The Fashion Committee

by Susan Juby

  Barbra considered for a long moment. “I would call it striking.”

  “Sheryl?”

  “Interesting. Thoughtful. Funny. I think it’s a beautiful face.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I agree with all that. You’ve got a damned amazing face.”

  Without being asked, Barbra pulled her change purse from her pocket, withdrew four dimes, and pushed them toward me.

  “And physically?” I said. “You just couldn’t be any better. I mean, there are big kids and small kids and tall kids and short kids and kids who can walk and kids who can’t. They’ve all got something to recommend them physically. Everyone. Tell me about yourself, Esther. What do you recommend about your physical self? Sheryl? You can weigh in, too. Barbra? You’ve got eyes. What are you seeing here?”

  “She’s fast,” said Sheryl.

  “I can tell,” agreed Barbra. “And her skin seems good. Got her all wrapped up tight. And it’s a nice texture and color.”

  “I like her arms,” said Sheryl.

  “Look at those feet,” I said. Her feet in the filthy white sneaks seemed too big for her height in a way that was really charming. “They are awesome. I have always admired a good foot.”

  “I like to jump,” she said. “And I might be a dancer one day. Or something.”

  “Bam!” I yelled, and her eyes widened in alarm. “Right there! That’s the shit. Barbra? How much?”

  “A lot.”

  I dropped two more dimes in the pig.

  “Okay. I’m done swearing. I literally can’t afford to swear any more over your awesomeness, Esther. I’m out of money. It’s going to be a pleasure to make an outfit for you that showcases how cool and hilarious and fast you are.”

  Something worked behind Esther’s funny little face and Sheryl was hiding what I believe may have been a few actual tears. It was a performance, the Swan Lake of fashion consultations. Some tiny part of me imagined myself getting that little talk when I was her age. It would have to be enough that I got to give it to someone else.

  “I’ll call when it’s time for you to come in for a fitting. Until then.”

  Without hesitating, I grabbed my backpack and nodded at Barbra. We walked out like fashion ninjas, leaving Sheryl and Esther in the quiet kitchen.

  B grabbed my hand as we walked to the car. When we’d driven for five minutes, she pulled over and leaned over to kiss me.

  “You, John, are amazing and full of surprises.”

  I basked in the afterglow of my own words, of my girl-friend’s kiss, and the possibilities of style, at least theoretically.

  John Thomas-Smith’s Indictment against Fashion and Fashion People:

  I got nothing. My anger has failed me.

  twenty-four

  HERE’S AN IDEA © CHARLIE DEAN DESIGNS:

  If a friend has made a mistake, fashion or otherwise, it’s best to look at what is working and/or going right. For instance, someone may be wearing a shirt in a shade of yellow more malaria than marvelous. Aim the compliment at the fit of the pant or the color of the eye in the late-afternoon light. This is how long-lasting friendships are made. Caveat: if the bilious shirt is worn more than twice, it may be time to step in with a diplomatic word.

  DATE: MARCH 23

  Days until fashion show: 42

  Wonderful news! John visited the art room today. I think he was influenced by my invitation, and Jason and Cricket both asked him to stop by. I have a group of friends! Of course, they are also competitors, but it is nice to be among peers at something other than a support meeting about drug-addicted parents.

  I am thrilled that John came because I like having friends and he seems interesting. I have a feeling there’s more to him than meets the eye! Hidden depths! It’s not just his comment about intellectually rigorous design that makes me think that. There’s a secret seriousness to him that I find quite compelling.

  “Well, hello there,” said Jo. She was working on an embroidered collar piece. I was dying, dying to see her whole look, but we were all being very undercover and only bringing in small pieces of our work so no one could tell what we were up to.

  Jo looked absolutely gorgeous, as always. Her hair was tousled rebel goddess and her ensemble of sleeveless T-shirt and long basketball shorts that only about 2 percent of the female population could have pulled off successfully was pure fabulous elite athleteness. She’d already told me my outfit (a marvelous red suit, circa 1983) was the best thing she’d seen since the last outfit I had on. Jo is an amazing person. If Cricket is right and Jo really is flirting with me, then what does it mean that it makes perfect, wondrous sense to me? I guess I know what that means, and the knowledge is like a gift box opening in my heart. Like all gifts I receive, I will open it when the time seems auspicious.

  At first I thought John was just intimidated by Jo. I suspect most people are. She’s very imposing. But as Jason and Cricket and Jo asked him about his design for the competition and he avoided answering even the most basic questions, I began to suspect he was having trouble.

  Ooooh la la! How interesting. Mr. Intellectually Rigorous didn’t have it all wrapped up or in le sac, as the French like to say!

  But he did sit down and listen to us talk. We discussed the latest runway shows, our favorite fabrics and periods in fashion, designers and trends and bloggers. Shapes and textures and movies and music. We always pack a lot into our discussions because we’re all starving for good conversation. John listened so intently, it was as though he was studying us. Maybe that’s how all intellectuals listen.

  About half an hour after John arrived, his friend Booker, tall, broad shouldered, and wearing a big untucked plaid shirt, stuck his head into the room.

  “So B was right,” he said. “You are in here.”

  John Thomas-Smith blushed.

  The big guy popped the rest of his hot dog into his mouth, and it disappeared. “We wondered where you got to after math.” He looked at each of us and smiled. He had a lovely smile. Open and friendly. A fine, honest face that was maybe just a little bit hungry for . . . something.

  “Just leaving,” said John.

  “B’s waiting outside,” said the big guy. “I said we shouldn’t interrupt, but she said . . .” The sentence trailed off, and I could tell that he didn’t want to repeat what “B” had said. Somehow, I got the impression that B didn’t approve of fashion and fashion people. The way she’d looked at me when I saw them on the street suggested she was not a person who approved of deep style, which is what I have. She was the kind of au naturel beauty who would never work at it and so would never develop a sophisticated approach or aesthetic. That was as it should be. There can only be a few truly, deeply stylish people. Every one of us in the art room was rare and precious in that way. In the competition we would find out whether John was one of us or not.

  I felt a bit sorry for him that he didn’t have more support from his friends. I also wondered whether John had noticed that his best friend had a crush on his girlfriend.

  twenty-five

  MARCH 29

  Much as I hate to admit it and would never tell B and Booker, hanging around the other contestants, shallow oddballs that they are, gave me a lot of ideas.

  When I sat down at my desk, I had the same flicker of anxiety I’d felt every time I tried to come up with something for the contest. I thought about the other contestants and how they talked. They took inspiration from everything around them. I was only with them in that dingy old art room for about thirty minutes before Booker and B busted me, but in that time the other contestants, Cricket, Jo, Jason, and Charlie Dean, talked about art and culture and nature. They did it in that dippy way fashion people do, but I could tell they were using everything from video games to car designs to flowers and music to feed their imaginations. Embarrassingly, I found them sort of inspiring.

  The contrast betwee
n how they talked and what they talked about and how Booker and B talked was stark. All Booker and B did was make fun of them and crack in-jokes. I was in this space where I felt like I needed some distance from Booker and his neediness and the way he was always around and B with her sharp little remarks. Maybe I just felt guilty since I’d started lying to them. Whatever the reason, it was strange to think I felt freer sitting with the ridiculous fashion contestants in an abandoned art room than I did with the two people I was closest to.

  Listening to Charlie Dean and the others reminded me, indirectly, to keep an open mind when I did my design. So I tried to do that, even though my mind is not the open kind. I sat alone in my room and imagined Esther in New York City or Paris. I thought of her going to museums like that little French girl from the picture books, Madeline, I think is her name. Esther would take the subway to the museum and skateboard back until her family’s limo picked her up. Her outfit had to be sporty and kind of classic and experimental all at the same time.

  The dress I came up with landed somewhere between a basketball jersey and a tennis dress. Over the knee, but not too short, so Esther could run or ride and kick any asses that needed kicking. It had a white Peter Pan collar, because I think those look sharp.

  I know the description of the dress probably makes it sound shitty and plain, but it wasn’t. With Esther’s skinny legs and radical hair, I thought it would look just right on her. I added white stripes above the elbows and a couple of inches above the hem.

  She wasn’t going to look like any other kid around, especially not with the metal accessories I designed to be worn with the dress. The whole look—I apologize for using that word—would be offbeat and hilarious, just like her.

  Man, coming up with the dress and the accessories felt good.

  The problem now, obviously, was making the damned thing.

  I asked Grams about her sewing machine.

  “Oh, honey,” she said, “that thing is as old as me, nearly. I don’t even know if it works anymore. Just like me.” She laughed at her own joke, which is something she does. If you ever want to think you’re hilarious, hang out with my grams. She’ll laugh at anyone’s jokes, including her own.

  “Can I try it?”

  “Of course.”

  She showed me where it was stashed in the basement, and I carted it upstairs and down the hallway. It was like packing a cannon. I stood there, arms killing, back aching, trying to figure out where I should do the sewing. My workshop wasn’t clean enough. So I heaved the old beast into my room and let it crash down on my desk.

  “Careful, hon!” cried my Gran. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

  I had a design. I had a sewing machine, or at least a historical antique shaped like a sewing machine. Now I needed some fabric.

  I took all my money, which wasn’t a lot, and went to this little sewing store near our house. Stitcher-oo’s was full of bright materials stuffed into cubbyholes. Complicated blankets hung on every wall. I told the lady working in there what I was after. She informed me that Stitcher-oo’s is a quilting store, which apparently is different from a regular sewing store. Who knew? To save face and out of curiosity, I poked around for a while but didn’t see anything I could use, unless I wanted Esther to look like a Thanksgiving dinner table. I also noticed that all the sewing machines they had for sale were expensive. The cheapest one was over eight hundred bucks.

  Even sewing was elitist!

  The lady told me I should go to Fab Fabrics in the north end, a solid forty-five-minute bike ride away, and so off I went, cursing the day I’d decided to enter the competition, cursing the traffic, cursing the rain that was starting to spit down. Basically, just cursing.

  When I rode into the parking lot at Fab’s, which was at least ten times bigger than the quilting store, I thought for sure they’d have good material. When I saw Barbra had texted me, I didn’t text back. I don’t know why. Too busy cursing, I guess.

  None of the books I’d read had said much about how to pick and buy fabric and thread and all that other stuff, so I figured it had to be a pretty straightforward process.

  Inside, I watched the other customers and what they did, but they all looked sort of lost. Nobody smiled. Watching people look for materials was even worse than watching people go blank faced in front of a Salad Stop menu.

  There were about two people working in the whole place. One stood behind the counter, running the cash register, and the other was stationed behind a long table. People brought her fabric, and she wound lengths of it off a cardboard core and cut it.

  I spent a long time looking around and finally decided on some material that was the right color and heaviness. It was a nice dark blue. Then I found some white material for the stripes and collar and was happy to see it was on sale. The dress was practically made. I stepped into the lineup.

  Everyone in front of me had about ten different kinds of material, and it all looked awful, like pink shiny stuff and Easter egg–colored netting and so on.

  “Membership?” asked the cutting lady when it was finally my turn.

  “I’m sorry. What?”

  “A Fab Fabrics membership. Do you have one?”

  “No. Is this like Costco or something?”

  The cutter, who was probably in her early twenties, sighed. She wore an expression that I recognized on myself after I worked a long shift at the Salad Stop. It said that she had had enough of people forever. Her brown hair was pulled back and tucked into a half-assed bun, and her outfit under the apron didn’t seem too stylish, considering where she worked. So far, buying fabric was significantly less fun than stealing used clothes. It was even worse than trying to draw clothes.

  “You get a deal if you purchase a membership.” She pulled the two bolts of material I’d picked toward herself and inspected the labels.

  “This one,” she said, pointing at the blue material, “will be forty percent off with a membership. And this one”—she gestured at the white—“will be sixty percent off.”

  “Oh, so a membership is worth it,” I said.

  “It’s Fancy Friday, so the discounts are bigger.”

  “Okay, so how much is a membership?”

  Another bored sigh. “A hundred dollars.”

  “Holy,” I said. “I guess I’ll pay full price, then.”

  “Well, if you plan to buy other stuff, it will probably be worth it.”

  Was this going to be a one-time deal? What if I won and got into Green Pastures? Would I be allowed to drop out of the fashion program right away and go to one of the other programs? Metal arts? Carving? I thought about Tesla moving around the atelier. Talking about clothes. Fashion. Honey hair brushing her shoulders. Maybe I would make Tesla a dress next. Or Barbra. I loved B’s hair, too. But she probably wouldn’t wear anything I made.

  Shut up, John, I told myself. Just shut up.

  “Sir?” asked the cutting girl.

  “I’ll just get this,” I said.

  “How much?” she asked.

  “Regular price. Since I’m not getting the membership discount.”

  “I mean how much fabric would you like?”

  “I’m making a dress,” I told her. “For a ten-year-old.”

  She stared at me with a please-continue-saying-moronic-things-to-me-I-love-it look. Someone behind me in the line groaned.

  “It’s like sort of a medium-type dress for a regular-size kid. Like not a huge one or anything.”

  “Do you have a pattern?” asked the cutter, not enjoying customer servicing me at all.

  “I’m going to make it. The pattern, I mean. And the dress.”

  “Sure you are,” muttered some wiseacre behind me in the lineup.

  “You’re making her dress out of upholstery?” asked the cutter.

  “Is that bad?”

  “Well, it’s weird,” said a lady beh
ind me. “It’s going to be too heavy.”

  “I want it to be strong,” I said. “So she can rage around in it.”

  “Unless she’s a couch, she doesn’t need to rage around in a dress made of upholstery,” said another lady. “But it’s sweet of you to try. Is it going to be for your sister?”

  “Do yourself a favor. Buy a pattern,” said a third lady.

  The book full of drawings of the dress was in my backpack, but I didn’t want to show it to these ladies, who knew how to buy material and make stuff.

  “Right,” I said. “Okay.” Nowhere on the application form had it said that we couldn’t use store-bought patterns.

  I slunk away from the lineup and spent an hour looking at pattern books, but all the designs seemed sort of busted. There was nothing close to what I’d envisioned. Then came the announcement that the store would be closing in fifteen minutes. I had no pattern. No material. No clue.

  I walked outside and stood back far enough so I could get a picture of the neon sign for Fab’s and texted it to Tesla.

  Underneath the picture I wrote:

  So screwed.

  Less than a minute later she replied.

  What are you doing there?

  Looking for material.

  Mission Impossible. You’d better come over.

  Then she sent me the address.

  I slid the headlight onto my bike and turned on the back blinker so no one would run me over.

  x x x

  TESLA’S HOUSE WAS ON LONG LAKE. THERE WAS AN IRON gate and a winding driveway, the whole nine yards. Actually, the driveway seemed quite a bit more than nine yards. It was dark out, but I could see everything pretty well, since the fence and the cobbled driveway and the giant house were a chalky beige color that reflected all available light. Probably listed on swatches as Suburban Ghost.

  The iron gate was open, so I walked my bike through. Solar lights made the driveway into a landing strip.