the SSS postulate and the ASA postulate straight,” Emma explained. That wasn’t even a lie. She really was confused by the whole proving congruent triangles thing—mostly because she hadn’t been doing the homework. But she kept that part to herself.
Emma’s father pushed open the front door and stopped. The mother-daughter tension hit him like a force field. He looked back and forth between them. “What’d I miss?”
As her mother filled him in, his smile faded. “Emma. This isn’t good.”
She shifted from foot to foot, staring at the worn wooden floor. Her parents had her cornered in the hallway. There was nowhere to go. “Geometry and biology have gotten really hard, and I—”
Her mother cut her off. “Please. I don’t think this has anything to do with the material being over your head, especially this early in the year. It’s obvious you’re not studying. It’s always been a simple equation. When you study, you do well.”
Her mother sighed, as if pained. “From what your dad tells me, it isn’t because he’s been working you too hard at the warehouse, even though you’ve been spending every free second there lately.”
“I’ve been…I’m working on some designs in my studio that I’m really into and…” Emma searched for a possible excuse.
William wandered in, his eyes glued to his portable video-game player. No doubt he’d heard the sounds of a serious conversation and came to investigate. And to make sure they weren’t talking about him.
“I thought you were studying back there, at least part of the time,” her father said. “That’s why I tried not to give you too much other work to do.”
“I am, I was…I mean, I’m also…” Emma stopped. Maybe it was time to tell the truth. It wasn’t so bad, really. It was actually quite good. I’m designing clothes for a fashion magazine, she thought. It’s not like I’m some messed-up kid.
“You’re also what?” her mother asked with a mix of frustration and annoyance. Not a good combination. “What are you doing that you think is so much more important than your schoolwork? This I’d love to hear.”
“She’s been sewing!” William announced triumphantly.
“Sewing? Emma, are you kidding me? You know school comes first.”
“I do. I’m studying—”
“Oh, yeah, right. I bet you’ve been staying up super-late every night because you’ve been studying so much,” William piped in.
“Get out, William!” Emma snapped. “It’s none of your business.”
“Don’t yell at your brother,” her mother warned, all her negative energy fixed on Emma.
“Me? He’s the one who butted in—” Emma couldn’t believe how unfair her mother was being.
Her father shushed William and shook his head, shooting him that meaningful parent stare that said, Stay out of this one.
“Okay, let’s just calm down here for a minute,” he said in an even voice. Her dad was always the calm one. “It’s obvious to me that something’s got to give. You need to boost your grades. Okay, that shouldn’t be a big issue for you. But until you do that, no more hanging out at Laceland—”
“No way!” Emma shot back, outrage shaping her words. “You can’t do that!” Not now. He couldn’t be saying that now.
“You’re treading on thin ice with that attitude,” her mother warned, her voice steely.
“I don’t have an attitude,” Emma retorted. Her body trembled, the blood rushing to her head. Why couldn’t her mother just back down and listen? She hadn’t even gotten to tell them yet. “You just don’t understand. I need to work on these clothes I’m making—”
“Enough. It’s enough, Emma. No sewing until the grades improve. End of story.” Her mother turned back toward the kitchen.
Emma forced herself to take a deep breath and start over before she really blew it. “I’ll fix it. I promise I’ll bring my grades up.”
“And the Western civ exam?” her mother asked.
“That, too. I have a full week before the test, right? I’ll be ready.”
“Good, you’ll start tomorrow. All day at home studying. I can even help you.”
“But…but I have plans tomorrow.” Emma wished she didn’t sound as if she were whining. But she was. She had to spend Saturday at Laceland.
“Cancel them.” Her mother wasn’t going to budge—that was obvious.
“Dad?” Emma gulped, looking helplessly at him.
“Sorry, Em. You’re home studying—all day. Your mom and I, we’re a team, you know.”
“So I’ve heard,” Emma grumbled. She stomped to her bedroom, but not before shooting William an icy stare.
I am not giving up, she promised herself, as she lay on her bed. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes, but she pushed them away with the back of her hand and squeezed her lids tightly shut.
Coco would not cry, she knew.
Neither would Allegra Biscotti.
Coco would push on, defying despair and disbelievers in order to create that famous little black dress.
Allegra Biscotti, too, would do whatever it took to finish the pieces.
And so will I, she decided.
Chapter 13
Living In The Now
On Saturday morning, Emma awoke, still determined but without a plan.
She had called Charlie right after the big fight, and he was thinking of a way out. Literally. But so far he had nothing good. His newest plan had him meeting Marjorie at Laceland and smuggling her heavy sewing machine and the partially finished clothes to the apartment. It wasn’t the most devious or ingenious idea, but all Emma knew was, no matter what, she had to get to her sewing machine.
She walked into the kitchen, deciding to ignore what happened last night. Today, she’d be the sweet, studious daughter. It was easier that way.
“Morning, Mom.” Emma broke off a piece of one of the blueberry muffins on the table. Her mom was actually a good baker. Emma wondered if baking wasn’t a schoolteacher thing for her mom, too, with following a recipe maybe just like reading another novel. Except with baking, Emma decided, the story ended much better—with cookies or muffins.
Her mother took a sip of her giant mug of coffee, the weekend section of the newspaper unfolded in front of her. “You’re up early for a Saturday. Going to hit the books?”
Emma knew that wasn’t a question. “Yeah,” she responded, filling a glass with orange juice. “Where’s Dad?”
“He had to take William to his tutoring session across town. Then I’m going to meet up with them to do some errands. You’ll have the whole apartment to yourself for studying. No interruptions. Or distractions.” She eyed Emma over the top of her glasses.
“Okay, great.” Emma grabbed the rest of the muffin. She began to calculate the possibilities. If her parents were going to be out all day, she could go to Laceland. They wouldn’t even have to know she was gone. Emma hesitated. On the sneaky scale, this was pretty high. But she also couldn’t risk losing a whole day of sewing—especially when she was so close to finishing.
Back in her room, she called Charlie. He liked the plan, of course. She felt guilty. Of course.
“If I get caught, I can’t even imagine the enormous tro
uble I’ll be in,” she told Charlie.
“Em, you’ve done too much. You’re too far in. There’s no choice, really. You have to finish. So you have to sneak out.”
Charlie always made everything sound so connect-the-dots easy.
“There’ll be consequences,” she warned.
“Look, you worry too much about what’s going to happen. You need to live in now.”
“True,” Emma reasoned. “And my collection will be done on Monday. Then everything will go back to normal.”
“And your parents will never know,” Charlie concluded.
“Charlie.” Emma paused, trying desperately not to get swept up in the wave of self-doubt that was trying so hard to flood her brain this week. “What if Paige hates my new stuff? What then?”
“Then no more Allegra Biscotti. You make honor roll and take that Western civ class. And you still live happily ever after.”
“I’d be happier if she liked them.”
“Then get out of that apartment.”
Two hours later, she met Marjorie and Charlie at Laceland.
“What’s in the mystery case?” Emma asked. Marjorie stood in the middle of Emma’s studio in what must be her weekend outfit—black knit pants and a black ribbed turtleneck—with a large black rectangular case by her side.
“My sewing machine.”
Emma’s eyes widened. Of all the people in her life to become her fashion angel, Emma never would have picked Marjorie. “Oh, wow, Marjorie. That’s the most amazing thing. You didn’t have to, you know.”
“I know, believe me. But I’m here anyway, so I might as well really help. I didn’t travel fifty blocks downtown just to open a door. Let’s get to work.”
Side by side, they sewed silently back in Emma’s studio. Emma constructed each piece, meticulously double-checking each nearly invisible intersecting seam. After every seam or dart was added, she carefully tried the garment on the dress form, making minute alterations for a perfect fit.
She wished she had a fit model—a living, moving person—instead of a fabric dress-form replica, but her own body was far from the willowy model type. And Marjorie’s was even farther. There were no other options, so she’d just have to cross her fingers that the garments would drape and move properly when worn by a real person.
Marjorie worked the iron, carefully pressing each section of fabric so it wouldn’t wrinkle or pucker. She also handled the finishing work—adjusting hemlines, removing the basting seams, and then adding the permanent ones.
Charlie was in charge of tunes and food. He was on a run now to a nearby deli for sandwiches, drinks, and real coffee for Marjorie.
“What’s next?” Marjorie asked Emma.
“I’ve finished most of the dress, but I’m having some trouble getting the slit right without pulling this fabric. It’s so delicate…but I had to have it.”
“Here, hand it over.” Marjorie reached for the pinned pieces of fabric. She spent a few minutes reviewing Emma’s detailed sketches and patterns before gently placing the pieces in her own sewing machine.
Emma glanced around her studio. There was still a lot left to do—attaching closures, adding cuffs, making the belt, and of course, sewing in the finished linings on all three pieces—and she felt odd, just watching Marjorie perfect the slit for her.
“This isn’t cheating, is it? By having you help me sew?” Emma asked.
Marjorie took her foot off the pedal, and the whirring motor slowing stopped. “Of course not, honey. I’m just the worker bee here. You don’t think Ralph Lauren does all his own sewing, do you?”
Suddenly, they heard the creaking of floorboards.
Marjorie raised her eyebrows at Emma. Emma shrugged, unsure of the noise.
Then they heard the footsteps. The unmistakable rhythm of footsteps approaching the back of the warehouse. Approaching them.
Emma’s eyes grew wide. “It doesn’t sound like Charlie,” she whispered. That was, not unless he brought the deli staff back with him. There was definitely more than one person.
The footsteps moved forward, the sound of shoes hitting the floorboards echoing off the high ceilings.
Marjorie grabbed the fabric shears, gripping them tightly in her delicate hands.
Emma peered toward the darkened hall, but she couldn’t see anything in the dim light. Her breath caught in her throat. She reached into her bag, quickly wrapping her fingers around her cell phone.
Flipping it open, she began to dial. 9…the keypad tone rang out loudly in the eerie silence, causing her to cringe. 1… the footsteps stopped.
“Who’s there?” a deep voice called.
Emma stopped dialing. She knew that voice.
In the light of the opening to Emma’s work space, her father appeared. Her mother and William stood behind him.
“Emma!” her father cried, alarmed. Then his eyes darted to Marjorie, gripping the scissors like a dagger. “Marjorie?”
“What…what’re you guys doing here?” Emma blurted out, a jumble of relief and panic.
“What are you doing here?” her mother demanded, the furrow lines in her forehead deepening with every word. “You’re supposed to be at home studying.”
“I didn’t think you’d be here,” Emma said lamely. She was too overwhelmed to create even more lies.
“That’s obvious,” her dad said in a measured tone. Emma could see he was just as angry as her mom. It didn’t happen often but when it did…it wasn’t good. “I had something to do here. In my office. But I think right now you’re the one with explaining to do.”
Marjorie stood up to leave. “I think I’ll just go, uh, do something else.”
Emma saw a look pass between Marjorie and Noah as she slid by the Roses on her way out of the work space. She had no idea what that look meant, but she was too nervous to worry about that right now.
“What’s going on here?” her dad demanded. “This isn’t like you, sneaking around behind our backs like this.”
Her dad, her mom, and even William stared at her, waiting. For once, William wasn’t smirking. He actually looked kind of scared.
There was no way she couldn’t tell them now. She knew that. She took a deep breath and began to explain—everything.
“Dad, do you remember Paige Young?” she began.
As Emma continued, Noah and Joan exchanged many concerned glances, but to Emma’s surprise, sometimes they smiled ever so slightly when she described the high points— Paige putting Allegra in her blog, Madison picking up the post, the interview on the Madison website, and then, of course, the request for Allegra’s pieces to be photographed for the actual pages of the most influential magazine in the fashion industry.
When she finished, Emma felt like she had just run a hundred miles. Or spent the last two weeks working night and day on three brand-new garments while attending high school.
Her dad leaned forward and pressed his palms flat against her worktable. “Why didn’t you tell us? That’s what I don’t understand.”
Emma looked up at the ceiling. She hated that the twinkle was gone from her father’s eyes. What was worse was that Emma knew that she was responsible for that.
“The whole thing just seemed to happen so fast,” she explained. “I’d do one thing and think that was it. But then Paige would ask for something else, and then something else…and the lie kept getting bigger and bigger somehow. I didn’t know how to stop without ruining everything.”
Her mother cleared her throat. That wasn’t a good sign, Emma knew, so she braced herself.
“You know that I don’t deal with lying, whatsoever, under any circumstance,” her mother began, “especially lying to your parents.”
“I agree. The lying thing is a really big deal,” her dad said, looking directly into Emma’s eyes. “I can maybe see how this spun out of control, but lying is not cool with us—at all. We need to be able to trust you.”
“I get it,” Emma said. And the funny thing was that she really did. “I’m
so sorry. I really am. You can trust me.”
“I hope so.” Her mother paused, debating what to say next.
Emma couldn’t chance it. She knew a punishment was heading her way—that was Prada-black-dress obvious. She had to step up, to show them that Allegra Biscotti was more than some random name she’d made up. That Allegra was a designer with talent. That Allegra was her. “Can I show you what I’m making?”
“I would hope so,” her mom said. “Especially after all the effort you’ve made not to show us.”
“Can I see, too?” William asked.
Emma had almost forgotten Will was there. He had been so quiet the whole time. “Definitely. Come over here.”
Emma explained the inspiration, pointing to the pages from Night below the Surface and then the sketches she created for her own designs. She held up the lining fabrics, so her mother could see how they would eventually work with the dress, the jacket, and the vest. She showed them the garments in progress displayed on the three dress forms.
“Emma! They’re stunning,” Her mother gave her arm an enthusiastic squeeze. “They’re like pieces of art! I honestly can’t get over what you’ve accomplished in such a short time. I’m amazed! Truly.”
Emma suddenly felt uncomfortable, unsure how to react to her mother’s warm praise. She wasn’t used to getting it on anything other than her grades. And even then, it wasn’t especially the gushing kind because Emma was just doing what her mother already expected of her.
“I had some help,” she said.
Her mother shook her head strongly. “Don’t give away the credit. Emma, these were your visions. And not only did you dream up these amazing things, you brought them to life. You are the source. Creative vision is a rare and wonderful thing.”
Emma was relieved that her mother was finally seeing what she had been trying to explain to her for so long.
“Now I’m a little stuck with what we should do about this whole situation.” Her mom and dad exchanged looks, as if speaking a secret silent language. Then they walked outside the filing-cabinet walls and into the hallway for a private discussion. Emma couldn’t guess what the verdict would be.
The Allegra Biscotti Collection Page 13
