The Fashion Committee

by Susan Juby

  “Laser cutter, spot welder, bending machine. You don’t need art school.”

  I shrugged. I would have liked to be around people interested in the same things. Booker and B hung out in the shop sometimes, but it wasn’t any fun for them.

  I walked to the big worktable and showed the throwing star.

  He pulled a hair clip out of the pocket of his hoodie. “I don’t think this makes the most of that star. Maybe you should do something else with it. Get a little more innovative. You’ve got the skills and the setup here. Why not make a statement? Green Pastures is all about the grand gesture. Save subtlety for college.”

  “You think?”

  “Yup.” Then Brian looked around and nodded. “We’ve got a good shop at school, but it’s not better than this.”

  “Yeah. I’m lucky.”

  Brian began to inspect the metal sculptures on the floor and the smaller pieces that lined the walls. He looked up at the welded killer whale skeleton hanging from the ceiling, the crouching goblin being scary in the corner, the violent unicorn. My stuff mostly just collects dust, or it would if my grandpa didn’t come out and blow everything off with his little motorcycle blower every couple of weeks. Gramps is convinced they’re all great works of art.

  All I know is that when I do my metalwork, everything else disappears. It’s as much fun to visualize the sculptures as it is to figure out how to make them. There’s something about turning steel rods and sheet metal into art that feels powerful. Takes all my brainpower and all my physical strength. Metal is fair. I guess that’s best way to put it. Plus, I can make my own weapons, which is cool.

  “This one is excellent,” said Brian, pointing at a knee-high bull. It was made of interlocking metal panels on a wire frame. It had come out well, I thought. Booker said it was his favorite thing I’d done. Barbra’s favorite thing was the chained, barking dog.

  I liked the pair of giant hands in chicken wire. It had taken me a long time to get them just right.

  “Thanks.”

  “If it was a straight metalwork scholarship competition, you’d get in for sure.”

  I half laughed.

  “Too late for me,” I said. “Fashion is my last chance at the place.”

  Brian held up the giant wire hands in his own two hands. They sat on an oval platform.

  “These are really cool,” he said. “Can you move the fingers?”

  I nodded and bent one. “Yeah, but you have to be careful.”

  “Make sure you send pictures of all this stuff with your application for art college.”

  It was strange to hear him talk like me going to college was a given.

  Brian put the hands back on the shelf and started inspecting the wolf and serpent locked in an epic metal battle in the corner.

  “Cool,” he muttered.

  “I cheated on my girl. With one of the girls in the fashion program,” I said.

  He inspected the battling creatures, but I could tell he was listening.

  “I don’t know why I did it. I guess I just wanted to be in that world for a while. And I was kind of shocked that the girl, the fashion one, was even interested in me.”

  Brian, whose last name I didn’t know, was like some monk confessor standing in my garage. He kept his gaze on my metalwork sculptures.

  “I have to tell my girlfriend. Her name is Barbra. We’ve been together since eighth grade.”

  Why was I telling this guy all of this stuff? Probably because he didn’t ask questions. Also because he came right over to help me weld a throwing star onto a hair clip on a Friday night, even though we both probably knew I could do it myself.

  “I guess I need to tell both of them. Deal with the consequences. I can’t keep this up. The lies. My girlfriend is going to hate me. I already hate me.”

  “It’s hard,” he said. “I’ve been there. In the neighborhood, at least.”

  “Cheating on someone?”

  “Getting caught up in lies and bullshit. Making a mess. Letting down people who care about me.”

  “I don’t know how to tell her. Them.”

  Brian replaced the battling creatures onto the metal shelf.

  “Do it in the way that causes the least harm to the people you screwed. So to speak.”

  “So to speak,” I said.

  Neither of us laughed.

  Then we spent twenty minutes talking about welding and metalwork, and I came up with a better idea for using the throwing star.

  John Thomas-Smith’s Inspiring Saying for the Mood Board:

  ________________________ .

  PART SIX

  Putting on a Show

  thirty-two

  HERE’S AN IDEA © CHARLIE DEAN DESIGNS:

  Looking for beauty means looking past, over, and through the ugly. Luckily, there’s beauty almost everywhere, so you won’t go blind.

  DATE: MAY 4

  Days until fashion show: 0

  We pulled into the empty parking lot at 9:12 a.m. Mischa’s face was drawn and pale, and the scratch on her face looked inflamed. When I was not saying positive and encouraging things, I tried to think of what foundation and concealer combination I’d use to hide it. Then again, perhaps the damage to her skin, like the damage to the bodice of her dress, should be accentuated rather than hidden for dramatic effect? I’d have to experiment. Good thing we were de bonne heure!

  Mischa parked so the van faced the school.

  The two of us stared straight ahead. I leaned in from my gauche but comfortable leather passenger seat. In front of us Green Pastures beckoned, bathed by spring morning light.

  “What time did you say the show starts?” asked Mischa, stifling a huge, jaw-cracking yawn.

  “One,” I said, and wondered how she could forget such an important detail.

  “It’s going to take us that long to get ready?” asked Mischa. “We could have gotten more sleep.”

  “You can sleep while I do your hair and makeup,” I said.

  Mischa sighed. Yawned again.

  “You stay here. I’m going to knock on doors to find someone to let us in.”

  “There are no other cars in this parking lot.”

  “It’s a very good school. I bet they have someone on-site twenty-four hours a day.”

  I pulled back the side door on the van and walked quickly up to the front doors and tried them. Locked. I rapped the door with my knuckles. No answer. I did the same at a side door, near the office. Nothing. I went all the way around the entire school, knocking on doors, getting no response.

  The school was much larger than it appeared. I tried the wide double doors on the Carving Shed without luck and looked in the windows of each pod. All dark. All empty.

  By the time I was back in front of the school, I had to admit defeat, at least temporarily. If there was a caretaker inside, she was asleep in a closet. Merde! Oh well, we’d be first in when someone finally showed up, which was sure to be soon.

  I made my way back across the empty parking lot to the van. Mischa wasn’t in the driver’s seat. She must have gone into the back of the van to relax. It was like an old person’s living room back there, with two small seats and a table that turned into a bed, cupboards, and another bench seat against one wall. There was even an old TV installed in one corner. It was an absurd but cozy vehicle, even if the medical-supply-blue shade of the carpet and furnishings caused my eyes to experience low-grade depression.

  I slid the side door open and climbed in, ready to tell Mischa we’d have to wait. What I saw in the van made the words die in my throat.

  Mischa was pressed against the far bench seat. Damon bent over her. He had her trapped between his arms, which were braced against the walls of the van. I caught sight of something shiny and metal in his right hand.

  Mischa saw me, and her eyes were massive an
d terrified, like those of a horse in a burning barn. Damon was slow to turn around. When he did, I saw that he was in much worse shape than he’d been two nights ago. Eyes bloodshot, a ferocious burn across his face, culminating in a big white blister on the bridge of his nose. And high. Damon looked so very high.

  He started to say something, his words coming out slurred but intense. He’d knocked over my rolling case. My dress! Had the monster gone after my dress again? The garment bag had been knocked to the floor.

  A siren seemed to go off in my head. UNACCEPTABLE! UNACCEPTABLE!

  Before I knew what he had in his hand, or understood what he was saying, I was on the move. Charlie Dean had finally been pushed too far.

  I reached him before he or I knew what was happening. Whatever I said was more of a wail than a warning. Because really! Enough was enough when it came to this abusive and astonishingly thoughtless and vicious creature composed entirely of BAD TASTE.

  My speed startled both of us, and he stumbled back, caught a foot on some edge of the furniture crowding the van, and went down, wacking the side of his head against the little table. I was on him like a wild animal, and he struck out, but Mischa kicked at him and he rolled to get away from her feet. It felt like there were fifteen of us in that van.

  The next thing I knew I was kneeling on his back, enjoying the feeling of my knees digging into his stupid ribs. I felt one crack beneath me and was glad.

  “Hold him!” I said, huffing and puffing.

  Mischa grabbed at an arm, but he’d gone limp.

  “Get me my bag!” I panted.

  Mischa reached for a bag and shoved it at me.

  “Not that one. That one is hairpieces. The big one!”

  She snatched the biggest bag from the floor of the van and pushed it toward me. I plunged my hand inside and pulled out a roll of binding tape, too full of adrenaline to consider what I was doing.

  I wrapped the cotton twill around and around his wrists. He still didn’t struggle. I tied it off, panting.

  “Don’t let him move!” I gasped. “I’m getting the double-sided!”

  “Charlie?” said Mischa, as I dove into the bag, grabbed a roll of adhesive, and started wrapping it around his already bound wrists. Then I did the same to his ankles.

  “Charlie? What are you doing?” asked Mischa. She sat on the floor of the van, legs splayed in front of her, staring.

  Damon stirred under me but didn’t speak or try to get up.

  “He’s fine!” I said. “This is all totally fine.”

  His wrists were encased in a half inch of cotton twill and a layer of sticky tape I’d wrapped around and between them. So were his ankles.

  “Okay,” I said, panting from exertion. “Good.”

  “I’ll call the police,” said Mischa, uncertainty in her voice. I eased off his back and tried to catch my breath.

  I thought of how they’d looked at her when we’d called before. Their long stares at her track marks. How they’d treated my father.

  Then I thought of the show.

  What were the chances they’d be done talking to us in time for me to get Mischa ready and show my looks?

  Nil! The chances were nil! If we called the police, they would want to interview us. They’d want to take evidence. Statements. Not only would I not be the first one in the dressing room, I wouldn’t have time to dress Mischa, do her hair or her makeup at all. We might not even be done in time for Mischa to walk.

  This . . . creature could not be allowed to destroy my future.

  “No,” I said. “We’ll call later.”

  Mischa gawked at me.

  “What are you talking about?” said Mischa.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Charlie?”

  “Crazy bitch,” said Damon into the carpet.

  “We’re not calling the police right now,” I said. “I don’t have the time. We have a fashion show to do. We’ve got hair and makeup. We don’t have time for police interviews. I am not missing this.”

  Mischa’s mouth hung open as she stared. If she didn’t have such good bone structure, she would have looked very unappealing.

  “The police might just let him go again. Then we’ll have missed the fashion show for nothing. My future is riding on this afternoon.”

  “You’re going to pay for this, you dumb cow. You attacked me,” said Damon.

  “I defended us. And my gown. We’ll call the police when the show is over. Tell them we just captured him. They don’t need to know we got him a few hours earlier. They won’t believe anything he says. We’ll keep him in here. Gag him so he doesn’t make noise. It’s just for a few hours. He can sober up while he’s waiting. Think about his behavior, consider how he might turn his life around and get onto a more positive and creative path.”

  Damon tried to thrash around but it was a halfhearted effort.

  “Charlie Dean, that’s kidnapping!” said Mischa.

  “It’s self-defense. And effective time management. He brought this on himself.”

  “Fuuuu— ” said Damon, attempting to smash his feet down on the floor several times like an overtired flopping tuna, before I sat on them.

  “I think we’ve heard and seen enough out of you,” I said. “It’s time for you to be quiet.”

  “Oh my god. This is starting to seem like one of those movies where somebody ends up in a wood chipper,” said Mischa.

  Damon gave a cry of distress.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “Think of it as a time-out. For someone with extremely bad manners. Find me his phone.”

  Mischa hesitantly reached into his pocket and pulled it out, inspected it.

  “It’s dead.”

  “Good,” I said. “He doesn’t need to be distracted by phone calls right now. And don’t you be afraid of him. He’s done hurting people.”

  A few minutes later, we’d flopped Damon over and moved him so his back was against one of the single seats, which we swiveled around to face the back of the van. I wrapped the tape around his torso to fasten him securely to the chair. His feet were tied to the leg of the table in front of him. His bound wrists were hog-tied to his legs so he couldn’t slam them against anything.

  I put a muslin gag in his mouth. He tried to head butt me, but I evaded him and he stopped struggling.

  I bent over him, keeping far enough back that he wouldn’t be able to try another head butt. My hair had come loose in the fracas, and I didn’t need a broken bone in my face to go with the black eye.

  “Are you comfortable?” I asked.

  He stared at me with his bloodred eyes. Blinked slowly.

  “Do you need the bathroom? Nod if you do.”

  He shook his head slowly.

  “We’ll check on you frequently to make sure you’re okay. This is your chance to sleep off whatever you’ve been taking. The police will come and get you in a few hours. It’ll be better for you if you’re sober when they come. Otherwise you might get injured during your arrest. Maybe even shot.”

  “Mmmmmmfffff,” said Damon.

  “Do you feel like you need to throw up?”

  He glared.

  “Good,” I said. “You’ll be fine. And remember, you have brought this on yourself.”

  “I think I’m having a panic attack,” said Mischa. I told her to bend over and breathe slowly.

  Damon sagged against his restraints.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Get some sleep. This will be over soon.”

  “This is so screwed up,” said Mischa.

  I leveled my sternest gaze at her.

  “Really?” I said. “You feel bad? He assaults you multiple times. Assaults me and attacks my clothes. And you feel bad?”

  She looked down.

  I reminded myself that it is not helpful to get angry with the
domestic abuse survivor and tried to change my tone. “It’s not surprising you feel that way. You must push that aside. This is for his own good and for ours. You’re moving on. We all are. Even him.”

  “Mmmmfff,” said Damon.

  “What if someone hears him?” asked Mischa. “We’re so going to jail for kidnapping.”

  “It’s not kidnapping. It’s storage. Move the van to the back of the lot, facing front.”

  She nodded, her face pale and perfect but for the angry red streak down her right cheek.

  “Do you have something we can put in the front window?”

  Another nod. “There’s a privacy screen.”

  “Perfect. We’ll put that up. Does the TV work?”

  “I think so,” said Mischa. “Everything in here has been charged up.”

  “Great!” I said, trying to convey cheeriness and positivity. Because really, what other choice was there?

  “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine,” I said.

  When we’d tucked the van away, the three of us sat in silence. Mischa was motionless on a bench seat, Damon on the floor. I stared out the windshield. A small van pulled around to the side of the school at about ten minutes after ten. A woman got out and went to the door. I spread the privacy screen across the windshield, gathered my model and my gown and accessories, and we were off.

  thirty-three

  MAY 4

  I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who pulled up to Green Pastures on a bike that morning. I got there at 11:20, the dress in my backpack, accessories hanging in bags off my handlebars.

  There were quite a few vehicles in the parking lot already. I guess I could have showed up earlier, but then I’d have had to be there for longer.

  I locked my bike and stared at the front doors of the school.

  My life felt like a cracked vase about to fall off a tall table.

  Fashion people are completely focused on how things look. It’s like they operate via a feedback loop: look a certain way and you will be that way. If you were a certain way, you should look the part. Maybe there was something to that theory.