by Susan Juby
Goddamn. That was the most seriously rock-and-roll piece of art. Contemporary and classic and sharp as hell.
Fashion. Who knew?
thirty-eight
HERE’S AN IDEA © CHARLIE DEAN DESIGNS:
When things get very bad, think of Dior and his New Look. He was vilified for changing the face of fashion. Sometimes visionaries face extreme opposition.
DATE: MAY 4
We’d done it. I’d shown my work to an appreciative audience. Mischa had been wonderful. We’d pulled it off! “I need to go to the bathroom,” said Mischa. “My anxiety.”
“Wait until after we take our bow,” I said. “Then we’ll get you out of the dress, and you can go.”
Mischa groaned but didn’t object, and the other contestants and their models returned backstage. I supposed they’d snuck into the atelier to watch. We complimented one another and laughed with relief and joy, and it was the best moment of my life.
Did I think of our guest in this moment? No. I did not. My brain was full and so was my heart.
After an indeterminate amount of time of standing around with the others, part of the fashion-mad crowd, half-ecstatic, half-exhausted, Bijou came in and told us to prepare to take our bows. It may have just been my imagination, but she may have looked at me with new respect. I think everyone did. Of course, I was looking at all of them with new respect, too.
We got into a line beside our models. When Tesla gestured, I took Mischa’s right hand, and we walked out in front of all the people. Oh, it was a moment to remember pour toujours!
The lights were brilliant onstage, but I could see Jacques in the third row, smiling up at us, like someone waiting for a casting call for a commercial featuring older hipsters. He smiled and smiled and looked from side to side to make sure everyone was looking at us. C’était adorable!
We bowed to the audience on one side, and then the audience on the other side, and they all stood and gave the standing ovation I’ve been waiting for my entire life. There were tears. Many of them mine; some of them on the faces of my fellow designers, our models, and our supporters in the audience. I got to see Jo’s spectacular gown with its exquisite handwork and thought perhaps she would win because it was so marvelous, and maybe it would be enough to have had this moment even if I didn’t win. We lined up on the stage to clap for one another and for the wonder of the moment and nodded to the committee.
And then we filed off the stage, high on fashion.
I helped Mischa out of her dress, and she got back into her jeans and T-shirt and rushed off to the bathroom. That’s one way we are different. I never want to get out of beautiful clothes and back into a jean or, god forbid, a sweatpant. I headed with the other designers and models to the atelier, where we would visit with the audience and have drinks and snacks while the judges considered which of us would have a new life.
I knew I should check on our guest, but I wanted just a bit more time in a world where problems like Mischa’s ex-boyfriend didn’t exist.
Mingling in the atelier, post-show, was like being a celebrity. Of course friends and families said how brilliant we were and how amazing our looks had been. But at least half the audience was made up of strangers: the principal of Green Pastures, Mr. Manhas, students, people from the community, and of course the mysterious and all-powerful committee members.
People asked all sorts of questions about our influences and techniques.
We were taken so seriously. It was marvelous! Marvelous!
Jacques came over and hugged me very hard.
“Charlie girl, you nailed it. And Mischa”—he turned to look for her—“wore the heck out of that dress.”
“She’s in the bathroom,” I told him.
He leaned in. “I already told you, but this experience has meant the world to her. I really think it changed the way she sees herself.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw John standing with his young model and her parents, then the three of them went to talk to someone else, and he stood alone. Before I could go over and congratulate him, he was joined by two older people, probably his grandparents. They said a few words and left.
Then he was alone again.
Where was his exquisite, au naturel girlfriend? Where was that big guy he hangs around with all the time?
My gaze traveled the room and found Jo. Who was staring at moi! Mon dieu! She was surrounded by at least ten people of all ages. The family of Jo was out in full force!
Before I could gather my courage to go to her and say hello, we were asked to gather together to hear the winner announced.
I’d tried to push thoughts of winning and losing from my mind, but now they were back with a vengeance, and I felt sick and a bit faint.
My dad must have noticed, because he sat me in a chair and kept his hand on my shoulder. When Mr. Carmichael began to speak, Jacques’s grip tightened and I flinched.
“Sorry, Charlie girl,” he whispered. “This is intense.”
No need to tell me that.
There is such a thing as wanting something too much.
“I congratulate all of our designers and would like to thank their families and friends for supporting them in this competition.”
We all clapped very hard, but my hands felt like ice that might shatter, so I stopped.
“The vision, execution, and the written justifications you have submitted to this competition are absolutely extraordinary. I speak for all the committee members when I say I never dreamed that we would see this caliber of work.”
More applause.
A student rushed into the room, ran straight to Mr. Manhas, who sat with the other committee members, and began speaking quickly. The head of Green Pastures lurched out of his seat, and Mr. Carmichael faltered in his remarks.
Mr. Manhas rushed out of the room, indicating the student should follow him. The other judges didn’t know what to do.
“There seems to be a—” said Mr. Carmichael.
Another student burst into the atelier. “Someone died in the bathroom!” she screamed.
My dad’s hand turned into a hawk’s talon on my shoulder, then he was gone, racing for the door.
I went after him. The leaden feeling in my stomach didn’t stop me from running so fast, my feet barely touched the ground.
The hallway was a blur of lockers, and skylights flashed by overhead, marked by bursts of clear light. Then I was pushing my way into the girls’ bathroom, past two students who stood, their phones in their hands.
Mr. Manhas was on his knees beside Mischa, who lay in a handicapped stall, her legs splayed in front of her, her head lolled to the side. Her lips were a gray-blue that matched the shadow mask we’d painted across her half-slit eyes.
“Misch!” said my father, falling to his knees.
I didn’t approach. I didn’t speak.
“Did someone call the ambulance?” asked Mr. Manhas.
“Yes, sir,” said a pale girl.
“Is she dead?” asked a boy.
Someone held on to my arm, hard, but I was only barely aware of it.
“She’s breathing,” said Mr. Manhas. He turned to my dad. “Her name is Mischa?”
My dad nodded.
“Mischa,” said Mr. Manhas in a loud voice. “We’ve called 911. Can you speak?”
Mischa lay inert as a sandbag.
“Mischa,” said the principal, even louder. “I need you to speak to me.”
He began rubbing his knuckles over her upper chest.
“I need everyone who is not faculty or an adult to leave. Now. Please, all students wait in the atelier. Someone go to meet paramedics and escort them in.”
People behind us began to edge out of the bathroom.
“Do you have any idea what she took?” Mr. Manhas asked my father. And in the middle of my shock and fear, I
felt ashamed that he knew to ask my dad that. Oh, Jacques.
“No,” said my dad. “I’ve been clean for months now. Her too.”
Then I thought of Damon. His bag of drugs. Mischa checking on him in the van. Alone.
“I think,” I said, my voice faltering, “I might know. Where she got them. Maybe we can figure out what she took.”
“They’ll need that information,” said Mr. Manhas. “Go with her,” he told my dad.
And then Jacques and at least two other Green Pastures faculty members were following me out to Mischa’s van.
I opened the door. Damon slept deeply, held up by his bindings. He snored softly behind his gag.
I saw the scene from others’ eyes. It didn’t look good. Not at all.
“Charlie,” whispered my dad, “what’s happening here? Who the hell is this guy?”
“It’s Demon. I mean, Damon. Mischa’s ex. He came after us again this morning. So we, uh, detained him. He had drugs on him somewhere. I think Mischa must have gotten into them.”
“Better pray it’s not fentanyl,” said my dad, scrambling over to the bench seat and beginning to pat Damon down. “How long has he been like this? How long have you girls had him . . . like this? Come on, Charlie . . .” His voice was pleading, and it trailed off when he realized there wasn’t anything I could tell him that would make this better.
“He’s only been here since right before the show. We were going to call the police to come and get him. After. We were just letting him sleep. Until then.”
“Why didn’t you call the police as soon as you saw him?” asked my dad.
I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. “We just . . . the police would have . . . I wanted to do the show. It was just for a few hours. I couldn’t miss the show.”
Stressed as I was, I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. My decision had been bad. Extremely bad. Kidnapping bad.
“Call the police,” I heard someone say.
My dad knelt in front of Damon and dug through his pockets. When he opened his jacket pocket, he found a Baggie with an assortment of smaller Baggies inside. He dug a finger around inside, inspecting.
“Patches,” he said. “Some Oxys. I’m almost sure these patches are fentanyl. Maybe it’s morphine. Fuck, Mischa.”
The sirens were already approaching. Probably for Mischa. Soon they would sound for me.
Two teachers from Green Pastures asked my dad to step aside and keep an eye on me.
Then they climbed into the van and began untying Damon. One took off his gag.
“Are you okay?” one asked, shaking him awake.
“What’s his name?” another inquired of me.
“Damon. Damon the Demon,” I said, all of a sudden too tired to give anyone any more of my explanations.
Instead, I stood stiffly while the paramedics carried Damon, wobble legged, barely awake, out of the van. Two police cars roared into the parking lot, followed soon after by a plainclothes-cop’s vehicle. All had lights flashing. None of the officers who emerged were the ones we’d talked to two nights before.
I was marched on tin solider legs to the police car. I pretended not to see Mischa’s unmoving body being loaded into the ambulance.
thirty-nine
MAY 4
When the announcement about the winner got derailed because Charlie’s model OD’d in the girls’ bathroom, things got strangely clear for me. Clearer still when Charlie was arrested for kidnapping.
I realized, weird as it might sound, that me and my rage were such a load of shit.
I’d thought Charlie Dean was a shallow twit. Her and her precious suits and her mannered way of speaking seemed like a joke. Then I saw her dress, and it was epic and beautiful. And I saw her dad, a skinny, sketchy-looking dude, and her model, who’d nearly done herself in. And then it was discovered that Charlie and her model had kept some guy tied up in a van for reasons no one understood.
It was surreal, especially coming after that fashion show, which was about ten times more intense than I could have imagined.
I got hit with this unexpected understanding of how lucky I was. For real. Like, if my mom hadn’t done me the favor of leaving me with grandparents for most of my life, maybe I would have turned into a Charlie Dean. Not that that would have been the worst thing. But turning into Charlie Dean would have been the best-case scenario. If I’d been given the truly tough situation, I’d probably be enjoying the services of the nearest juvenile detention center or in rehab or whatever.
I stood with everyone else and watched the paramedics carry off the girl who OD’d. She had an oxygen mask over her face, so she was still alive.
Mr. Manhas, the Green Pastures principal, came out of the bathroom looking haunted.
There were police everywhere.
One of them went to Mr. Manhas and said there was a problem outside. Mr. Manhas followed the cops out.
We milled around until finally a woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Landau, the vice principal, asked us all to head back to the atelier.
We walked down the hallway in an afternoon that had turned bright with a different kind of energy. From special-occasion rush to post-crisis buzz.
The lights were up, and the parents and students and designers and audience members fluttered around like moths not sure where to land. I was on my own because my grandparents had to go to a medical appointment right after the show, and Barbra had walked out. Booker hadn’t shown up at all.
“Please,” said Mrs. Landau. “I’d like to ask everyone to take a seat.”
Slowly most people did, but those of us who’d been in the show stood bunched up near the door. Charlie Dean wasn’t with us.
“This has been an emotional afternoon. From the superb display of talent and hard work to the frightening emergency with a young person to the, uh, situation outside. My understanding is that the young lady is stable and likely to recover. I don’t have complete information on the other situation. The police are handling it. But in light of what has happened, it doesn’t feel appropriate to continue our celebration or to announce the results of the competition.”
I didn’t care too much, since I didn’t have a chance. But the faces of the other competitors were like masks someone left on the lawn after a costume party.
There were a few grumbles, but it sounded more like people releasing stress than complaining.
“We will notify all competitors when it’s time to announce the competition results. I must warn you that in light of what has happened here, we cannot say for sure that the competition will continue as planned. The sponsor of the competition may choose to reevaluate his support. In the meantime, I would like to thank all the young designers, the models, family, friends, and supporters for an inspiring afternoon. Please join me for a moment of silence to wish the young person who has had this unfortunate emergency a speedy and thorough recovery.”
The silence held for a full minute.
When it was over, and Mrs. Landau had left the stage, I didn’t move for another minute. Perspective. It was all about perspective.
I was going to have a year and a bit left of high school to think about why I had no friends left and why some people have a lot and some people have shit-all.
When I blinked and came out of my trance, Esther and Sheryl and Edward were waiting for me.
Sheryl and Edward stood on either side of Esther like they were prepared to full-body tackle any traumatic experience that might be heading her way.
“I just wanted to say that I hope you win,” said Esther. “If there’s a winner.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You’ll be the first to know. And thanks, Esther. You were really good. I want you to have the dress.”
I handed the small bundle over with both hands. She took it and stared at me with a grave expression.
“Don’t be sad,�
� she said. “No matter what happens.”
“I won’t,” I lied.
Then they left.
forty
HERE’S AN IDEA © CHARLIE DEAN DESIGNS:
When you are asked about your look or your interior design, as you surely will be, keep your answers short and simple. Someone says: “Why have you used a wagon wheel for an outdoor clothes dryer?” Answer: “Because cowboys.”
DATE: MAY 11
Days after fashion show: 7
Naturally, there was some explaining to do. And so I explained, leaving nothing out. I kept my answers direct and to the point. The police were very intrusive, as I have always known them to be.
When I’d been at the station for more than an hour, waiting for a lawyer who specializes in defending young people, the two officers who’d taken our complaint on Thursday night, the ones who hadn’t taken us seriously when they realized my dad and Mischa were addicts, came in. They joined the questioning and then went outside with the other officers, who had started to look like a blur of officialdom rather than individuals. When the first officers came back, their tone was more understanding.
Perhaps they’d read our report from Thursday night. Maybe it was my black eye, or the long scratch down Mischa’s face. Maybe it was the many previous reports that had been filed about Mischa and her ex-boyfriend.
Before, there had been talk of kidnapping charges. Drug-trafficking charges. Now there were confirming details of previous assaults. Questions about what I’d seen. What I’d heard.
I was at the police station for many hours. It was surprisingly not that bad. Officers and support staff kept coming in to have a look at me, probably because I’m one of the more stylish apprehendées they’d had.
