Jake went all out today: he’s wearing a shiny black bomber jacket and black jeans, and has accessorized his look with oversized red glasses and a polka-dot man bag. The look is playful. I just wish I was here under more positive circumstances; it’s the kind of event I’ve dreamt of attending for years. And here I am with my heart in my throat, ready to burst into tears — not the best timing.
I look around and recognize some familiar faces: famous editors, bloggers, and some celebs. This kind of show is refreshing. When it comes to anything beyond a sample size, the fashion industry still has a long way to go, and the fact that some famous bloggers are here sends a hopeful message about body positivity. I plan on being part of the revolution. Once I’ve resolved my personal issues.
“So, what’s up, babe?” Jake asks as soon as I take a seat. “Tell Uncle Jake everything.”
“Well, um, remember the lawyer Jonathan wanted me to meet?”
“Yup. Trouble, I assume?” Jake says casually while flipping through the show program. I can tell he’s excited about this collection and I know why: the designer is a Parsons MFA alum who won many prestigious prizes and received the same scholarship as Jake for social innovation.
“Indeed,” I say, keeping my eyes locked on my cellphone. Jonathan has tried me calling me a few times, presumably having talked to Stephanie. The last thing I want is to talk to him right now. “I think Jonathan is dating her.”
“WHAT?” He swivels his head toward me. “Are you joshing me?” But for some reason, his reaction doesn’t seem authentic. Does Jake know something I don’t?
“I came across a note in Stephanie’s agenda about them having dinner plans tomorrow night. Jonathan never mentioned anything. It’s just plain weird. And upsetting. She looks like a Victoria’s Secret model, for god’s sake.”
“Ohhh.”
Silence, more doubt, more stomach cramps, and more inner turmoil. My mantra has lost its power. I’ve stopped reciting it.
“Listen, maybe she’s an ex-girlfriend and they’re just friends now?”
“I doubt it.” I shake my head.
“Why would he want you to meet her? That is weird.” Again, his response seems understated. Usually Jake goes for way more drama. This time, I wish he would.
“I don’t understand it either. How could he be so insensitive? It doesn’t jibe with his personality. He’s been so thoughtful to me. I’m sad, Jake. Especially after Stella’s bullying, too. Is the whole world ganging up on me? What should I do?”
“First of all,” — he brushes his fingers softly against my cheek — “I’m here for you, munchkin. So never forget that. Secondly, you should probably ask Jonathan about it before jumping to conclusions. And the good news is that you can do it now because he’s standing right in front of you.” I turn and see Jonathan, looking haggard, his creased linen shirt falling out of his jeans. His hair looks wild and his complexion pasty. Beads of sweat run down the sides of his beautiful face. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he says.
Jake gets up from the bench, nods to Jonathan, and waves for him to take his seat. Instead of bitching about my boyfriend and taking my side, Jake is in cahoots with him. Merde, what is going on?
Jonathan and I lock eyes for a moment and mine well up with tears. I want to fall into his arms and have him tell me what’s going on but the lights go down, the music begins to play, and a voice over the loudspeaker tells us to take our seats. The show’s about to begin.
“Clementine,” he whispers. “I need to —”
He gets yanked away by an aggressive PR lady just as the music begins to play. I guess he was blocking the view.
I could run after him but I have no idea where he’s gone and I’m in no mood to make a scene. I sit alone in the FROW as the lights go down. The models begin to strut their stuff in revealing black lingerie to David Bowie’s “Fashion,” showing off their beautiful, curvaceous figures, but my mind is elsewhere. I want to know what’s going on between Jonathan and Stephanie. And why did Jonathan contact Jake, or vice versa — how did he know to find me here? And where did they both go?
I pull out my cellphone and try to discreetly text Jake. I get no response. I try Jonathan. No response either. Within seconds, I feel a tap on my shoulder — it’s the overzealous PR lady who, in no uncertain terms, tells me to turn off my phone. She stares at me menacingly so I put it on vibrate and shove it in my purse.
Although the show is entertaining and the pieces are breathtaking, being forced to sit here for more than twenty minutes feels like a lifetime. It’s excruciating.
There must be a logical explanation to all of this. I imagine myself back into Jonathan’s arms, lying on his couch, listening to jazz while he delicately plays with my hair.
My reverie is interrupted by the buzzing of my phone. It’s a phone call from Jake. I look around to make sure the aggressive PR lady is out of sight, then answer the call under the watchful gaze of my seat neighbour, who looks worried for me.
“I’m about to jump off a frickin’ bridge. Come find me now.”
“Where are you?”
“Front entrance. This is urgent, kiddo. Future is on the line. I need you now.”
He hangs up. Oh man, this is serious.
Just when I thought I couldn’t endure any more drama. What the hell is going on?
I put my phone back into my pocket, take a deep breath, and straddle some knees to make it to the end of the bench. What could have happened to Jake in the last fifteen minutes?
The PR lady grabs my arm and shows me some teeth.
“How dare you get up from your seat before the finale?” she whispers loudly, making more of a scene than is necessary. “And who are you? I’ll see to it you never make it in this industry!”
“Ha! Lady, that’s just fine because at this point, I want nothing to do with it!” I retort and pull away from her tight grip.
I rush to the elevators but they’ve stopped on another floor. There’s no time to waste so I rush to the far end of the building and down the stairs.
I make it, out of breath, to the lobby, where I find Jake sitting on the floor looking like a complete mess. For the first time since we’ve met, he looks sullen. He’s taken off his hipster glasses. He rubs his eyes with his knuckles. It looks as though he’s been crying.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s gone. All of it.”
“What is?”
“My collection.”
“What do you mean?” I can’t believe my ears.
“Someone stole it from the studio after I left to come here. I just want to fucking DIE.”
“What? How’d you find out?” I ask, completely beside myself. I start to mindlessly bite my nails — never a good sign.
“One of my pals from the studio texted me just after the show started. She looked everywhere for my stuff. I had left it on some mannequins. But it’s gone. ALL OF IT! FINITO! TERMINÉ !”
“This is horrible!” I pace the hallway frantically. I’m trying to make sense of it all while I try to pull myself together. “Who would do such a thing?”
“They took everything, Clementine. Including my mother’s sewing kit and the costume jewellery I borrowed from a supplier.” His face falls into his hands and he begins to bawl his eyes out.
I feel helpless. Then I remember something my father used to say: When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang on.
“I’m calling Maddie.”
“Wait! Stop!” Jake places his glasses on the tip of his nose and gets up off the floor. At least I got him to stand up and move. It’s something. “I don’t want any trouble! Or to lose my scholarship!”
“What? Why would you? Maddie has clout at Parsons. We need to get to the bottom of this.”
He looks grateful that I’m offering to use my contacts but nods for me to put my pho
ne away.
“Before you set off any alarms, I need to check out the studio myself first. To see the damage first-hand.” He sounds like a hurricane survivor. I guess a violent storm has just passed through his heart.
I have a terrible feeling Stella has something to do with this. If she does, we’ll make sure she gets what’s coming to her. Her nastiness has to stop.
One thing’s for sure: I don’t need a fancy lawyer to help us find out. With Jake, I have all the audacity and courage I need to figure out this mess at my fingertips. Like my father would say, just hold on, Clementine, hold on …
Chapter Thirty-Four
I put my phone back in my handbag. This whole thing has gotten ridiculous and exhausting — all the texting, the tweeting, and living in a digital universe. I know my career ambitions revolve around an online project, but the truth is I need a digital break. Real life involves interacting with real people and having real conversations. And despite the dread I feel about doing it, I’m about to have the conversation I should have had ages ago.
I put on my coat and head outside to grab a cab. With more determination than I’ve felt in days, I say, “I’m going to resolve this matter personally.”
“What? What do you mean? Are you insane?”
“Yes, I may be a little bonkers, but I’m going to find out who stole your collection. No more lying, hiding, or backstabbing.”
He looks taken aback by my sudden self-confidence.
“You sound like a total badass.” He arches his eyebrows quizzically. “Okay, girlfriend, I’m following your lead. Let’s do this.”
We share a cab back to Parsons, holding hands the entire way. Jake doesn’t say a word, which worries me a little. I pray we find out who took his collection quickly; I know how much this project means to him. Before we arrive, Jake finally admits that Jonathan called him after I ran out of Stephanie’s office. Jake agreed not to tell me that Jonathan was coming to the show, knowing I would not have shown up. I nod gratefully but don’t ask any questions. I can only deal with one thing at a time.
Once on campus, I suggest that Jake go find his studio buddy to get more detail about what she saw. I, on the other hand, am on a mission to find Stella. Most afternoon classes start in a half-hour, which gives me just enough time to locate her royal nastiness and find out whether or not she’s behind this. Either way, we need to chat.
I walk through the basement cafeteria, where I see a few senior students and teachers, but there’s no sign of her. I breeze through the library, study lounges, and secret reading corners — there’s so sign of her there, either. Where could she be?
I then recall that she’s into watching Project Catwalk, which is occasionally filmed on campus.
I decide to head to where they normally shoot. What have I got to lose? I walk briskly and approach the crew, and there’s Stella in all her glory, wearing a pink and white gingham suit jacket, tight blue jeans, and towering heels. Her wild mane of jet-black hair bursts from the top of her head. It matches her temperament perfectly.
She’s standing in the middle of her entourage, chatting away. I bet she’s gossiping and spreading more vile rumours and negative vibes. I have no idea how she manages to have so many friends, what with her nasty mouth and unethical spirit. I give a loud, exasperated sigh.
She catches sight of me coming her way from the corner of her eye. She’s obviously not happy to see me.
I zero in on her like a hawk. She stares at me and I nod for her to follow. I expect her to stick out her tongue or do something else super childish, so I’m surprised when she walks over, as though she never tweeted that gibberish about me.
“Hey,” she says coolly, crossing her arms.
“Hey to you, too.” I cross my arms to mirror her. I can tell she doesn’t like it.
There’s a long, awkward silence.
“So … is there something you want to talk about?” Stella asks, lifting her nose at me, clearly disturbed by my stoic presence.
I’m enjoying this moment immensely, seeing her squirm while I just stare. As a matter of fact, I’m getting a real kick out of it, so I stare some more. I resolve to hold back from referring to the Korean designer; I fear that might just finish her right here on the spot.
“Well, I should ask you that question, right?” I say finally. “You’re the one who blasted me on Twitter. What did I do to deserve that?”
She pinches her lips. I can tell her mind is spinning. With what kind of nonsense, though, I have no clue.
“Oh come on, Clementine.… Don’t take me for a fool. I know what you’re up to. You want to make me look like the bad girl when in fact I caught you red-handed.”
“Oh? Doing what?” I retort, hands on my hips. I can’t believe she’s spewing this delirious crap.
“You think you have such an original, highbrow concept for your blog, but the truth of the matter is that it’s far from unique, girl. Your concept is so unoriginal,” says Stella.
How dare she? She’s the one lacking originality by copying another student’s designs. This makes me fume with anger. I try to calm down, but it’s not easy.
“Anyway, it seemed like you were taking yourself too seriously so I wanted to bring that to your attention,” she says petulantly.
“So you thought you’d send me a little reminder,” I say sarcastically. Her guile is beyond shameful.
Before I can say anything further, she pulls out her cellphone.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. And I know what you’re going to say about me and my business. But too bad for you, ’cause I have this.” She shoves her cellphone in my face.
I can’t believe my eyes. It’s a picture of me going through the student records. It shows me hunched over a manila folder reading student files. The very file that shows that Stella is the fraud. I stare at her phone and want to throw up. She must have been the one we heard outside the room, waiting to take the photo as soon as Ellie got me into position. Then, I want to tear every strand of her hair out. Not very ladylike, I know.
“Is that legit behaviour? I don’t think so,” Stella says with disdain in her voice while wagging her finger at me.
This is beyond disturbing. Jonathan was right again. This was a frickin’ setup and I was naive enough to fall for it.
I am consumed with anger. Ellie double crossed me and I was played for a fool. I’m so upset and tongue-tied I forget to bring up Jake’s collection.
I decide to back off. Instead of sending her phone crashing to the ground, I remember Cécile’s precious book and hand Stella her phone back, first and foremost to protect my own sanity and self-respect. There’s simply no other option.
And then I walk away. Just like that. Because a lady cares more about maintaining her self-respect than about being right at all costs.
Chapter Thirty-Five
I’m speechless, dumbfounded, and angry. I want to cry but no tears come out. I feel foolish for taking Ellie’s bait and sad that she double crossed me. I thought I had finally seen the real Ellie. I sincerely thought she was on my side.
What a mistake.
What worries me the most is that it feels like my intuition is off base.
I decide to take the back stairs in case I turn into a blubbering puddle of tears on my way down. I’ve already suffered enough embarrassment as it is; I don’t need any more. I need to stay strong if I’m going to survive this ordeal. I try to steady myself on the railing as I head down to the basement.
I guess both Jake and Maddie were right: New York is a ruthless place. And I feel knocked down. I had such high hopes of graduating from Parsons and becoming a renowned fashion writer. And I thought Jonathan would be my ally. Together, we’d travel the world, take fabulous photos of interesting people and fascinating places. My passion project would turn into a lucrative business, providing me with the creative freedom I so dearly crave and the ability to see t
he world with fresh eyes.
Despite its early success, I doubt my blog will go anywhere, especially if Stella keeps up her campaign of hate and lies. Maybe I should just give up.
I can’t even imagine how I would tell my father. I managed to convince him to let me apply and to help me out financially, and now I’m going to give it all up? He’ll think I’m a terrible daughter. But still, all I can think about is calling him so he can bring me home.
The effects of cyberbullying are really painful. Being on the receiving end of it has made me feel lonely, sad, and ashamed. But now I’m sure that Jake’s been dragged into it too, and I can’t imagine why anyone at school would do something so hateful to such a kind soul. I’m afraid to even face him and tell him what happened with Stella. He’ll think I’m weak.
As I go down each stair, it feels as though cold, hard cement has been poured into my shoes. I think of a poem my father shared with me, one of his favourites by Emily Dickinson:
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.
I need to hang on to these words right now. I open the stairway door and see Jonathan sitting at a corner table near the cafeteria entrance. He looks completely distraught. My heart sinks seeing him looking this way. I approach him slowly and he turns to face me. He drops his large camera bag to the floor, rushes to my side, and scoops me up in his arms.
“Oh, Clementine.” He caresses my hair and tears run down my cheeks. All of my sadness and anger come gushing out.
Bonjour Girl Page 16
