by Susan Juby
And Charlie Dean has to admit she was curious about what some of her competitors were up to.
“Well, hello,” said Jo, the tall, imposing girl from the workshop, when I walked in carrying my portfolio.
She sat at one of the scarred tables working on what seemed to be a piece of trim. In front of her were thread, a tray of long, ivory-colored bugle beads, and scissors.
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know you went here.” I’d never seen her at school before. I’d have remembered. She was absolutely striking and fierce.
“I’m in the alternative program,” she said. “We have most of our classes in the portables. I need a flexible schedule because I travel all the time with the basketball team.”
“I thought there was no gym here anymore,” I said.
“The school still has some sports teams. We get private funding from a few businesses in town. Sit down,” she said, her smile white and her dimples mesmerizing. “I won’t look.”
At that I blushed, but then I realized she meant at my work.
I settled myself at the other end of the long table and pulled out my watercolor pad, my brushes, and paints. I was working on various details of the gown, as well as shoes and accessories, and I’ve always loved the look of fashion in watercolor.
“Do you have a model?” asked Jo.
I nodded.
“Me too,” she said. “But first I got shot down in flames by Bronwyn.”
My head jerked up.
“You’d think I asked the girl to go steady,” said Jo, biting off a thread.
I felt a strange rush of relief at her words and the casual way she spoke them.
“Me too,” I breathed.
“I heard Jason Wong and Cricket asked her, too. She turned us all down like we’d offered to give her a case of the plague. Cricket was pissed.”
“Yeah, I was,” said a voice from the door.
I looked over to see Cricket maneuvering through the door in her chair, a big fabric bag on her lap.
“Bronwyn whatever-her-last-name-is had the opportunity to help a deserving candidate, who is not you two or Jason, win a scholarship. I doubt she’s a good person. And she may even be prejudiced against fashion designers,” said Cricket.
Jo laughed. “She must be wondering if she’s the only tall, skinny, good-looking girl in this whole town. Too bad she’s shy.”
“It’s a waste,” said Cricket, her red hair swooping over one eye as she unpacked a piece of fabric stretched over an embroidery frame. “Beautiful people have a responsibility to allow themselves to be used by those of us who need them.”
She opened a box full of thread and began to work stitches, referring now and then to a drawing.
We sat like that, working together, speaking once in a while, and I must admit that I felt so social! It was strange and exciting.
Cricket’s boyfriend came in on his way to meet his improv group.
“You need to eat something,” he said, putting a sandwich beside her.
“Did your little brother make it?” she asked. “Is there mud in it? Small plastic animals?”
The boyfriend, who also had fabulous hair, dark and dramatically shaped, shrugged.
“I ate one of them and survived.” He looked at us.
“Do either of you know the Heimlich maneuver?”
I shook my head no, but Jo nodded yes.
“If Cricket eats a toy, please don’t let her choke. But make sure she eats. Since she started this fashion competition she keeps forgetting to eat or sleep. It’s worrying.”
I nodded. Felt another surge of solidarity. It was good to be among people for whom fashion was everything.
“He seems nice,” said Jo when he was gone.
“He is,” said Cricket. “That makes one of us.”
“Well, I’ve got to get to practice,” said Jo. She closed up her containers, put everything in a case, and stood up. Charlie Dean couldn’t help but notice again that Jo was absolument statuesque! Nearly six feet tall and all line, line, line, as Diana Vreeland used to say. She wore a black leather jacket and a light-wash jean with old-school Adidas.
She came to stand over me, and my breath caught in my throat.
“You don’t talk much,” said Jo. “But I kind of like that about you. Nice to see you again, Charlie Dean.”
Finally I convinced my slack mouth to smile.
Jo turned and stalked out of the room, leaving behind waves of raucous energy like the final notes on a heavy metal song.
“I think Miss Jo likes you,” said Cricket in a singsong voice.
My face burned at the thought of it. At the pleasure of it.
Then I gave my head a little shake. It was all too much to contemplate. If I had to lose the competition, I would like to lose to Jo. But I wasn’t going to lose. Not to Cricket, not to Jason or John or Jo or any of the others.
No distractions. Not even gorgeous ones.
seventeen
MARCH 11
Esther’s foster mom called on Monday.
When I answered and started talking in my retail voice, Barbra glanced over from where she lay curled on the bed, reading a novel. Booker looked up from the floor, where he sat having a mostly one-way text conversation with his girlfriend, Destiny.
“I’m in this competition,” I told the foster mother, who introduced herself as Sheryl. “I need a model to wear the clothes I’m designing for a, uh, fashion show.”
“Esther’s quite excited. She said you were, and I quote, ‘really cool.’”
The woman sounded friendly, but her voice had a hint of no-bullshit that reminded me of a teacher.
“I think Esther could use some pampering, to be honest,” Sheryl said.
I stared down at the drawing I’d been working on. I was using Charlie Dean’s croquis blanks, which were just naked human shapes with weird, elongated fashion proportions. The outfits weren’t exactly deconstruction. They were barely identifiable as clothing. And they definitely weren’t kid-appropriate. Esther did not need to be parading around in a busted bustier and bizarre short shorts. Also: pampering? I knew less than nothing about pampering.
“Can you tell me more about the contest?” Sheryl asked.
Barbra watched me. I took some comfort from her gaze. I could do this. Fashion design is not rocket science and neither was lying about fashion design.
I explained the school and the competition. “The winner gets a scholarship to the Green Pastures fashion program.”
“That’s a big prize,” said Sheryl. “I’ve heard how much that school costs. So what will she wear?”
So soon with the hard questions.
“I’m not sure. I got the impression when I met her that she’s got a lot of, uh, inner excellence, and, you know . . . I thought she doesn’t need to look like everyone else.”
As soon as I said it I remembered Esther telling me how her foster mom had spent a bunch of money to buy her clothes and fancy rubber boots to help her look like the other kids. I’d blown it.
The stillness on the other end of the phone had its own sound. My room was dark except for the reading light Barbra had adjusted over her book, the lamp aimed at my drawing pad, and Booker’s phone. I felt comforted by the presence of my friends, as well as my grandparents listening to the TV too loud in the living room.
“Amen to that,” said Sheryl finally. “She is a very special young lady. I hate to see her trying to look like everyone else. But she wants to fit in. At least, sometimes.”
“Totally. I get that. I’m thinking I’ll do a street-style look for her.”
Barbra and Booker exchanged glances, probably shocked at my use of genuine fashion jargon.
“Street style,” said Sheryl. “I’m sorry. I’m not familiar with that.”
“It’s, like, noncommercial fashio
n. Sort of indie. Personal. Street style is where a lot of designers get their ideas.”
“Okay. Just to be clear, I’ll be there for the whole process,” said Sheryl. “And if this starts heading in a direction that’s not good for her, I’ll shut it down.”
“I totally understand,” I said.
She lowered her voice. “The thing is, I think Esther does need some help with how she sees herself. Maybe this experience is coming along at the right time.”
My stomach constricted around my organs. I barely even knew who I was. It was too much pressure to put on my nonexistent fashion design skills.
We made a plan for me to visit their house the following Monday afternoon. Sheryl gave me the address, and I explained that I could come by in the evening, after I finished my shift at the Salad Stop.
“You poor guy,” she said, and laughed. Sheryl definitely seemed like a good bean, and that made me feel better for Esther.
When we hung up, I stared at the stack of pages of crappy, unpampering, and unhelpful designs.
“So you’re going to be allowed to use the kid you met?” said Barbra. “That was her foster mom?”
“Yup,” I said. “I am in it now.”
“Right on,” said Booker, checking his phone for the twentieth time in as many minutes. “You might end up being head designer at Gap Kids. My sister says those fancy kids’ clothes cost more than regular-size clothes.”
“I have no clue what I’m doing,” I said. “The kid deserves someone who knows something about clothes.”
Barbra nudged my knee with her foot.
“I doubt anyone else is going to discover her being bullied in a Salad Stop and ask her to model in a fashion show.”
“Maybe that was her bad luck,” I said.
“No way, man,” said Booker. “You’re going to make her something reckless and revolutionary. Change her whole life for the radder.”
“Radder?” said Barbra. “Really?”
He shrugged his big shoulders. “It’s like rad, but more so.”
Two hours later I was staring down at a page of naked fashion figures, their spindly limbs angled into unnatural positions. It was ten thirty, and Barbra was asleep on my bed, looking perfectly neat and composed. In a minute I had to wake her up to walk her home. Booker still sat on the floor, which is his preference because like a lot of tall guys, especially ones who carry a bit of extra weight, he’s got a bad back. He was leafing through some of the fashion books I’d borrowed from the library. He didn’t look up when he began speaking. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll come up with something. If you listen, people will always tell you what they need.”
That was Booker. Mr. Deep when you least expect it. Destiny was an ass for not calling him back.
I leaned my head back and stared at the shadows and the water stains on the ceiling. My grandparents’ house needed a new roof. It would take me the rest of my life working at the Salad Stop to buy Gram and Gramps a new roof.
“I started this whole thing as a sort of prank, and now a disadvantaged kid is expecting me to make something cool for her to wear.”
“Maybe you’ll find the perfect inspiration while you’re walking me home,” said Barbra, her voice thick with sleep.
“Oh, B,” I said. “Why wouldn’t you agree to be my model? I could send you down a runway in a sleeping bag, and you’d look good.”
“You know why.”
She’d lifted herself onto her elbows. She smiled sleepily at me, and for an instant I could do anything. Be anyone. And it didn’t matter that I was not private-school or college material or even the kind of person who was supposed to dream big.
I answered my own question. “You won’t model for me because you’re not into clothes and don’t like being the center of attention.”
“Exactly. You’ll figure something out for the kid. All I ask is that you don’t turn into one of those people we can’t stand.”
“Me?” I said. “Are you kidding?”
“I’m on the alert for goofy facial hair, suspenders, dumb caps. If I see any of that, I’ll have to step in. Remind you who you are.”
“John, brother, the thing you need to remember is that you always look good,” said Booker. “You’ve got that je ne s— You know, that French word that means you look good.”
“Je ne sais quoi. It means ‘I don’t know,’ not ‘you always look good.’ Do me a favor and don’t start using bad French. All these fashion people are heavy into the mangled French.” I know enough from my grandmother, who is from New Brunswick, to know when French is being abused, but I don’t know enough to speak it well myself.
The kids who attend Green Pastures all probably speak French fluently. They probably even have Parisian accents, thanks to all their annual field trips and summers spent at their second homes in the South of France. I thought of Tesla. She looked like someone who spoke French. Flawlessly.
Barbra was sitting on the side of the bed, pulling on her boots.
“Since we’re on the subject of fashion, do you think Destiny would like it if I dressed like a cowboy?” asked Booker.
“Destiny would like it if you dressed like someone who sold Ecstasy and drove a Trans Am. Scratch that. Destiny would like it if you actually sold Ecstasy and actually drove a Trans Am,” said Barbra.
“A man who works at the Crumb for his daily bread cannot be driving Trans Ams,” said Booker.
“Nor should he want to,” said Barbra.
“How does an Ecstasy dealer dress, anyway?”
“Look at the Facebook photos of her last two boyfriends,” I suggested.
“Harsh, John. Unnecessarily harsh,” said Booker.
“Good luck, big guy,” said Barbra. She knelt and gave Booker a big hug. For a smaller girl, she gives big hugs. She was bundled into her big woolen coat. I loved her in that coat. It made me want to snuggle her.
“I’ll probably be gone when you get back,” Booker told me. “It should be late enough for me to avoid interacting with the maternal death star.”
Barbra and I walked the three blocks to her house in silence. The streets were still and dark. A car pulsing with bass passed us, and I pulled her farther onto the sidewalk, away from the road. Someone threw a beer can out the window. It clattered down wet, black pavement. Red taillights blinked out around a corner like a tiny emergency, and the can finally came to a stop against the curb.
B let go of my hand and reached down to pick it up. I felt guilty for a second, because it hadn’t even occurred to me.
She set the can next to a telephone pole.
“A few cents for a bottle collector,” she said.
“You’re a good woman, B.”
She gave me a sharp look.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. When I’m around you, I’m just aware of how good you are. Especially in comparison to me.”
“Don’t be a goof,” she said.
B and I have been together for four years. Sometimes it feels like forty.
“What? It’s a compliment,” I said.
We’d reached her driveway, and I walked her to the door. The motion-sensor lights came on and blinded me for a second. She pulled me in close and kissed me. The light went out, and she slipped inside the house, one arm extending to wave at me briefly, like a drowning person.
I was a block away when I sent the text. I wish I could say Tesla sent it, but that would be a lie.
I could use some advice. Got a model but I don’t know what to make for her.
The reply came back in less than a minute.
Can I help?
Are you allowed?
I asked.
Like that was a big concern for me. Mr. Ethical.
While Tesla and I texted back and forth, my phone buzzed. Buzzed again. New messages. They’d be
from Barbra. She always checks to make sure that I get home okay. I ignored the beeps.
Why not? I’m not a judge. I’m a helper. Let’s get together.
When?
What are you doing next Monday after school?
PD day for the teachers. No school.
Come to Green Pastures for lunch. We’ll discuss your predicament.
I kept stopping to read and respond to her texts. I was blown away by the fact that she texted the word “predicament.” I was in front of my grandparents’ place and had just sent Tesla a text saying I’d be there Monday at noon when I realized Booker was outside on the stoop, waiting for me. There was a big bag of chips beside him, and he dipped his hand into it steadily and relentlessly in that automatic way he snacks. Like he’s completely unaware of what he’s doing.
I slid my phone into my pocket.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m just getting ready to leave.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Who were you texting?”
“B,” I said, putting a guilty hand into my pocket and then taking it out.
“Really?” He wiped his salt-covered chip hand on the step and then on his jeans. “Because I was just shooting texts back and forth with her. She said you weren’t responding to her texts and she worried you might have been mugged or drive-by toilet-papered or something. You were making us nervous, man.”
“Maybe there’s something wrong with my phone. I just sent her one saying I was home.”
“Okay,” he said. He got heavily to his feet and handed me the half-empty bag of salt-and-vinegar Lay’s.
“Take these, okay? They’re making me hate myself.”
I held the bag, and he clapped me on the shoulder.
“Keep yourself right,” he said.
Then he was gone.
Slogan for John Thomas-Smith’s Line of Antifashion T-shirts
As beautiful as fashion imagery can be, the so-called dream that the industry projects can lead to unhealthy behaviour. According to the National Eating Disorders Association, twenty years ago, the average model weighed 8 percent less than the average woman. Today’s models weigh 23 percent less.
