I freeze in my seat at the thought of being coupled with the class bully, but relax when Jake leans over.
“Okay, sweet pea,” he says, adjusting his glasses, “we need to get intimate. Since I’m such a Chatty Cathy, why don’t I start?”
“Please do,” I say, happy to let him take the lead.
“All right, here goes nothin’. I come from a long line of shopkeepers from Queens. My father owns a fabric store that belonged to his father and my mother is a seamstress. Together, they’ve probably fixed all of the hemlines in Astoria. And they run a successful dry cleaning business, too. I work there nights and weekends in addition to doing freelance gigs. I’m the heir apparent to the family empire.”
“Cool. That sounds pretty awesome.” Jake is so authentic, I’m already under his spell. I can tell he and his family are all heart, elbow grease, and generous spirit. I could listen to him talk all day.
“But I’m looking to branch out — into fashion design,” he says, his eyes gleaming. “The truth is, I’m no fashion spring chicken. I studied fashion history in college, I interned at the Met’s Costume Institute, and I’ve been sewing since I was nine. I decided to study at Parsons to get some hands-on cred from the rigorous design program, if you catch my drift. And that’s it, ma chérie. My entire fashion history.”
“You want to be a fashion designer? With your own label? That takes a lot of hard work and discipline. But I guess you know that already, right?”
“Yup. Duly noted. The plus-size Zac Posen, c’est moi,” he says jokingly. “My father’s business doesn’t appeal to me, but the craft of making clothes does.”
“Do you have a muse?”
“My mom,” Jake responds without hesitation. “She wears samples from Loehmann’s and alters them perfectly; she transforms them into couture. It’s like magic, really.” His eyes are wide with excitement. I can tell he’s found his calling. There’s no doubt about it. He’s full of passion and determination. “And I admire her guts. She’s been in a wheelchair for the last ten years, but she never complains and always looks like a million bucks. She’ll always be my number one source of inspiration.”
My heart melts. I’d love to meet his mom. She sounds far more approachable, down-to-earth, and frankly inspiring than mine. My mom just gives me a headache most of the time with all of her drama.
“She sounds amazing. So what kind of designs do you have in mind?” I ask. I imagine him becoming the next Isaac Mizrahi, the New York designer who made it big in the 90s. He has the same witty repartee, the same belly laugh, and the same physique. My mother would say il est adorable. I think he’s just adorbs.
“Well” — he looks around the room to make sure no one’s listening — “I have this idea: I want to focus on clothing for people with disabilities. I want to make a difference in this industry and I know I can make an impact. That’s my game plan, Clementine.” He lowers his voice and waves his index finger. “I’m trusting you with my life on this; it’s my secret strategy.” He lowers his eyeglasses to the tip of his nose to make the point.
Wow. I’m really impressed with his concept. It reminds me of a Parsons student I read about who created a fashion line inspired by Syrian refugees. One of the key pieces of her collection is a wearable tent that easily converts into a jacket.
Not only is it impressive, it’s a huge coincidence. What are the chances of me coming to Parsons dreaming of influencing the fashion world toward more diversity and eco-friendly choices, and the first guy I meet wants to design clothing with a conscience?
We must be soul twins. And I’m flattered Jake would trust me so quickly.
“Don’t worry, Jake, you can totally trust me. I bet your designs will be a big hit.”
“Thanks, doll. I appreciate that. So, what’s your story?” he asks, his eyes brimming with curiosity.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat, “unlike you, I haven’t studied fashion before, but I’ve been passionate about it since grade school. My French great-grandmother, Cécile, was a supremely fashionable woman in her day. She’s my muse.”
“Cool. Tell me more.”
“Um, for starters, she was a model for the Parisian designer Madame Grès in the 40s.”
“OMG! SHUT THE FRONT DOOR!” Jake hollers, making every head turn our way. My face turns Valentino red. I want to crawl under my desk but don’t want any more attention. “Dude, are you kidding me?” Nasty girl glares at us again and I quickly stare down at my nails. Maybe I should’ve gone to beauty school instead.
“Shhhh. Stop it! I don’t want any more attention from the haters,” I whisper.
“Who cares about them? I want to hear about your great-grandma. She sounds fantabulous. My god, I fell in love with those fancy Madame Grès dresses when I was working in the archives at the Met.” He puts his elbows on his knees like a sports fan watching a soccer match. It’s thrilling to think my life is that captivating to him.
“Well, Cécile loved to go out on the town. She had an eclectic style and got noticed by Parisian trendsetters. She wasn’t that wealthy but she had great taste.” I have fond memories of spending afternoons window-shopping in Paris with her. “I remember visiting my first haute-couture salon with her. I was about ten years old, and although I was very young, I still remember some of the details about the day. Cécile passed away only months after that. I’m so grateful we shared that special time.”
“I bet,” Jake says. “Okay … what else?” He’s on the edge of his seat, drinking in my every word. He’s so close to the edge, I worry he’ll slide off his chair. That wouldn’t be a pretty sight. “What about the designer?”
“Madame Grès was impressed with Cécile — she loved her style, her striking features, and her appreciation of fine clothes. She asked Cécile to be a house model and show her dresses to the local press.” I point to my pearl necklace. “This belonged to Cécile.”
“Oooh, that’s gorgeous,” he coos. “Do you have any pictures of her?” He pokes his nose almost literally into my bag.
“Who’s Cécile?” nasty girl asks, appearing from nowhere and planting herself in front of me with her arms crossed. I’m tempted to tell her to screw off but instead I begin to laugh as Jake makes hilarious mocking faces behind her back. He wants me to say nothing but I decide to try a different tack. My gut tells me it’s a far more effective way to handle her.
“She was my great-grandmother. She modelled for Madame Grès in Paris in the 1940s. That is all,” I say, nonchalantly mimicking Meryl Streep in the movie The Devil Wears Prada. I turn to face Jake as if to dismiss her.
“La dee da,” she says. Her cold expression changes, but to what, I can’t tell. She’s hard to read. “I studied Grès’s work in college.” Her voice trails off. She seems to want to say more but I have no interest in engaging with her.
“You need to watch your ’tude, girl — stay in your lane or swerve,” Jake chimes in, wagging his finger. “What’s your name?”
“It’s Ellie.” She crosses her arms, all attitude again, and stalks off, saying over her shoulder, “Guess I’m just not into the vintage boho vibe. That’s my mother’s style, and I haven’t spoken to her in years.”
I hear that. I have my own issues with my mother. I guess everyone has a story. If only we talked more instead of throwing gum wrappers. I decide to just ignore her.
Voilà. There it is. Cécile strikes again. Thankfully, keeping your cool runs in my blood. I’m grateful for having had one female relative who had it together. I just hope I can do the same and be as strong as she was.
Chapter Four
“Okay, hon, I told you about my dreams. It’s time for you to share yours,” Jake says with a twinkle in his eye. He raises his eyebrows mischievously and it feels like we’re exchanging dating stories, not future plans.
“Writing, fashion blogging, and creating an international platform.”
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He rolls his eyes and holds up his hand like a traffic cop. “Oh, puh-lease, not another fashion blog. Trust me little sister, that’s not what the world needs. The market is pretty saturated already.”
Ouch. I was hoping for more enthusiasm from him. It’s true that there are tons of fashion bloggers out there. I should know; I follow a lot of them. I’m a big fan of the popular ones: Bryanboy, Nicole Warne of Gary Pepper Girl, Mr. Bags, and Aimee Song of Song of Style. But my concept is completely different. I wish he’d let me get to that before raining on my parade.
“It’s not what you think. I’m not looking to promote fashion brands or labels. I want to write about diversity and eco fashion and become the voice of my generation.”
“Right.” He rolls his eyes again. I guess he’s not grasping the concept.
“My blog will involve interviewing fashion trailblazers from all over the world who want to make a difference in this industry. People from diverse backgrounds, religions, and sexual orientations. A cast with strong political messaging, not just famous people. I want to portray a new kind of icon who can make a difference in the industry and make us think. In my view, that’s worth paying attention to.”
“Now you’re talking my language,” says Jake, coming around. “You have your great-grandmother’s chutzpah in your genes. In that case, you go, girl. Be careful, though, diversity is becoming a hollow word in the industry. Just make sure it isn’t a token marketing strategy.”
“I get what you’re saying. But I’m going to go beyond the surface. I plan to go deep. Inspired by my own life experiences.” Just saying it brings back a flood of painful memories.
“Oh? How so?” he asks. I see I’ve piqued his curiosity.
“Just high-school memories of not fitting in with the popular girls at the private school I went to in Paris. I always felt judged and left out for how I looked. It was agonizing. I was unhappy and not confident.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, hon. I can totally relate. I was a total outcast in high school and the butt of so many jokes and lewd comments you have no idea. But look where I am now. I’m about to take over Seventh Avenue. And the entire fashion world, too. Just like Cécile.”
“You have some of her chutzpah, too. You also remind me a bit of my mother. She speaks her mind freely just like you do.”
“Oh? What does she do?” Jake asks. He peers over at our teacher to make sure there’s still time to continue our conversation. I hope so; it feels like we’re just getting started.
“Famous opera singer,” I answer flatly, knowing this will elicit another strong reaction. It usually does. I cringe in anticipation.
His eyes grow as round and wide as Katy Perry’s. “GURL, ARE YOU FOR REAL? Your life sounds like a movie.”
“Don’t be fooled. It’s more like a bad soap opera.”
“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious! It can’t be that bad — Paris, Madame Grès, and a famous opera singer as a mom. My god, can your parents adopt me?”
I shake my head. My life is far from being a fairy tale. If only he knew the half of it. The truth is my family nearly imploded when my mother accepted a two-year contract to sing at La Scala in Milan a few years back and my father sought solace in the arms of his store’s sales assistant. To make things worse, my mother began drinking heavily to calm her stage fright, and my father started taking painkillers to numb his pain.
Both of them stopped their nonsense when my mother returned home to Paris. Being the open-minded woman she is, she forgave my father’s dalliance and quickly brushed it off. I suspect she wasn’t a totally faithful wife while performing in Italy either. Everything was fine until she decided to hit on my boyfriend, Charles, last spring. Now ex-boyfriend, to be sure. She said she just couldn’t help it; she has a thing for young men. It’s still all over the European gossip mags. It was all so very disturbing and gross. That’s why I had to leave home — for sanity’s sake. I needed a break from all the family drama. So I asked to transfer to New York.
“No, my parents can’t adopt you. That would make you my half-brother and I’d have to pick fights, be rude, and boss you around. We can’t have that. I much prefer having you as a friend.”
“That’s very presumptuous of you to call me your friend, Clem. But I like it. A lot. You and me, we’ll rule the school.”
“Sounds promising. I can see us now in the Sunday Times,” I shoot back. The truth is I can see us making it to the top of our class.
“Okay, so what’s your website’s name?” Jake returns to our earlier conversation. He’s all business now.
“Bonjour Girl. What do you think?” I’ve been mulling it over in my mind for ages. I hope he likes the French touch.
“Hmm, give me second.” He places his hand on his chin, reminding me of Rodin’s sculpture The Thinker. Although Jake is far from having The Thinker’s physique, he does have the same smooth skin and refined features.
“So?” I ask, worried he doesn’t like it. We’ve only just met, but he’s really growing on me. His opinion, strangely, matters to me.
“I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” Jake says, biting the end of his pencil. “You know what, Clem? I LOVE IT. It’s catchy with a French twist. I say go for it, sweetheart. I’ll be your first reader.”
“Really? Wow, thanks. That means a lot. Now you know my secret, so please keep it to yourself.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“We just met but I trust you, Jake, just like a brother,” I tease. “And I really like you so please don’t hope to die.”
“Aww, that’s so sweet. And you should trust me. I’m part of the fam now.” He fist bumps me and I begin to laugh at his funny move when our teacher interrupts our discussion to continue her lecture.
She tells us that in this highly interactive world, it’s imperative that we develop a strong visual identity for our personal brand, especially if we’re to survive and thrive in the cutthroat fashion world. In order to achieve that, we must dig deep into our own past and explore our personal histories, which explains the exercise she had us do. I get what she’s saying. This gives me a few ideas for my website. I’m taking notes when Jake nudges me in the ribs with his pencil.
“Hey, Clem …” he whispers.
“What? I’m trying to write this stuff down. It’s important,” I whisper back.
“Sorry, but someone’s staring at you.” He points to the door and I see Maddie peering in through the window. She waves and I wave back.
Phew. For a split second, I was worried it was that Ellie girl glaring at me. I need to get over her and work on my self-confidence. But it’s not so easy when you’ve had a roller-coaster personal life like mine.
How long will it take for me to get over my mother’s embarrassing indiscretion with my ex-boyfriend?
I hope it’s sooner rather than later. It’s time to put this behind me and move on.
Chapter Five
“Was I dreaming or did you look disappointed to see me?” Maddie asks as soon as I exit the classroom.
“Disappointed? Are you kidding? Why would I be?” Maddie probably picked up on my insecurity. I’m worried that my classmates will find out we’re related; we’ve agreed to keep that under wraps, outside the faculty, to avoid any perception of preferential treatment. They already have enough details about me as it is. I don’t want any more trouble. But I’m so proud to have such a stylish relative. I’d love to shout it from the rooftops.
Maddie looks particularly stunning today in a slim, black leather trench coat, a hot-pink cashmere turtleneck, black patent-leather boots, and large eyeglasses. She’s accessorized her look with a colourful beaded necklace. Maddie reminds me of a young Iris Apfel, who recently, at ninety-five years old, took Paris Fashion Week by storm, stealing the spotlight from the top models. I think Iris and Cécile would have gotten along famously.
“So how did it go?” she asks.
“Great! Our class was super inspiring. I’m really happy to be here. I can’t thank you enough for convincing my dad to let me come to New York,” I whisper.
“I had very little to do with that; you did all the convincing. You’re living the dream, girl. I’m so proud of you.” She pats me on the back.
Maddie is my other muse. She finished top of her class in fashion school, received a scholarship for a master’s degree in costume design from a prestigious college in London, was selected as a judge on the hit television show America’s Next Top Model , and is one of the youngest professors at an international fashion college.
And you know what? She reached these professional heights not by stepping on anyone’s toes, but with raw talent and hard work. She could’ve easily become the next Donna Karan, creating her own collection, but in a character-defining moment, she figured out her life purpose and chose academia over commercial success. Now, she proudly wears her students’ collections around town and makes them (and herself) proud in the process.
That’s who I want to be one day: a supportive, savvy, and stylish mentor to other women. With tons of clothes, international travel, and access to runway shows.
A girl can dream.
“I made a new friend today,” I say, looking around for Jake. I wave and he saunters over.
“Jake, I’d like you to meet Maddie Laurent. She teaches fashion design here and she was instrumental in helping me with the paperwork for my transfer from France. I’m sure you’ll be working together on some projects.”
He stares her up and down approvingly. “Oh my gawd, THAT COAT! ” He moves in close to inspect the details. “Hello, Maddie, it’s a real pleasure. I’ve heard so much about you. Please forgive the drool but I’ve never been this close to a Dries Van Noten before.”
Bonjour Girl Page 2
