by Susan Juby
Leaving aside the issue of healthy relationships based on shared interests as well as illegal animal trafficking and proper care of pets, Bronwyn reminds me of both the Michelle Pfeiffer character in the movie and the tiger. She prowls around the hallways looking bored and detached, and her beauty makes her seem rare and unexpected in the mundane surroundings of R. S. Jackson, although her fashion sense is not good.
She knows who I am because she introduced herself to me when I’d been at R. S. Jackson for only a few weeks. No one else had bothered. I was trying to get my leather briefcase (full funky ’70s, weighs about thirty-eight pounds empty) into my locker when she appeared beside me.
“Hey,” she said. “Do you do your own hair?”
I had arranged my hair into my favorite style with the two wings on either side of my head. A classic look but not one to be attempted by amateurs.
“Yes.”
“It suits you.”
“Thank you.”
“Where’d you get those threads? Around here?” she asked.
She was standing very close to me, and I was nearly overwhelmed and disoriented by the feeling I always get around the extremely beautiful. Like the secret was RIGHT THERE but also infinitely far away. What perspective would reveal the mystery? Should I examine the nose? The skin? The hair? The arch of the brow?
I will never stop trying to figure beauty out. It is life’s greatest challenge and its most enduring satisfaction.
En commun with other truly stunning people, Bronwyn had imperfections, but they only added to the overall effect. A small scar on the cheek. A tiny gap between her front teeth that was to die for. Pure Lauren Hutton!
“I made this,” I said, touching the fabric of my dress. Fitted, royal blue, with a narrow red belt and exactly the right red pumps and short red jacket.
“Holy crap,” she exclaimed. She sounded genuinely impressed.
Everyone passing by us watched Bronwyn as she talked to me.
“I think your look is rad,” she said. “But I couldn’t do it.”
“Oh?” I said.
“It’s too out-there.”
“Oh,” I said. Because en tout candor, what else was there to say to such a comment, made so casually? Out-there? Where was there? How far out was it? That’s the problem with the unfashionable. They don’t understand that to choose clothing in order to fit in is to die a little every day. If it was attention she was afraid of, she should know by now that for someone who looked like her there was no avoiding it. Bronwyn would draw stares until she died. The best she could do was take control of how she was perceived.
Perhaps her aversion to attention explained her outfit. Either that or Bronwyn was unequipped with style or taste. She had on a flannel shirt and leggings, the standard uniform of three-quarters of the girls at the school. Comfortable, fitting-in, thoughtless clothes. The leggings showed the butt, the flannel shirt showed the don’t care, the puffy boots showed . . . well, to be honest, Charlie Dean does not understand a puffy boot any more than she understands its sibling, the Croc. These were clothes best suited for a day spent at home. Alone. In the basement.
As I stood there in the hallway I imagined Bronwyn dressed in a custom Charlie Dean gown. Bronwyn, I’d like you to meet American Vogue! Italian Vogue! British Vogue! ALL THE VOGUES!
One day, I thought then, I would find a way to get Bronwyn into one of my gowns. Now I had my opportunity.
When Monday morning rolled around, I had several sketches ready, as well as sample swatches, mood boards, and pages of notes about finishing details plus hair, makeup, shoes, and jewelry.
But I couldn’t seem to find the best-looking girl at our school. Not a surprise, since Jackson is so huge. I checked the hallway where I’d sometimes seen her hanging out with her friends. I asked one of them if she’d seen her. The friend shrugged and said she hadn’t.
“Check at noon,” said a girl in a gray hoodie who was stooped over her phone. “She has volleyball on Monday mornings.”
When the noon bell rang, I collected my materials and went to find Bronwyn.
This time she sat among her friends wearing the exact same ensemble she’d had on the first time I talked to her. No makeup, hair in ponytail. Zero effort and still exquisite.
“Hello,” I said, trying not to feel awkward. “I’m Charlie Dean. We met last year?”
As I spoke I reminded myself not to turn statements into questions. That is not how successful people communicate. It was un peu tempting because Bronwyn and all of her unadventurously attired friends were sitting, legs outstretched to show off dreadful footwear, staring up at me.
“Hi?” said Bronwyn, who was unafraid to speak in question marks.
I swallowed and smoothed my jacket down my sides. I’d worn one of my favorite vintage suits: an Alberta-sky-blue blazer with pink edging and a pink wool pleated skirt with a substantial brown shoe. A total Margaret Thatcher meets Princess Diana by way of Barbara Bush number. My suit takes the Easter Egg risk, misses by the vane of a feather, and ends up pure power pastel.
“I wondered if you might like to, uh, model for me,” I said, going for the direct approach.
“I’m sorry, what?” she said, not sounding friendly at all.
I ignored her friends, who were staring at me with mouths ajar.
“That time we talked you said you liked my look. So I am hoping you will wear a dress I designed for you.”
“Uh, okay,” she said. “That’s a little random.”
One of her friends giggled.
I felt myself growing less able to talk. Less able to explain myself and my noble intentions.
“I need to find a model. For the dress. It’s going to be very beautiful. I need someone very special to wear it.”
This was all coming out quite wrong. Diana Vreeland would have said it in a way that would make every girl in that hallway want to wear my clothes.
If I didn’t have a collagen-saving policy against scrunching up my face I would have done so. Instead, I tried to stay still.
“Uh, I’m not that special,” said Bronwyn stubbornly.
“Sure you are,” said her friend. “She thinks you are, anyway.”
Charlie Dean would have bet two of her favorite suits that the friend was jealous of Bronwyn’s beauty.
“No, I’m not,” said Bronwyn. Her face was flushed. I couldn’t tell if she was talking to me or the friend.
“I have—” I held up my portfolio case. It held the drawings of the dress in which I’d imagined Bronwyn and the swatches.
“No,” she said. “Thanks anyway. But I’m not really into it.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I turned to leave, barely able to make my wooden legs move.
I’d only gone a few steps when I heard one of the girls behind me speak up.
“She’d like to get you into one of her dresses, Bron.”
“Shut up.”
“I think she probably wants to get in there with you.”
It sounded like all of them joined in the laughter.
I did not allow my posture to soften, even though it hurt to breathe. Just a little.
twelve
MARCH 5
On Tuesday night I was in the garage, sitting on a stool at my worktable, trying to draw some fashion designs. They kept coming out looking like total crap, and I kept tearing out pages, crumpling them up, and throwing them on the floor.
My grandpa walked into the shop just in time to see me hurl the book across the room, where it cracked open against the foot shear machine we’d rigged up against the back wall.
“That’ll teach it,” he said, when I noticed him. He walked over and slowly bent down to pick it up.
“Sorry, Gramps.”
“Probably deserved it. That book’ll think twice about trying something like that again.”
He set it in front of me.
He doesn’t do his old-timey metalwork anymore because he’s got asthma and the doctor says he’s inhaled enough bad stuff to last a lifetime, but he was really good. He’d work out in the backyard for hours at a time, and he made all kinds of stuff: decorative, useful. When he noticed I was interested, he decided that the backyard setup wasn’t good enough for me. He bought me the new welding station and set up the whole garage for me to work in. He found me an ancient rolling bender and a bender break, and even made a foot shear from spare parts his friends donated. I’ve got all his old snips and scissors. Quite a few of them are too rusted or battered to be very useful, but I like having them. And he bought me new ones, too. With the big worktable and all the sculptures in various stages of completion, there’s not much room in there. Definitely not enough room for my grandparents to park their car.
I knew my grandparents really couldn’t afford to set me up like that, but I also loved having a fully equipped shop. I try to keep it real neat so he knows how much I appreciate it. At least, it’s neat when it’s not covered in crumpled paper and sketchbook parts.
“What’s cooking?” he asked, holding his stained World’s Best Grumpy Old Man coffee cup in front of him. Maybe because he was a shift worker for nearly forty years, he can drink coffee until right before bed and it doesn’t seem to affect his sleep.
I puffed out a breath. I knew my grandma had told him about the contest, but he hadn’t brought it up with me yet. That’s how my grandpa is. He doesn’t pry. He waits for me to be ready to talk.
“I guess Grandma told you about the contest? The one I just qualified to enter?”
“That’s right. She said something about that. It’s for that school up the hill there? The fancy one old man Green gave all his money to?”
Green Pastures’ founder was a local farmer who got really famous for his paintings of farms when he was already fairly old. He donated all his money to start the school. Plus, I think he also sold nearly a thousand acres of prime land.
“Yeah, well, I got into their scholarship competition,” I said.
“You going to show them some of your work? Maybe we should get professional photos taken of your projects.” He scanned the shelves that held some of my smaller metalwork projects. He looked at the big ones that stood around the room.
“That’s just it. The contest isn’t for, uh, metal sculpture. It’s for fashion design.”
He cocked his head. Waited for me to explain. My grandpa has eyes that see. He knows I’m not on a first-name basis with fashionability, if that’s a word.
“All the contestants have to make an outfit. For a fashion show.”
“Is that right?” said my grandpa. “So you want to be a fashioner?”
“I think they’re called fashion designers, Gramp. But no. It’s just a way to get into the school.”
“That place is so damned expensive,” he said. “Me and your grandmother and your mother talked about it. Wondered how we could get you in there. It just costs too much for regular working people.” He sighed.
I felt a rush of relief that they had some sense of financial self-preservation and that there was a limit to how much they would do for me.
“You know, your grandmother has an old Singer machine. Never known her to use it. I think it’s in the basement.”
This kind of calm, thoughtful vibe is why, at his retirement party, so many people got up and said my grandpa was the best foreman they ever had. That was a good night. Him and my grandma two-stepped together like two synchronized tops, spinning around the floor. He’s as present as my dad is absent. One day I’ll be more like him.
“I know it’s kind of screwed up to try to get in this way,” I said. “Since I’m not really into fashion.”
“Sometimes a person has to take the indirect path,” said Gramps. “Side roads. Access routes. Alleys, even.”
“Yeah, well. We’ll see. So far my drawings of clothes suck,” I said. I flipped a couple of pages.
The designs all looked like they belonged on superheroes who’d taken up low-end prostitution after retiring. I remembered my comments to Charlie Dean. Intellectually rigorous. I was so full of it.
“They look good to me,” said my gramps. “But my glasses prescription is way the hell out of date.”
Just like that, all my anger was gone.
I went to close the book, but spotted a phone number written in pencil, just inside the front cover. The name Tesla was written underneath. I closed the book. Opened it. The name and number were still there. I closed it again.
My gramps went back in the house, and I kept drawing, trying not to think about the number I’d just seen. An hour later Barbra arrived. She’d been out for dinner with her family for her little sister’s birthday.
She stepped into the garage from the side door, bringing fresh night air with her.
When she kissed me, I inhaled her familiar scent.
“So?” she said. “Tell me the news of the world, Grasshopper.”
Among the reasons I love my girlfriend is that she is not shy about weaving Karate Kid references into her sentences.
“I’ve figured out what they mean by a croakie book,” I said. “It’s spelled C-R-O-Q-U-I-S.” The source of this information, a book called Cool Fashions for Kids (Ages 8–12), lay open on my worktable. I began to read aloud. “‘A croquis book is where a designer sketches concepts and construction details and communicates her ideas for each look.’”
I glanced at Barbra and saw she was giving me her full, if concerned, attention and continued. “‘Your croquis book is your fashion diary and your fashion workbook! It will allow you to create collections that pop and sizzle and will wow your friends!’”
“Well, jeez,” she said. “Popping and sizzling are critically important.”
“Drawing fashion figures is way harder than you’d think. The proportions are screwy.”
She sat on one of the paint-splattered chairs beside my station. “So you’re going to keep going? In the competition?”
“Yeah. For now.”
“That’s good.”
“You mean it?” I asked. Because there was something in her voice that didn’t sound convincingly happy.
“Of course. Just please don’t get all fashion-y. Or Green Pastures-y.”
“I would never,” I said, and noted again that my girl isn’t big on change.
“Good. I like you the way you are.” She shivered. “It’s so cold in here.”
“Space heater’s busted.”
It’s a mark of Barbra’s and Booker’s excellence that they’re willing to spend any time in the garage with me. They hang on to sheets of metal when I need them to. They put up with the noise of the spot welder, riveting, the banging of hammers against metal, and the screeching and clanging of the machines. They never complain about the essential antisocialness of metalwork. If Barbra wanted to head into the house to warm up, that was okay with me.
“Well . . .” she said.
So we went in the house. Into my room.
B left at around nine o’clock, and I went back into the shop. I flipped through the sketchbook, pretending to just happen upon the number again. I stared at it for a long while. Then I sent a text.
Whoever invented fashion figures was a sadist.
The reply was nearly instant.
So you found my number.
Yes, yes. I had found the number.
Reasons to Drop Out of the Fashion Competition
When a woman says, “I have nothing to wear!” what she really means is, “There’s nothing here for who I’m supposed to be today.”
—CAITLIN MORAN
thirteen
HERE’S AN IDEA © CHARLIE DEAN DESIGNS:
When the world hands you lemons, make lemonade. Out of Meye
r lemons! Serve that lemonade in tiny jars with a single ice cube with a leaf of pineapple mint frozen inside. Wear a frilly 1950s apron with a green parrot and a yellow pineapple over a classic housewife dress when you bring the tray around.
DATE: MARCH 7
Days until fashion show: 58
Even three days after the incident with Bronwyn I continued to feel quelle tragique. That is a long time for Charlie Dean to be down in le dumps. I make it a policy to overcome negative feelings and forget unfortunate events tout de suite!
But things were not ideal. My father seemed depressed, probably because Mischa hadn’t come around for several days. In fact, I hadn’t seen her since the morning of the workshop, when I’d finally coaxed her out of the bathroom like a tiny fawn out of a dappled grove. This was not how my dad’s relationships usually went. His ladies had a tendency to stay until we had nothing left. Like giant carpenter ants.
I spend almost all my time in my room, which I have transformed to make it many times more attractive than the rest of the house. I’ve painted one wall and the inside of the door the exact red of the fringed Barbados tulip, in honor of Diana Vreeland, who was famous for using red in her interiors. I’ve painted the other three walls and the ceiling the shadowed white of silver birch bark on a January afternoon. This summer I even refinished the hardwood floors so they gleam and appear to be of higher quality than they are. Antique mirrors make the room look much bigger. There are rolling racks along two walls, and my desk, which I built myself, lines another whole wall of the room. It’s a simple piece of finished wood held up by wooden brackets with a cut-down antique cane in the middle for stability. Another piece folds underneath, and when I pull it out it forms a big T. The desk is perfect for cutting and drawing patterns for my bigger creations, and I rest my fabric on it while I hand sew. A large refinished wardrobe holds my fabrics. One dressmaker’s dummy stands near my best chair, and the other rests in the corner.
