Bead-Dazzled

by Olivia Bennett

  “A video is molto bene,” Francesca interjected.

  “It is good,” Paige agreed. “My advice—go small and simple. You don’t want your audience focusing on lots of wobbly, inexperienced models. Make the clothes the focus. Clean. Crisp. Simple. Got it?”

  “Totally,” Emma said, relief flooding her body. “If we can film this, I don’t need all those models. I can just use Holly over and over. I know her measurements. I’ve designed for her forever. And Holly’s really good with hair. She can give herself different styles for each outfit. It’ll be perfect.”

  “We hope. Which one is Holly?” Paige flipped through the photos again.

  “She’s not in there.” Emma showed Paige a photo of Holly on her phone. She’d taken it in September at the farmer’s market in Union Square. Holly held one large sunflower and wore white T-shirt with torn, cropped jeans and a pair of navy Espadrilles. With her hair in a ponytail, she looked totally classic, casual Holly.

  “Nice shoulders. Long legs.” Paige handed Emma back her phone.

  Did that mean Paige liked Holly? Emma decided to take it as a “yes.”

  “And your designs?” Under her desk, Paige tapped the toe of her nude-suede, red-soled Louboutin pumps. Emma recognized this cue. Tapping meant Paige was losing interest.

  Quickly, Emma pulled her sketchbook from her bag and stood alongside Paige, as she flipped through the pages. “So my palette is mossy green, a deep beet red, gold, and then a range of browns and buffs,” Emma began as Paige nodded. “I made my own natural dyes to work with the ‘Goin’ Green’ theme.”

  Paige was silent. Not bad silent, but not good silent either. Just not so patiently listening, so Emma kept going. She started with the dresses. The high-collared tunic with a bead-encrusted collar in beet red. Then the mini slip dress with strands of beads for straps. Paige made an approving murmur and flipped to the next page, which revealed the high-waisted pants in buff with a wide leg. She’d come up with a cool-looking geometric design, which was now the beaded belt buckle in the faux belt that wound around the high waist of the pants.

  “I’m thinking this would go with a cropped tank in gold with very subtle beading,” Emma explained, showing a fitted jacket in the moss green.

  Paige pursed her mauve-glossed lips, still being disconcertingly quiet. The silence was broken by the sound of wheels squeaking by Paige’s open door.

  “Oh, Maddie! I need you,” Paige called suddenly as a young woman with strawberry-blond curls rolled a clothing rack by the doorway. Although the January temperatures outside were frigid, the rack showcased dozens of shorts: sailor shorts, high-waisted shorts, shorts with color-blocked pockets, bubble shorts. “Lose everything not in the citrus family.”

  Maddie fingered a pair of navy linen shorts with gray piping down the side. “Even these?” she asked.

  “Does that look like a citrus fruit to you?” Paige snapped. “Lemon, lime, and tangerine. Citrus is the direction for the July issue shorts spread. Call around to the designers. I need citrus shorts before six tonight.”

  “But it’s almost five now—” Maddie started.

  Paige sighed. “Okay, six-thirty then. Good?”

  Maddie widened her eyes, debating whether or not Paige was really asking a question. But Paige had already turned back to Emma’s sketches. Maddie hurried away, the wheels of the clothing rack squeaking in protest against her speed.

  “Your designs are nice,” Paige announced, closing the sketchbook.

  “Nice?” Emma repeated.

  “Nice.”

  “I was hoping for ‘wow.’” Emma said, disappointed.

  “Well the ‘wow’ isn’t there yet. Everything is pretty and wearable. But very safe, very quiet. You’ve got to pump up the volume on these to get to ‘wow.’” Paige stood abruptly and headed for the door. “I have a citrus problem to solve now.”

  Paige’s office fell silent once she left. None of them said anything. Emma leaned against the taupe-leather guest chair and studied the black-and-white framed prints that lined the walls of Paige’s office. Marilyn Monroe in her famous billowy-white dress. Audrey Hepburn in a long black Givenchy column dress. Jackie O. in her pillbox hat and stylish suit. Michelle Obama in her one-shoulder inaugural Jason Wu gown.

  These were all famous wow fashion moments. Emma had nice.

  She had to rethink her whole collection. She had to turn nice into wow.

  Or, at least, into very nice.

  CHAPTER 11

  SO YESTERDAY

  Friday afternoon. The weekend stretched deliciously before Emma with the promise of uninterrupted hours to design, redesign, and hopefully start to sew. Homework could wait. She had no intention of peeking into her school bag until Sunday night. Emma cleared off her large, metal work table and rolled out the bolts of newly-dyed fabric. Her dad had transported them home from the office during the week so she could dye all of them, and then he taxied them back again to Laceland. He refused to let her dye anywhere near his inventory of lace.

  “Here we go!” she called to The Girls. Still naked, they watched with anticipation. This was usually Emma’s favorite part—bringing her sketches to life. Only now, she had to transform “nice” into “wow” as she did so.

  She pinned three designs to a corkboard near the table. On each page, she’d scribbled notes in the margins—colors to use, trimmings to buy, and the amount of fabric she’d need.

  Humming the chorus of a decades-old pop song playing in the warehouse when she’d entered, she turned her attention to the fabric. The yellow turmeric was as vibrant as a golden sunrise. The purplish-red of the beets reminded her of tart yet sweet pomegranate seeds. The mossy green from the kale called up grassy meadows in the early spring. She inspected the various brown and tan fabrics from the coffee beans, and her first thought was of crinkled brown paper bags. Bag lady. Not a good association for clothing. She’d have to be careful with this color. Other than the iffy browns, she was really happy with her palette, and she knew she’d made the right choice in salvaging that gorgeous, dreamy silk.

  Using special fabric shears, Emma measured and then cut the exact number of yards of fabric she’d need for the slip dress. That was the only sketch she’d showed Paige where she sensed any kind of positive reaction. Maybe she should just do a whole line of slip dresses in different colors, with different colored strands of beads for the straps. That could work! She began to drape the café au lait silk on a dress form.

  Several times, she stepped back or circled around, to view the dress from all angles. Each time, she adjusted the fabric to hug Holly’s body in the most flattering way.

  Holly.

  Suddenly, Emma realized that she never officially asked Holly to model for her. Never asked her at all. She knew Holly would say yes, but asking was the right thing to do.

  Plucking her cell from its place next to the strawberry-shaped pin cushion her Grandma Grace had given her when she first learned to sew, Emma texted her friend.

  Holly responded in seconds. She was good that way. Always attached to her phone. Always reachable. Unlike Emma, who often got distracted and forgot to reply.

  LUV 2! Holly answered. when?

  Emma wasn’t sure when they’d film the fashion show. She hadn’t gotten that far in her planning. Truthfully, she hadn’t looked past this afternoon.

  She told Holly she’d need her for a bunch of fittings and, she guessed, a rehearsal or two.

  K, but I have v-ball, Holly texted.

  Emma had forgotten that Holly had joined the school volleyball team. Coach Devlin had stalked Holly for months, nagging her to be a part of the losing team. They needed a spiker, and a spiker had to be really tall. Even though Holly wasn’t particularly athletic, she was perfect for the spot.

  Thx! Emma texted. Gotta c u in teeny v-ball shorts!

  @ bball now. Everyone here. come 2 game!!!!!!

  Emma cringed. There was a basketball game happening now in the Downtown Day gym. Jackson would be playing
. She’d caught him staring at her during class yesterday when he thought she wasn’t looking, but they still hadn’t spoken. She found it hard to write him off. He was so cute, and she knew deep down that he wasn’t an Ivana-boy. Charlie would scream if he suspected she felt this way.

  She considered going to the game to see him.

  “Stop it!” she commanded herself. She turned to Girl A. “Don’t let me think about Jackson now. It’s your turn for a fabulous outfit. For a wow outfit.”

  Not 2day, she texted Holly. If she were truly like Jackson’s super hero drawing, she’d zoom to the gym on her magic zip-line and make things right between them and zoom back and finish her Allegra work—all in the blink of an eye.

  She sighed. She had no magic powers, and the first dress still needed a lot more work.

  She was unsure of the neckline. Should she go for a curvy sweetheart neck or a wide boat-neck that dipped right below the collarbone? Using special fabric chalk, she marked seams and other sewing instructions directly on the fabric. She’d leave it like that for now and move onto the second slip dress.

  “Let’s try something a little edgier on you,” Emma announced to Girl B.

  A throat cleared behind her. Without turning, Emma knew it was Marjorie. Her perfume gave her away. “Hi.” Emma kept draping and pinning the fabric. An asymmetrical neckline definitely added some oomph to the design.

  “Hi, darling. Hate to bother, but it’s coffee time.”

  “Already?” Time zoomed when she was creating.

  “Actually, it’s late. I waited for you out front….”

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, holding a pin between her teeth as she nipped in the side. “One sec.” Part of her deal with her dad was that she sat in for Marjorie at the front desk when she took breaks. Marjorie had been with Laceland for over twenty years, and this entitled her to a lot of breaks.

  Emma stood back, crossed her arms, and checked out the shape of this dress. She liked how it was turning out. She needed to figure out the proportions for an uneven hem—longer in the back, shorter in the front. “What do you think, Princess Pleats?” she asked Marjorie.

  “Hmmmm.” Marjorie’s eagle eyes took in the two garments. “Interesting.”

  “Interesting?” Interesting was worse than nice. Interesting meant Marjorie didn’t have the heart to tell her they were bad. “They’re that horrible?”

  “Oh, no. Not horrible. Lacking. That’s it. Not exciting.”

  “You aren’t getting the whole picture,” Emma said. “There are going to be beads. Strands of beads for the straps, embellishment around the waist, a hint of sparkle around the neckline.”

  “Beads will probably help,” Marjorie agreed. “Lots of beads.”

  “Lots of beads,” Emma repeated. “Where am I going to get lots of beads?” She suddenly panicked. “I don’t have the money for all the shiny beads I’m going to need.”

  “Then lose the beads,” Marjorie suggested.

  “No way! The beads pull everything together.”

  “You think?” Marjorie titled her head, unconvinced. She walked to the cork board and peered at the sketches “Even with the beads, I’m not feeling it.”

  Marjorie’s wrong, Emma told herself. But a part of her, the Allegra part, knew that Marjorie was right.

  “I’m ready to do the desk,” Emma said, suddenly grateful to leave The Girls, the sketches, the fabric, and the dresses that just weren’t working behind for a few minutes.

  “If you need my help—” Marjorie began.

  “No. I’m good.” Emma’s tone was cold as she walked to the reception area.

  “I’m only trying to—”

  “It’s fine. Better to hear the brutal truth now.” Emma slipped robotically into the desk chair, avoiding Marjorie’s concerned gaze. Marjorie shrugged helplessly, reapplied her coral lipstick, grabbed her black satchel bag, and disappeared into the elevators.

  Emma sighed. She felt horrible for being so rude. She wasn’t angry with Marjorie. She was angry with herself. Emma knew this collection could be great. She just needed to figure out how. She was also upset about Jackson. She was missing her chance with him.

  Opening the cluttered desk drawer, Emma busied herself organizing the take-out menus and throwing away dried-out pens. Her gift to Marjorie to make up for her rude behavior.

  “Greetings!” Charlie stumbled out of the elevator, moving to the beat of the tunes blaring out of his neon-green ear buds.

  Usually she loved having Charlie around, but today, after hearing her designs were yawn-worthy, she wanted to escape to the privacy of her studio and puzzle through solutions by herself.

  “I am a genius.” Charlie plopped an old mail carrier’s bag that he’d traded his musical-loving mailman for a signed cast album of Wicked onto the counter. Charlie used the postal bag to haul his schoolbooks. “A creative genius. A business genius. An all-around genius.”

  “How so?”

  “We’re filming a fashion show, no?”

  “Yes,” Emma agreed. At the mention of it, her stomach twisted.

  “And Paige said she’d convince one of her photographer dudes to do a favor and film it, right? And she said she’d find some raw space to mount the runway and all, right?”

  “Right.” Emma was grateful that Paige had these connections.

  “As I see it, you need a whole lot more than that. You need rockin’ beats, you need graphics, you need production value.”

  “I need a lot,” Emma agreed. Starting with a “wow” collection. She couldn’t really get past that item on the very long list. Maybe she just needed an excuse to get out of this whole crazy show. Maybe Allegra needed to get stuck in Milan, she thought.

  Charlie wasn’t about to let Emma go down that particular road. “I present you with the rawest, most-cutting edge tunes direct from the streets of the city.” Charlie pulled a set of mini-speakers from his bag and hooked his iPod into them. “I’ve spent the last two days searching out artists who are just getting their groove and who will record for free to get their sound out there. Yes, Emma, once again Charlie brings talent for free.”

  Emma grinned. “Our magic word.”

  “I’ve narrowed it down to three finalists. Mango Meltdown is an alternative band of college students from NYU, The Oregon Trail are three guys with a folksy-reggae vibe who I found practicing by Chelsea Piers, and Ruthie Lake is a soulful singer-songwriter girl from the subway. I’ve downloaded all their tracks.”

  Charlie switched on the first song. A haunting melody that gradually took on a funky beat filled the reception area. “Check out the synthesized raindrops along the baseline? Perfect, huh?”

  Emma nodded as her cell rang. She gazed at the screen. Jackson.

  Her stomach did a little flip.

  “Hey,” she greeted, trying to control her excitement.

  “Hey. What’re you up to?” He sounded nervous.

  Emma tried to hear over the male voices harmonizing lyrics about shining stars. “Nothing. Well, working at Laceland.” If he wasn’t going to mention the movies, then she wouldn’t go there either.

  “Is that Holly?” Charlie asked, tapping his hand on the desk as if playing a drum.

  Emma shook her head. “Jackson,” she mouthed.

  Charlie rolled his eyes then aggressively dialed up the volume.

  “You there?” Jackson asked. “What’s with the music?”

  “New band.” She motioned to Charlie to turn it off. Charlie ignored her.

  “We won the game. A bunch of us are going to Java Joe’s. Do you want to come?”

  “Movin’ down, movin’ down, oh yes, movin’ down,” Charlie sang along to chorus, as if he were part of the band.

  “Is that Charlie?” Jackson asked, his voice barely coming through over the combination of Charlie and the band’s vocals.

  “Yeah. He’s playing this new band he found for me,” Emma answered. “About Java Joe’s…” Java Joe’s was a coffee place with oversized purple vel
vet sofas near the school.

  “You sound busy.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and forced out the words. “Yeah, that’s it. I am.”

  “I hear it.” Jackson paused and silence filled the line. “You’re always busy.”

  She didn’t want to be too busy for him.

  “Another time?” Emma said hopefully.

  “Sure, another time,” Jackson agreed, not so convincingly. Emma clicked off her phone, a small pit in her stomach. Months ago, when she had hours and hours to hang at Java Joe’s and even go to a basketball game, he didn’t even know she existed. Now that she had Allegra and a fashion show, Jackson suddenly showed interested. Holly would say it was some kind of cruel joke. That their karmas weren’t in sync or something.

  “Why are you talking to him?” Charlie demanded.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “With him, I doubt it.”

  “Don’t be mean,” Emma warned. How could she explain that she still got that breathless, fluttery feeling when she thought about Jackson? And why should she have to? What did Charlie know about Jackson anyway?

  “Fine. Your mistake.” Charlie raised his arms to show he was backing off. Or least, he was pretending to back off. Emma knew he’d never stop giving his opinions. “New topic. Music. Reaction? Opinion?” Charlie asked.

  “I’m not loving these Mango guys’ chorus,” Emma confessed.

  “Chorus? Mango Meltdown stopped playing ages ago. Can’t you hear Ruthie’s acoustic guitar?” Charlie sounded outraged. “Are you even listening?”

  “Not so much,” Emma admitted. “I’m kind of distracted. Just leave me all their samples, and I’ll listen on my own later and choose one.”

  “And what about me?”

  “I don’t know. Isn’t there some Swedish film you’re dying to see at Film Forum?”

  “You’re sending me off to a depressing movie? Fine, Em, you don’t have to like this but your musical taste stinks, no offense. I mean your playlists are so two years ago. You can’t choose this music by yourself.”