by Susan Juby
—IMRAN AMED
eighteen
HERE’S AN IDEA © CHARLIE DEAN DESIGNS:
Treat yourself to an all-one-color day once a week. All yellow, all orange, all blue. Truly commit by making sure your socks and underwear match. You will find these all-one-color days incredibly energizing and calming. Like a palate cleanser for the eye!
DATE: MARCH 16
Days until fashion show: 49
When it was time to measure Mischa on Saturday night, as we’d arranged, she didn’t show up. Quelle drag!
I had adjusted the design and accessories to take into account some of her special requirements. We would hide old track-mark scars on her arms with long gloves, or I’d make arm sleeves that would leave bare half her biceps and shoulders, both of which are nicely toned.
I would adjust my dressmaker’s forms to be her exact size and shape. She’s not as tall or as paper-thin as the ideal runway model, but she’s got lovely proportions. Once I had her carefully measured, I’d cover the padded and altered forms with a muslin casing. After that, I would purchase muslin in approximately the same weight as the fabric I intended to use, drape it onto the dress form, then use the muslin to make a toile of the dress, and then use that to make the pattern. After that I would buy the fabric from . . . somewhere!
If I had every resource, as couture designers do, I would start with the fabric and work out from there. That wouldn’t be possible in this case because I still didn’t know where I was going to get fabric for my designs.
While I waited for Mischa, I drew details for hems and seams and made notes about finishing techniques. I read my favorite fashion blogs and reread a tattered copy of Worn, an alternative fashion magazine that I absolutely adore.
I finally went to bed at two thirty a.m. and was woken an hour and a half later by a commotion outside the house.
At first, I tried to pretend I didn’t hear the loud knock followed by a high-pitched voice demanding to be let in.
When I could ignore it no longer, I got out of bed and crept across my room to listen against the door.
Was Mischa out there, making a racket because she was sorry about missing her appointment to be measured? Had she been out for an incredibly early jog and decided to stop by?
I nearly laughed out loud. Any time une droguée, which means “a drug addict” in French, jogged at four a.m., it was usually not in pursuit of health or missed beauty appointments.
There were no noises from my father’s bedroom. I’d been concentrating too hard on my work to notice when he’d gone to bed. He knows to leave me alone if the door to my room is closed. He understands the artistic process.
I knew I would find another model if Mischa dropped out, but I really hoped it wasn’t her out there. Here’s a drop of wisdom for the Alateen newsletter. If Mischa was high, then Mischa was no longer the person Charlie had met and liked. She would be just another one of my father’s unhappy ladies. Addicts change when they use, become different people. My father had told me this, more than once.
“Don’t trust me when I’m high, Charlie,” he said. “My words are not worth the air they float away on when I’m using.”
This was hardly news to me.
As I huddled behind my bedroom door, heart beating the rhythm of high alert, there was the creak and a shuffling noise. My father was getting out of bed and going to open the front door. I willed my breath steady.
Would there be police this time? Or just neighbors watching the action unfold? It was all so tawdry. And tiring. How was a person supposed to maintain the semblance of a beautiful, creative life when other people insisted on conducting their sordid dramas on her doorstep?
Muttering. More muttering.
Then the front door closed and footsteps padded back down the hall. One set of steps only.
I opened my door and peeked out. My father stood in the hallway in his T-shirt and track pants. Looking as normal as my father ever looks.
“Charlie girl?” he said.
“Yes?”
“Did the noise wake you up?”
“Yes. But I wasn’t sleeping that hard.”
“Sorry about that. The lady from across the street lost her dog. And my guess is that she may have misplaced her meds. She’s going up and down the street looking for both of them.”
“Oh,” I said. My heart finally dropped back into its accustomed place. “It wasn’t Mischa?”
“She texted me yesterday. She’s in Comox this weekend. Visiting her family.”
“She was supposed to come by tonight, I mean, last night, so I could take her measurements.”
“She must have gotten the day wrong. She’s excited about modeling for you. About the dress you’re designing for her. You have a real gift, Charlie girl.”
“Thanks,” I said. No matter what his problems and the mistakes he’s made, my dad is a nice person.
“I’m not getting high,” he said, as though we’d been having a frank discussion about the matter. “I know I’ve been acting a little sketchy, lately. I’ve been worried about Mischa and I am a little sick, but not dope-sick. I don’t blame you for suspecting me of chipping. But I promise I’m not. I’ve just got a little cold and am generally run-down.”
My blood pressure dropped still further.
Here’s another little tidbit about having an addict in the family for those who have not had the pleasure. Yet.
If they so much as sneeze wrong, you think they’re getting high. That is, unless your commitment to ignoring the problem is total. If you’re a sailor on the river Denial you could find them OD’d, surrounded by paraphernalia, and you’d attribute the situation to mild exhaustion. I lean more toward the paranoid side of things.
I thought he was probably telling the truth, but even if he wasn’t, I appreciated the lie. Pretending he was clean was the next best thing to his actually being clean. My motto: If he’s lying, he’s trying. (This is an inversion of the Narcotics Anonymous saying—trying is dying—which I find unduly harsh.)
When mon père is in full-scale self-destruct mode, he stops caring enough to even tell me what I want to hear. That is not the mode you ever want to see your drug-affected loved one in. No monsieur.
We stood silently in the dark hallway for a long beat.
“That’s good, Jacques,” I said. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Don’t you worry about me,” said my dad. “You’ve had to do too much of that already. I’ll get back on top of my game. I just need extra sleep for a few days.”
My dad, in common with a lot of IV drug users, has a touch of hepatitis. It keeps his energy low and his chances of getting liver cancer high. We don’t talk about it.
“I’m real proud of you, Charlie Dean,” he said. “You’re going to win this competition. I can’t imagine any of the other candidates being a better designer than you. You really are remarkable.”
It was a nice moment in the hallway with my dad there in the dark of the predawn morning.
“You going to go back to sleep?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, even though I probably wouldn’t because I had too much to do.
“You work too hard. I really have no idea where you get that from.” He laughed. And so did I.
“So Mischa is coming back, then? She still wants to model for me?” I said.
“Absolutely. She’s gotten out of that bad thing with her ex. I think she feels like this modeling experience is going to be a major turning point in her recovery. How great is that?”
“It’s really great,” I said.
“You’re just one of those people, Charlie Dean. You can’t help but make things special.”
“Good night, Dad,” I said, inappropriately, since it was morning.
“Good morning, Charlie girl,” he said.
nineteen
&
nbsp; MARCH 17
My feeling that fashion and fashion people are eating my brain is getting stronger. I’m starting to notice what people have on. I’m spending precious time in my life considering whether the cut and style of their clothes suit them. Worse, my fellow contestants are everywhere.
It’s awful and embarrassing and even sort of uncanny.
Today I was on my way to the scarily named Squid’s Fish & Chip Shack with Booker and Barbra when I saw Charlie Dean. I figured I’d been so rude to her that she’d stay away, but no. She crossed the street and came straight toward us.
“Hi, John,” she said, planting herself in our way.
“Hey.”
I could feel Booker and B checking her out. B doesn’t like people who make a spectacle of themselves, and Charlie Dean was a spotlit spectacle all the way from her complicated hairstyle to her polished shoes. She had on a black-and-white-checked suit, supertight and old-fashioned, and brown high heels that managed to be the opposite of sexy. This was her Sunday afternoon outfit. I wondered how she dressed on Saturday night.
“How’s your look coming?” she asked. No social niceties for Charlie Dean. All business.
“Fine,” I said.
“That’s good,” she said. I knew she wanted more details. I didn’t give them to her. It helped that I didn’t have any.
Barbra moved to stand closer to me, and she elbowed me in the side as she introduced herself.
“I’m Barbra,” she said. “So you’re another fashion contestant?”
“Yes,” said Charlie Dean. “Nice to meet you.” She cocked her head to the side and stared at B, who wore jeans and sneakers and an old cord jacket lined with fleece. “Your outfit is perfect for you. It accentuates so many good things.”
Barbra’s head reared back in surprise.
“Oh,” she said. “Well, thanks.”
Charlie looked at all of us. “In fact, I love everything about the three of you. Your whole look is just wonderful and effortless.” A pause. “I don’t do effortless myself, but I like it in other people.”
Booker and B were grinning, enjoying funny and peculiar Charlie Dean.
“If you want to join some of the rest of us in the competition to work on your look at school, we meet in the old art room at noon. It’s nice. But sort of intimidating.” She nodded briskly. “Okay. Good-bye.” And off she went down the street. She had an odd way of walking. She sort of leaned back with her torso so it looked like her hips led the way. A huge leather purse hung over her arm. Charlie Dean reminded me of a marionette.
“I love her,” said Booker and B together. They slapped each other’s hands.
“Let’s invite her for fish and chips,” said B. “I want to hear you tell her about your look.”
“Ha, ha,” I said. “You two are hilarious. You should have your own show. And that girl would eat my kidneys if it would help her win the scholarship.”
“I think she’s charming,” said B. “She likes my look.”
“She likes our look,” said Booker. “We’ll discuss it further at Squid’s.”
For the rest of the afternoon I did my best to pretend that everything was normal and that I wasn’t meeting another girl to discuss fashion, a girl B wouldn’t find nearly so funny as Charlie Dean.
twenty
HERE’S AN IDEA © CHARLIE DEAN DESIGNS:
If you are in a competitive situation, wear a black body suit. It doesn’t matter your size or age. Wear thin black leather gloves and frown a lot. You will win that competition. And feel like a stealthy cat burglar!
DATE: MARCH 17
Days until fashion show: 48
Mischa showed up on Sunday evening at about five o’clock, and I don’t know which of us was happier to see her: me or my dad. It was wonderful to open the door together, and I feel certain we wore matching father-daughter grins. I was relieved to see her with no new injuries.
Jacques was kind and let me take her away to measure her, and she stood patiently while I took measurement after measurement.
“I’m going to have a panic attack to end all panic attacks before this thing is over, aren’t I?”
“Absolument pas!” I said.
“Charlie?”
My dad’s voice sounded from behind the door.
“You almost done? Misch and I are going to a meeting. We need to leave soon.”
I opened the door, and Mischa walked out to meet Jacques. They both looked very happy and full of possibility.
It was strange to be so happy in my own home. With one of my father’s ladies.
It had been great to see one of my fellow contestants on the street and have a nice talk. John and I are getting along quite well, although his calm confidence about his look makes me nervous. Everyone else is very stressed out, but he seems like he barely cares. I guess it’s all part of his laid-back style. His girlfriend is so beautiful and as natural as a willow bough in a spring breeze. His friend is also fabulous. He wears his heaviness well and seems so marvelously good-natured.
Everything really is coming together. It’s like I’ve always said: All good things are possible if you try hard and stay stylish.
Jacques and Mischa called out a good-bye when they left, and I copied the measurements into my computer and then began to decide what would come next. That’s when I heard a vehicle pull up outside.
Were my dad and Mischa back already?
I looked out the window into the new dark of the evening and saw Mischa’s van parked in the driveway. A large black truck idled in front of our small, ungraceful house.
Was our landlord driving a new vehicle? He usually drove a small gray truck. It was nowhere near the first, and we were up to date on the rent. I walked out the front door with my cell phone, ready to take a video or a photo or something to document his latest intrusion, but whoever was in the truck turned on the lights and peeled away. I caught only a glimpse of the driver under the streetlight. It wasn’t Mr. Devlin.
When I went back inside, I was careful to lock the door. I went back into my room and engaged all the locks.
twenty-one
MARCH 18
When B asked what I was doing with our extra day off school, I told her I had to help my grandmother’s friend move some furniture. When Booker asked if I wanted to go to the skate park that afternoon, I told him the same thing. I may be a liar, but at least I’ve got my story straight.
There was something surreal about going to Green Pastures for lunch. It wasn’t just that the place felt like a massive monument to the unfairness of life and that every time I went there I felt like I was going through the front doors of the country club when I should have been going through the servants’ entrance on my way to the dish pit. The real issue with my visit to the Land of the Severely Overprivileged was that it was a whole new shade of shady.
Not only was I lying to my girl and my best friend, I was getting one over on the other contestants. They didn’t get to go to Green Pastures for lunch and/or get advice from one of Mr. Carmichael’s right-hand people. I was basically flying the Hypocrite Copter for Channel 7.
I justified it by telling myself it was all for Esther. I repeated that to myself when I locked up my bike and walked over to meet Tesla, who had just come out of the front doors.
She wore a gray dress. Plain, but probably the nicest dress I’ve ever seen. It looked as soft and petable as a sleeping kitten. The sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and the hem reached just below her knee and was belted at the waist. It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen for reasons I didn’t understand. I had to stop myself saying “wow” like some guy whose prom date has just come down the stairs.
“Hello,” I said, and stuck out my hand. “Nice to see you.”
She shook it, a bemused expression on her face.
“Well, hello,” she said. “Shall I escor
t you to the boardroom, or would you prefer to go straight to the corner office?”
“Sorry I’m being weird. This place makes me nervous.”
“Don’t be.”
The bell rang, and the students who started coming out of the doors looked, at first glance, like any students. Hungry. Bored. Worried. Hungry. Relieved. Hungry.
“Ready for lunch?” she asked.
“Yeah. I guess so.”
The people I know usually go to the corner store or the dumpy pizza place next to the gas station for lunch. None of us goes to the cafeteria at Jackson because it specializes in some seriously unfine dining. Gray meatloaf that tastes like it was made with chunks of erasers, eerily flavorless acid-green Jell-O, lumpy potato-starch goo, and carrots that taste like leftovers from the first Iraq war. Not the one in the 2000s, but the first military coup in 1936.
I had a feeling lunch at Green Pastures would be different.
“Come on,” said Tesla. With the exception of her dress, everything about her was golden and shining. Her hair, her skin. Even her fingernails were painted gold. It was like having lunch with a Disney Princess at her fantasy magic school. I felt plain. And hungry. And guilty. But at least I felt something other than resentful, which was a nice change.
We walked through the crowd, and I listened to random bits of conversation.
— “I want to try that stamp-on copper sheeting.”
— “I disagree with what she said about Chagall.”
— “The full potential of Silly Putty hasn’t been reached.”
— “It’s about capturing light. That’s why I’m making my own pinhole camera to document this piece.”
Not long ago this kind of talk would have made me want to punch a wall. But some crack had opened up in me, and a sense of strange possibility was leaking in. What would it be like to finish each class all fired up about some cool thing you learned? It must be amazing to end each day consumed with something other than disappointment at yourself and the world.
