by Susan Juby
“Are you sure you don’t need money to help you do this? Just ask us if you need some money. You need to save the money you make at the Salad.” My grandparents would probably sell their house to send me to Green Pastures if I asked them to. I have to be careful not to let on about wanting expensive stuff.
I love that she always calls it “the Salad.”
“I’m fine, Gram. I’m not really that serious about this. Just thought it would be interesting.”
“Okay, then, honey,” she said, and came over and gave me a kiss on my head the way only a grandma can do, and I felt calmer, somehow.
That night, when Booker and Barbra came over, I told them I’d entered and gotten in.
Booker laughed his ass off, but he sounded happy about it. Barbra did not.
“Really?” she said.
“You never know,” I said. “It’s worth a shot, right? If nothing else, it’ll give you guys something to laugh about. I doubt I’ll make it through the workshop where I have to meet the instructors and the other contestants.”
Barbra didn’t say anything. I guess it hurt her feelings that I didn’t tell her I was applying.
“You’ll be awesome,” said Booker.
But I sure as hell didn’t feel awesome when the day of the workshop came and I was sitting there with the other candidates, feeling like a fraud and a person who is the opposite of fashionable. The conversations around me were so bad, I half wished I was at the Salad Stop, texting Barbra and Booker rude comments about my customers. The fashion conversations made me feel like I was being stabbed in the intellect by forty dull butter knives. Allow me to quote a couple of choice samples:
“I considered dying it gray. Silver hair is huge right now. But you can only carry off gray if you’re not tired. At least, that’s what my mom said.”
“But you’re soooo gorgeous. And didn’t you say you just turned sixteen! Are you sure it’s time to try silver?”
“Think fairy elf. Then think me.”
(Conversation between two candidates. I think about hair.)
“Shut up about that.”
“No. You shut up. It’s the seaming. So hot for the ass.”
“It’s doing yoga nine times a week, not seams. Seriously. Learn a thing.”
“I’m telling you. I read an article about it. Seams make the ass. And it’s not yoga. It’s Tracy Anderson.”
“Gwyneth’s trainer?”
“You’d better have Anderson ass or some major great seams.”
(Conversation between a contestant and one of Carmichael’s helpers. Not completely sure what it was about. Asses?)
I was on the verge of getting up and leaving due to not being able to stand it, when the guy who was running the show came into the classroom. Mr. Carmichael is a sharp-dressed black guy. He introduced himself and got right to it. It was obvious that he knows his stuff. Hell, he seemed to know everybody’s stuff. I guess that’s the kind of teacher you get at a fancy private school. For a while I forgot to hate fashion and rich kids and numerous other hateable things.
I even felt sorry for that strange girl from Career Tragedies when she came in late, out of breath and trying to hide it. She nearly fell trying to get into her seat without drawing attention to herself. She was loaded down with a big portfolio case and a purse and about three other bags that made it look like she was running away from home.
Mr. Carmichael paused in his remarks and stared at her. I thought he was going to make a snide comment about her lateness and worried that she might lose it if he did. But all he said was, “You must be Charlie Dean. Welcome. Glad you made it.” And then he went back to speaking about how fashion is a mirror of society and people’s aspirations.
I looked at her and noticed that her eyes had welled up. The girl is high-strung as shit. I hope she doesn’t end up having a breakdown.
He talked to us about the history of fashion and how it’s this major signifier of culture and gender and economics and a whole lot of other things. He touched on what he called “the evolving craft of making clothing” and talked about different ways of viewing the industry. He introduced us to “academic perspectives on fashion” and was generally smart and interesting.
Carmichael had two assistants helping him, both fashion students. One was a pale, fine-boned white girl with ultra-straight, ultra-pale blonde hair and a studious expression. He introduced her as Tesla, and I nearly retched. Her parents had probably picked out Quinoa and Beret as their second and third choices. The other helper’s name was Bijou. Of course it was. She had perfect olive skin and looked like she’d been put on the planet to sneer at the less fortunate. She also looked like a skunk had designed her hairstyle: all glossy black with a white streak on one side.
There were eleven contestants, including Charlie Dean, who’d worn an old-man suit, complete with these pantaloony-type long shorts and her trademark lumpy hairstyle. There were a few girls—Asian, Hispanic, and maybe regular old white—who looked interchangeable thanks to their long, flat-ironed dark hair and similar makeup and outfits; a girl with long, curly black hair who looked like she’d gotten dressed using only things found on the path in a fairy- and unicorn-infested rain forest; a mixed-race guy with a rad Afro and shredded clothes; a First Nations girl dressed like a heavy metal goddess in studs and denim and leather; a pale, preppy white girl with a precise haircut and a completely blank expression; another girl with dark skin and huge brown eyes wearing a head scarf and a white jumpsuit that made her look like an old-school break-dancer or a stunt woman. And then there was a super-pretty girl with wavy red hair in a wheelchair wearing what looked like a bunch of see-through scarves, as best I could tell. We were like a poster for diversity, with me in the ever-popular role of White Boy. I’d seen quite a few of the other contestants around R. S. Jackson. No surprise that my fellow students would be trying to upgrade educational institutions.
x x x
DURING THE BREAK, WHEN WE WERE TOLD WE COULD EXPLORE the school and have a snack, the other contestants spread out around the atrium. I hadn’t brought anything to eat because I figured my hostility would keep me going. I walked back and forth a few times, checking out things I’d missed or that were new since my tour back in ninth grade. There was the bench studded with old cutlery and stamped with the words “Game of Benches,” which I suppose was mildly amusing in an irritating, art-school kind of way. The windowed walls of the atrium looked out onto gardens and various metal and wood art installations. There was a winding pathway that led to a shed with double doors. They were wide-open, and a couple of figures moved around inside.
I passed under the post-and-beam canopy and stood just outside the building, taking deep jealous breaths of the fresh-cut-wood scent. A boy and a girl were bent over a wooden pole.
“Pretty cool, eh?” said a voice beside me.
I looked over, expecting to see one of the other contestants or Mr. Carmichael, but instead met the gaze of a gaunt guy holding a welding mask.
“They’re doing a totem pole. It’s going to be amazing. I’d like to try something that marries the wood carving and the metalwork in an interesting way,” he said.
I felt envious that he spent his days thinking about interesting ways to combine wood and metal, but it was hard to resent him. The guy was too thin for his height and for the breadth of his shoulders. Pale. Kind of haunted. In fact, he looked like some of the guys in my school who are heading for trouble.
“I’m Brian,” he said.
“John.” For some reason I added, “I don’t go here. To this school, I mean.”
“Pretty soon I won’t either, if I don’t get my act together. That’s what I’m doing here on a Saturday. Trying to get caught up so my expensive education doesn’t go down the crapper and take my life along with it.”
Well.
“You got behind?”
“You could say t
hat,” he said. “You visiting someone?”
“No. I’m, uh, here for a contest. We’re having an orientation.”
Brian waited, curious but not pushy.
I thought about lying about what kind of contest it was, but went with the truth.
“To get into the fashion program. On a scholarship,” I said.
“Really,” he said.
“I know I don’t look like a fashion person.”
“What does a fashion person look like?” he asked, half smiling.
I didn’t want to sound negative, so I didn’t answer.
“You look all right. You’re wearing nice colors. And you’ve got that intense vibe all the clothes culters have.”
“Clothes culters?”
“That’s what we call the fashion students. They’re hard-core, even for a school like this, where everyone is very intent on their thing. No one can touch the culters. Focus up the ass.”
I couldn’t help laughing.
“Well, I’m sort of a long shot. I’m just as interested in metalwork.”
“Right on,” he said. “That’s my deal. If you think about it, art is sort of a long shot. Attending a school like this is a long shot for most people. My mother’s parents have cash, and they foot the bill. As long as I don’t screw it up and get kicked out. And if fashion is your bag, or metalwork, this is the place to go.”
“Right.”
Brian stared at me. “You know, I’m sure you’re on the up-and-up, but if you’re not, run away if two girls and a guy come up to you and start asking you questions. Trying to get people to tell the truth is a big thing around here. You might want to avoid it.”
“Will do,” I said, my mind torn between wondering what he was talking about and remembering the extensive lies I’d told in my application.
“What do you get if you win?”
“A one-year scholarship to the fashion program.”
“Ah, the big scholarship. Well, if you’re the lucky winner, I’ll show you around the metalwork shop. In case you want to make chain mail pants or something. Keep in touch,” he said. He handed me the coolest business card I’ve ever seen. It was a small piece of metal, super thin, with his name and number stamped into it, almost like a dog tag.
“Now that’s a business card,” I said.
“Latest project. Glad you like it. Cast-off bits from the shop should be put to use somehow.”
He said good-bye and headed off to combine wood and metal in new ways, and I reluctantly returned to the atrium, where the other contestants milled around, having brain-numbing conversations.
Charlie Dean came over to where I stood by myself, waiting for Carmichael to call us back. She wasn’t participating in any of the conversations, which was a surprise. I’d have expected her to be talking the ass seams off everyone in sight.
After I sighed loudly for what must have been the twentieth time, she said, “You’re sighing a lot. Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“I sigh a lot sometimes,” she said. “It’s nerves. Stress. I meditate to overcome it.”
“Medicate?”
“No,” she corrected. “Meditate.”
“Oh.” I had literally never met one person our age who meditates. Until now.
“Is that why you were late this morning? Because you meditated for too long?” I felt like getting in a dig. I don’t know why.
She frowned in that way people who hate to move their faces do, but she didn’t answer. That irritated me, too. So I kept going.
“I’m feeling good about this,” I said. “You know, I really relate to what Carmichael has been talking about. The theory behind fashion design. I appreciate a more rigorous approach to design of all kinds. Incorporating social and historical aspects and whatnot.”
Now she was frowning for real.
“You do?”
“Sure. I’m into the intellectual approach. What’s the word? Cerebral? Yeah. I feel like Carmichael likes a more cerebral approach. Which is sort of my specialty.”
Now I had her. She was sweating. Invisibly, but I could sense it.
“I just hope that my Charlie Deans are good enough,” she said.
“Your what?”
“My looks. I call them my Charlie Deans.”
Referring to her stuff that way wasn’t as funny as you might think. It made her sound disturbed. Her face makeup was at least two shades lighter than her skin, and she wore dark swooshes of pink on her cheeks that extended up to her ears.
Was that kind of makeup a trend?
I wondered if she was trying to psych me out by acting vulnerable. If so, it was working. I’d been so busy lying that I hadn’t even started to worry about what I would make for the fashion show. My “John Thomas-Smiths” were probably going to consist of . . . I had no clue.
I should drop out of the competition before I embarrassed myself in front of the most embarrassing people in the world. But I didn’t. I may be a liar, but I’m not a quitter.
Fun Fashion Facts by John Thomas-Smith
Fashion is the most intense expression of the phenomenon of neomania, which has grown ever since the birth of capitalism. Neomania assumes that purchasing the new is the same as acquiring value. If the purchase of a new garment coincides with the wearing out of an old one, then obviously there is no fashion. If a garment is worn beyond the moment of its natural replacement, there is pauperization. Fashion flourishes on surplus, when someone buys more than he or she needs.
—STEPHEN BAYLEY
nine
HERE’S AN IDEA © CHARLIE DEAN DESIGNS:
Embroider the following on a large pillow: Never let the ugly win.
DATE: MARCH 2
Days until fashion show: 63
I arrived at the atelier—atelier!—over eight minutes late—an eternity! I was the tiniest bit breathless because I am unused to running and have never found physical exertion fashionable and it was quite awkward but the teacher was so nice and I think I recovered well and made an excellent impression after those first few moments.
The assistants, Bijou and Tesla—their names are to die for—asked us to come into the Poiret room. The POIRET ROOM! (As anyone who might chance to read this will know, Paul Poiret was the godfather of draping and a major figure in fashion history.) I can’t even say how much I love that the fashion wing of Green Pastures has a Worth Room, a Westwood Room, and a Chanel Room. It shows such style and knowledge!
Once we were seated at our desks I was able to assess the other contestants. Allow Charlie Dean to peindre un portrait.
My fellow contestants were of all ethnicities and body types, genders and, one suspects, sexualities. We were pure fashion in that regard.
One could be described using one word. Sincérité. Avec un soupçon de patchouli. She was full figured and had long, spirally black hair. If I had to guess, I’d say her ancestors came from Romania, which would be so glamorous! Or maybe her heritage was Welsh, which would also be fantastic! Her look was witchy, if not exactly bewitching, if you’ll forgive a little pun. She had a major smoky eye going on, and a vampire lippie, and her entire maquillage looked like she had a part-time job smudging sage at haunted houses or maybe selling curses, three for a dollar, at the corner of Haunted House and Third Street. Her name tag read “Ainslee McPhee.”
It wasn’t my favorite look, but there was a commitment behind it that I admired.
A boy called Jason Wong wore a fabulous shredded ensemble. Totally nouveau Berlin punk visiting LA. Loved, loved, loved.
A pale girl named Ellen was channeling Anna Wintour by way of Audrey Hepburn. Terribly tidy in flats, cigarette pants, and a sharp bob is how I’d characterize her look.
Some of the contestants were not notable. They were instead pretty or cute. Whatever you want to call it, they were inoffensive, unless you
like your fashion with some distinctiveness. But I’m sure they were very nice girls and their hair was really very long and shiny, which is never a bad thing.
I’d seen at least three or four of the other contestants in the halls of R. S. Jackson, although I didn’t know them personally. I wondered how they’d found out about the competition, since I’d intercepted the announcement from Mr. Oliver’s mail. They must have kept track of the website. Several of them apparently congregate in the old art room on breaks, as Charles had mentioned. I had no idea they were working on fashion design in there! What a terrific surprise, although I also hoped none of them was too skilled.
Then there was John Thomas-Smith from Careers class. He absolutely reeked of street cred and comfortable ease in a nothing sort of outfit. Charlie Dean needs to study him, especially now that he’s revealed his love of intellectual design. How does he manage to look so stylish in such mishmashed clothes? Is it connected to his intellectualism? John Thomas-Smith has excellent color sense. I was happy to see him, even though I had assumed he wouldn’t be serious competition and now I fear that he might be. I want everyone to succeed in the competition, but obviously I hope I succeed the most.
There was a darling girl called Madina, who I think was Muslim. She had marvelous dark eyes and wore a beautiful silk head scarf. She was absolutely next level in her white denim jumpsuit with many zippers. Another girl named Jo, short for Jo-Ann, had a Joan Jett look that was beyond belief cool. Jo-Ann looked at me for a moment too long and then winked, which was so saucy and hilarious of her! So rock et roll in her T-shirt with the gorgeous cover image from Moonshot on the front. If you haven’t read it, Moonshot is a collection of Indigenous comics. To. Die. For. Art. The cover image is particularly fabulous and of interest to all people who care about art and design. Another girl, white, with the glorious nearly translucent skin of the true redhead, wore a fabulous chiffon smock in various shades of smoke that swept around her wheelchair, transforming it into a veritable chariot when she moved! Magnifique! She called herself Cricket and said dry, cutting things and was generally très chic and funny, and her wonderful red hair had a wave the ocean itself would envy.
