Runway Rundown

by Margaret Gurevich

  Measure twice, cut once or you won't make the cut.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dear Diary

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  About the Author

  About the Illustrator

  Copyright

  Back Cover

  Dear Diary,

  I can’t believe I’m already done with the first month of my Stefan Meyers internship! I only have a month left until it’s time to head back to my real life in California — more importantly, though, there’s only three weeks to go until Fashion Week!

  Everything is business as usual with my roommates: Avery and Bailey are sweet and fun, and Madison is still acting like she has it out for me, just like she has since day one. No matter what I do, she acts like I don’t belong here because I won my internship on Teen Design Diva.

  But back to the important stuff — Fashion Week. It has all my roommates on edge. Bailey keeps telling me, “Until everything comes together, it’ll be total chaos — like a tornado, monsoon, and hailstorm combined.” I’m trying to stay calm, but Bailey has interned before and knows the business better than I do, so her doomsday thinking is freaking me out just a little.

  I already have enough to worry about without the added stress. I’ve been rotating departments every two weeks at work. So far, I’ve been in knits with Laura and

  dresses with Taylor. Tomorrow I start in public relations with Michael — for part of the week, anyway. Laura needs me too, so I’ll work with her on Thursday and Friday and spend the other three days with Michael. Supposedly PR is super glam and can include working with the Vogue crew and dealing with the media. It’s thrilling, but it’s also a lot of pressure. I just hope I don’t mess something up.

  I mentioned all this to Alex when I talked to her on the phone, and she told me to go with the flow. And when I talked to Jake, he said the same thing. Easy for them to say! But both of them have been my cheerleaders since this whole thing started, so maybe they’re right. Maybe I need to relax and go with the flow… but for now, I’d better get some sleep. Big day tomorrow!

  Xoxo — Chloe

  On Monday morning, I stand in front of the mirror and give myself the once-over. Since Stefan said PR is all about glitz and glam, I’m using today as an opportunity to wear one of the outfits I created during the Teen Design Diva competition — my final winning design. I slip into the monochromatic tailored shift dress, complete with metallic accents, and do a spin in front of the mirror.

  Once I get to the Stefan Meyers headquarters, though, my nerves get the best of me. Every time I start to feel comfortable in a department, it’s time to embark on a new challenge. I wish Laura, Taylor, or even Stefan were here to make today’s transition easier.

  I take a deep breath and open the door to the lobby. You got this, Chloe, I tell myself.

  “Good morning, Miss Montgomery,” says Ken, the security guard.

  “Good morning,” I say, showing my ID card.

  Ken’s familiar face usually puts me at ease, but today my stomach is participating in a full-on gymnastics competition. I pull out my phone and check the e-mail Stefan sent me with instructions, then head to the elevator and press the button for the twelfth floor.

  When the elevator stops at my floor and the doors slide open, I’m shocked at what I see. Laura’s and Taylor’s departments had inspiration boards, mannequins, and fabric in every corner, but they were relatively quiet. People were either cutting material, sketching, or measuring garments. This floor is more organized, but it’s loud. Everyone is either on the phone or typing something on the computer or shouting to someone else.

  I glance at the e-mail, but it doesn’t say where I can find Michael. “Excuse me,” I say to a woman in one of the cubicles, “is Michael here?”

  “One sec,” she says. At almost the same moment, someone with a British accent says, “I’m right here.”

  I spin around. The man facing me has black hair that’s tied back neatly in a ponytail. His warm amber eyes twinkle when he smiles. “I’m Michael Travers,” he says, extending his hand.

  “Chloe Montgomery,” I reply, shaking his hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Chloe,” Michael says. “I’ve heard good things about you so far. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  “Me too,” I say. His accent sounds so proper, I feel like I should be watching my grammar or something.

  “Splendid.” Michael claps his hands. “What do you know about PR?”

  I feel dumb already. All I know is that Stefan said something about glamour and celebs. “Um… not much,” I admit.

  Michael grins as though that’s the greatest news he’s ever heard. “That’s wonderful! Truly wonderful!” he says. “The worst is an overly confident college kid who thinks he knows more than I do. You, my dear, are a blank slate.”

  “Um, thanks?” I’m glad he finds my ignorance useful.

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” Michael says. “I’m here to teach you.” He leads me into his office and motions for me to sit in one of the empty chairs. “Sorry for the mess.”

  Michael’s definition of mess is very different from mine. All the papers on his desk are neatly organized into piles, his trash is nowhere near overflowing, and his coffee cup is resting on a coaster. There are dressers lining the office from door to window, each one chock full of Stefan’s dresses, pantsuits, and denim items. I’d take a mess like this any day. If Laura had an office that looked like this, she’d be thrilled.

  “It’s amazing,” I say.

  “I suppose, but all this stuff is driving me batty.” He sighs. “Thank goodness you’ll be helping me with some of it today.”

  I’m confused. “Did you want me to organize all this for you?”

  Michael looks surprised. “Goodness, no! This is as organized as it’s going to get. You’ll be assisting with clothing transport. It’s not a very teachable moment, I’m afraid, but it’s a necessity.”

  “Transport to where?” I ask.

  “We’ve secured a placement in Vogue for some of Stefan’s new pieces,” Michael explains, “but I just received an e-mail saying they need the designs today instead of next week.”

  “Oh, wow,” I say.

  “I know — tight deadline,” Michael agrees. “We’ll start by going through these racks. I’ll pick out five pieces that will show well, and then I’ll be sending you to Laura and Taylor to pick up additional garments. Normally, we package and send things over. But because of the tight deadline and our proximity to Vogue, we’ll get them ready, and you’ll carry them yourself. Clear?”

  I nod. The thought of my arms loaded with heavy clothes as I walk the streets of New York City is slightly overwhelming. I become extra conscious of today’s outfit. It’s perfect for dinner at an upscale club. Trudging through the heat, saddled like a mule? Not so much.

  Just then Michael notices my heels. “Tell me you have other shoes,” he says, sounding concerned.

  I shake my head. “Not with me.”

  “Then let’s hope those are more comfortable than they look.”

  An hour later, my arms are loaded with two pairs of patterned jeans, a denim blouse with a velvet collar, and two dresses with embroidered pockets — pockets I designed! Michael had everything packaged in garment bags for easier transport, but they still weigh a ton.

  My next stop is Laura’s office. When I arrive, she has several garment bag
s all ready to go.

  “Nothing like tight deadlines,” Laura says. She unzips each bag to show me the pieces I’ll be carrying, including an art deco-patterned sweater dress and a pantsuit. “It was really difficult to choose which designs to showcase since Stefan wanted to incorporate so many into Fashion Week. But we managed to part with a few he won’t be showing.”

  I study the garments again. I don’t see anything I’ve worked on, which is disappointing. But maybe that means some of the items I helped with are being saved for Fashion Week. I can only hope.

  “Do you think I’ll get to work with the stylists at Vogue? Will Anna Wintour be around?” I blurt out.

  Laura’s sympathetic face makes me feel silly. “Stefan talked up PR too much,” she says. “There will be some cool stuff too, don’t worry. But fashion isn’t all glamorous. Remember when you sorted the closet on your first day here? It got better, right?”

  I laugh. “Right. See you Thursday!”

  “Counting down the days!” Laura calls as I leave her office.

  Taylor is my last stop. As usual, her hair is pulled back in a bun, and she looks cool, calm, and collected. Her desk is covered with pieces of gold jewelry cascading down like a waterfall. I wonder if that’s part of her Fashion Week collaboration with Liesel McKay, my former Design Diva mentor and Jake’s mom.

  “I have everything ready for you,” Taylor says, not getting up from behind her desk.

  I spot a bag with five hangers sticking out the top sitting on a nearby chair and shift the garments Michael and Laura gave me to my other arm. The weight is bearing down on me, and my toes are starting to look like sausages.

  Very attractive, Chloe, I think.

  I open the bags to take a peek, and my breath catches when I see the beautiful silk dresses I worked on. The last time I saw them, they were only prototypes; now they’re full-fledged garments. The sparkly beading on the bodice of one of the pieces glistens in the light.

  “Thanks,” I say, grabbing the bag and heading for the door.

  Taylor looks up from her work, then glances down at my feet. “You have no other shoes with you?”

  I groan. I hope my cute gold heels don’t become a death sentence for my feet. “Unfortunately not,” I say.

  Taylor raises an eyebrow. “Bring flip-flops from now on.” With that piece of advice, she hunches back over her jewelry.

  * * *

  The sun beats down on me as I make the trek to Vogue. I shift the garment bags from one arm to the other and try to ignore the blisters on my toes and the sweat seeping down my dress. My phone buzzes, but I’m too loaded down to reach it.

  I finally walk through the revolving doors and am hit with a blast of cool air. The security guard checks me in and doesn’t even blink at my disheveled appearance. As I step into the elevator and ride it up to the eighth floor, a part of me still hopes to run into someone important. I imagine getting a tour of the office, seeing famous models up close, watching a photo shoot.

  But my hopes are dashed as soon as the doors open and I see a girl not much older than me waiting. She smiles sympathetically. “I hope you didn’t have a long walk. Life of an intern, huh?”

  “How did you —” I start to ask, but the answer is pretty obvious. Who else would be lugging stuff across city streets?

  The girl puts her arms out, and I hand over the bags, glad to be rid of them. “They’re heavy!” she exclaims. Just then her phone rings, prompting an eye-roll. “My boss has texted me three times already. I don’t know what she thinks I’m doing!”

  Without another word, the girl waves goodbye and rushes off. So much for a Vogue tour.

  The walk back to Stefan Meyers is much easier without the bags, but my toes are bleeding from my high heels, so I buy a pair of cheap flip-flops from a vendor and put them on.

  My phone buzzes again, and I pull it out. I have two texts, both from Jake. The first is a photo of a soft pretzel, my favorite snack. The other says, “Can you tear yourself away from your glamorous life to have lunch with a commoner?”

  I can’t help but smile as I read his words. If only he could see me now. My flip-flops and throbbing shoulders are hardly the epitome of glam. I miss Jake, but the thought of putting on real shoes and walking anywhere makes my feet hurt even more.

  “Dinner?” I text back.

  “Class :-(” he replies.

  I sigh and type “Rain check” as I rush back to the office to rest my feet.

  The next morning, my feet feel slightly more normal, and my bag is prepped with flip-flops. When I arrive at work, there’s a cup of coffee already waiting at my desk.

  “Is this yours?” I ask Michael, lifting the cup.

  He chuckles. “No, my dear. That’s for you. A thank-you for your hard work.”

  “This must be the glam part Stefan promised,” I say.

  Michael laughs. “You’re funny.”

  I smile as I take a grateful sip. If today is anything like yesterday, I’ll definitely need the caffeine.

  “Today,” says Michael, pulling a swivel chair up beside my desk, “you’re going to learn about the press release and e-mail blast. Both are intended to get the word out about our brand. We want Stefan Meyers’s styles to be seen everywhere — news media, magazines, newspapers, fashion networks.”

  I find myself leaning forward in my chair, caught up in his enthusiasm.

  “The e-mail blast focuses on snappy facts and catchy headlines that will quickly grab readers’ attention,” he continues. “Journalists get hundreds of blasts a day, so ours needs to stand out. Even though the blast is more common, we do old-fashioned press releases too.”

  “Why?” I ask. I like the idea of short and snappy. It doesn’t seem to make sense to bore people with something longer.

  Michael beams as if my question is brilliant. “I love that you’re thinking!” he says. “The longer press releases are perfect for new product launches. Say Stefan wanted to expand his brand into something he’s never done before, like baby clothes.”

  I laugh. “I cannot imagine Stefan Meyers doing baby clothes.”

  “Exactly,” says Michael. “Something so different would require more info. If an editor just saw ‘Stefan Meyers Dresses Babies’ as a headline, he’d think it was a joke. We also supply press releases to media outlets that prefer additional information when writing their stories. Some like the extra facts to bulk up their articles.”

  Michael goes into his office and comes back with a coffee for himself. “We’ll start with the press release and then pull facts from that for the e-mail blast. What do you know about writing?”

  “Like essays?” I say. I hate essays.

  Michael laughs. “Hardly. Even with the longer press release, our goal is to create something that can wow in under a page.”

  I frown. Writing and I don’t exactly mix.

  “Don’t worry,” says Michael, reading my face. “We’ll work on them together. First thing you have to do is forget what they taught you in school about writing.”

  I like this task! “Done!” I say with a laugh.

  Michael grins. “Well, maybe not everything. You definitely want whatever we send to be free of grammatical errors. But don’t worry about fancy vocabulary or a lot of description. The details have to grab the reader’s attention quickly. Snappy titles are key too.”

  He shows me a template that says to focus on the five w’s — who, what, when, where, why — and the h — how. Our English teacher actually said the same thing, but I keep that to myself. “We’ll focus this first piece on Stefan’s spring line,” he says.

  “The who is easy,” I say. “Stefan Meyers.”

  Michael writes that down. “Good.”

  “The what can be so many things, though,” I say. “Denims, spring line?”

  Michael taps his pencil on his chin th
oughtfully. “Those are all good, but we want to wow. So what’s the special line Stefan is working on?”

  “Art deco!” I exclaim a little too loudly.

  “Exactly,” says Michael, writing that in the what column.

  When and where are easy, and Michael fills in Fashion Week and Lincoln Center, respectively. “What about the why?” he asks.

  I brainstorm out loud. “To bring back old-world glitz, the excitement of the Roaring Twenties, and to modernize old-style glamour?”

  Michael writes down all my suggestions. “I like the last one a lot,” he says. “We’ll work on expanding that. That just leaves us with the how.”

  I check the notes on my laptop about the w’s and something clicks. “Does that mean the specifics of the fashion show? Explaining the looks and theme?”

  Michael nods. “You got it.”

  I’m feeling more relaxed than when we started. Having this broken down with Michael makes it seem way less daunting.

  “So what we have here is a great start, but it’s just the bare bones,” he says. “For the release, all these things have to be expanded. I’ve heard from Laura, Taylor, and Stefan that you have a great eye for fashion and really understand the new art deco line.”

  I blush. “Thanks.”

  “I want you to use that knowledge to expand on the what. Describe the fabric and cut of the pieces. Elaborate on the design. If you were trying to sell Taylor’s dresses to someone, what would you focus on?”

  This is more my speed. I take out my sketchpad and flip through the designs I did for Laura and Taylor.

  “I’ll let you get started on this on your own and come check up on you in an hour. Deal?” says Michael, handing me the notes he wrote. Now I can reference his and mine.

  “Deal,” I agree, eager to get into my design comfort zone.

  Michael heads out, and I flip through my sketches, looking at my fabric descriptions. Taylor’s dresses are silk and satin and feature unique details like hand-sewn beading. I also know the jewelry is handmade. I close my eyes, remembering the gold jewelry I saw in Taylor’s office yesterday. It reminded me of cascading water. I scribble that in my notes and think about how to add attention-grabbing details.