by Susan Juby
Late Saturday evening they let me go. Maybe Damon declined to press charges because he didn’t want to go to court for assaulting Mischa, attacking me and my dresses, and stealing drugs from a terminally ill relative. He would be answering to some of that, but not in relation to being a kidnapping victim. Thank Dior!
When they released me to Jacques, they treated us like guests who’d overstayed our welcome rather than criminals. Perhaps they were resentful about the paperwork, but one can’t be sure.
I was told I might have to appear in court and might be mandated into counseling as an alternative to facing kidnapping charges. I have already decided what to wear to court. A Gaultier-esque Breton-striped top with a black suit would be witty and appropriate. Demon was also going to have to undergo anger management and day treatment for substance abuse.
But I’ve gotten ahead of myself. What about the results of the competition into which I poured my very heart and soul, all of my dad’s finances, and all my skill and every last hope for my future?
I did not go to the announcement because I was not welcome at Green Pastures. The vice principal told us that when she called on Monday. Jacques, who took the call, said she sounded sorry. About everything.
She told my dad to tell me not to give up on my dreams even though I was disqualified from the contest. That was sweet of her, though unnecessary. Her call was followed by one from Mr. Oliver, the counselor at R. S. Jackson. Mr. Oliver said he’d been informed by someone at Green Pastures that I might need an appointment. He said he had one available in two weeks and asked if that would work for me. He sounded very tired. He said that he knew a little bit about what had happened at the fashion show. He said I should work on “getting some perspective.” He added that maybe the lesson was that fashion could not “come first.” Easy for him to say.
In spite of everything, I dressed nicely on the day of the announcement. After all, it would be an incredibly special day for someone. I wore my own recreation of a World War II–style olive suit with rust trim. It is chic, chic, chic. A splash of martial glamor with two fingers of nipped waist and absolutely perfect tailoring. To look at that suit is to stand on a long, breezy runway, nose full of aviation fuel fumes, surrounded by big silver planes and pilots in bomber jackets with goggles! Ooh la la!
The jacket features geometric rust flap pockets at the chest and the hip and the skirt ends in two rust bands. The jacket closure is a single large rust button. To die for.
I wore it to sit in my room and stare at the dress I’d made for Mischa. We hadn’t seen her since she got out of the hospital, which is why I was so surprised when my dad knocked on my door.
“Charlie girl,” he said. “There’s someone here to see you.”
Mischa stood beside him, looking smaller, paler, but her eyes were clear and she was steady on her feet.
“Hey, Charlie Dean.”
“Hi,” I said.
My dad patted her on the shoulder, and she came into my room and sat down.
“Love the suit. You look really cool. Like you’re in The Great Gatsby or something.”
“Twenty years too early,” I said. “The look is forties.”
“I love that you know that,” said Mischa. “It’s enough to make me want to go back to school.”
“Are you coming back?” I asked. The “to us” went unspoken.
“I’m waiting to get into a women’s treatment program in Vancouver,” she said. “I’m sorry that my . . . that Damon screwed everything up for you.”
At that I stopped. Stared at her.
“I’m sorry that you ever went out with someone like that.”
The slight smile left her face.
“I think I’m done with that. From now on, only nice guys. Possibly no guys for a while.”
“Good,” I said. “Because a second kidnapping charge would make it hard for me to get into college.”
She laughed. And when it was time to go, I picked up the dress on its hanger, and with the wide skirts hanging over my arm, handed it to Mischa.
“I can’t take this,” she said.
“I made it just for you. You should have it.”
She stroked the sumptuous fabric and ran a finger along the rigid neckline.
“Can you keep it for me until I come back?”
I nodded.
“Good-bye, Mischa,” I said.
“Good-bye, Charlie Dean. You are an amazing designer.”
“Thank you. You are going to be an amazing person.”
Then she was gone.
forty-one
MAY 11
Mr. Carmichael asked us to sit down in a semicircle of chairs that had been set up at the end of the atelier. He, Mr. Manhas, Miss Landau, and the other two committee members sat behind a table.
“Thank you for joining us, and we’re sorry for the delay in announcing the winner. We were, however, grateful to have more time to peruse the croquis and mood boards and design materials you submitted. I must tell you again that we were tremendously moved by your entries. By the creativity and depth of your visions.”
Moved to call the police, I thought, curious about whether he was going to mention Charlie Dean and what happened at the end of the competition.
It was hard not to be flattered by his words, even though I didn’t really belong. And he was right. My fellow fashion competitors had blown my mind. I’d even surprised myself. That’s why I came. I wanted to pay my respects to whoever won.
Everyone but me was nearly rigid with excitement. With hope. That was the only bad part of this. Only one of them could win the scholarship. You’ll notice I didn’t say us. It was really more of a them situation.
Parents clutched their kids’ shoulders. Friends gripped each other’s hands.
I hadn’t told my grandparents about this afternoon. When they asked what happened at the contest, I told them I didn’t win. They were disappointed, but they said what they always say when I fail or at least don’t succeed. “We never worry about you, John. You’re going places. You’re going to be the first one in this family.”
Basically, my grandparents are delusional.
“Every one of you has talent and potential,” said Mr. Carmichael. The other committee members nodded. “And I wish we had eleven”—odd hesitation—“I mean, ten scholarships to hand out.” Then he made a funny face, like someone had poked him in the ribs. So Charlie Dean was disqualified. That’s why she wasn’t here. I hadn’t seen her at school in the past week. This was probably why. Somehow, part of me thought they’d make an exception. Her dress had been so amazing. But I guess schools have to take ODs and kidnappings and whatnot into consideration when considering future pupils.
I could practically feel people holding their breath.
“You have all waited long enough. We were looking for exceptional young designers with personal and distinctive visions as well as technical and artistic abilities. You all more than demonstrated those things. However, there can only be one winner. I’m pleased to announce that the recipient of the scholarship to Green Pastures’ fashion program will be Jo-Ann Wyse.”
The good-looking, tall girl in jeans and a silver leather jacket turned to her parents, aunties, uncles, siblings, and cousins. Her parents were near tears, some of the kids screamed, but Jo just smiled, cool as hell.
The nearest contestants reached out tentatively to pat Jo’s shoulder, but when she gave them a look, they backed off.
“Just kidding,” she said. “Bring it in.” Then she hugged them. Cricket in her chair, Jason Wong, the girls who look the same, Ainslee, Madina, and the rest. I was glad they crowded around her because then I didn’t have to see the disappointment on their faces.
“Congratulations. You have won a one-year scholarship to the fashion program at Green Pastures Academy of Art and Applied Design.”
I joined ever
yone in clapping, and Jo went to the front to get a certificate from Mr. Carmichael, and her family smiled and smiled and wiped tears from their faces.
I was glad for her. She is a major talent.
Jo took the certificate from Mr. Carmichael’s hand and shook the hands of the other judges, who congratulated her.
Then Mr. Carmichael told the rest of us about all the aspects of Jo’s designs that had factored into their decision, her thoughtful use of indigenous design, custom-work, combined with contemporary materials and motifs and an innovative sensibility.
And while I agreed with whatever he said, I couldn’t help thinking about Charlie Dean, who should also have been in the room.
“We ask you to join us in thanking Mr. Charles Atwater, who not only donated the funds for the fashion program, including the atelier in which we now sit, but also finances many of our special programs. We have him to thank for sponsoring this competition and this scholarship.”
We applauded because that was pretty generous. Probably the scholarship was a tax write-off or something, but it was still nice.
“When Mr. Atwater saw the astonishingly high quality of the work submitted for this competition, he contacted me to ask if there was something we could do for all of the competitors.”
Another silence slammed down on the room.
Goddamn, I thought. Every day is like Christmas Meets Winning the Lottery Day at this place.
“Mr. Manhas and I put our heads together, and I’m pleased to tell you that Mr. Atwater and a few other donors will be funding a four-week summer fashion intensive for the students who took part in the fashion show. It will run from July fifteenth to August fifteenth and be free for those who have taken part in this competition. We’ll open it up to other young designers, who will have to pay a modest tuition. We will bring in the best teachers and mentors. All participants will receive assistance with college applications and help preparing portfolios at the end of the session.”
Now people in the audience were really clutching one another. More tears. The girl with the head scarf, Madina, was being hugged by all her brothers, and her dad and her mother carefully wiped tears from her eyes.
Carmichael was referring to Bijou’s dad, a tan guy with a just-off-the-golf-course/private-plane vibe. Bijou was gazing at him with pride.
It’s funny, but the only thing I could think was that Charlie Dean should be allowed to attend the summer school. Hell, she should be allowed to teach the summer school. I barely knew her, but I knew that fashion was her whole deal. That gave the whole announcement a bitter aftertaste. Maybe because I’m still a somewhat bitter guy.
So when everything broke up, I walked over to where Mr. Carmichael stood with Bijou’s dad.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said to Carmichael. “I just wanted to say something about the girl who got kicked out.”
I had their complete attention.
“I don’t know her that well, but she goes to my school. And I bet if you talk to her in person, you’ll find out that she . . . that things got out of hand, but it wasn’t her fault. At least not completely. Fashion is her”—I tried to think of the word—“air? water? That guy they had in the van, he was a serious doucheb— Sorry, I mean he’s seriously bad news. I just hope you’ll consider letting her go to the summer school. She can have my spot.”
Mr. Carmichael and Mr. Atwater watched me.
“You don’t want to attend, John?” asked Mr. Carmichael.
“To be honest, fashion isn’t my thing, although I have a lot more appreciation for it now. I just wanted to go to this school. But Charlie Dean, she’s hard-core. She kind of got me interested in spite of myself.”
“She sounds like Bijou,” said Mr. Atwater. “I can only imagine what she’d do without fashion. Or what she’d do to anyone who got in her way.” He gave a rich-guy-nougaty chuckle.
“I hope you’ll let Charlie Dean attend. Even if she screwed up. I guess that’s what I’m saying,” I said.
Mr. Carmichael looked at Mr. Atwater, who raised his eyebrows a fraction.
“I will speak with Miss Dean,” said Mr. Carmichael. “In the meantime, I appreciate you speaking up for her. I agree that her commitment to fashion seems serious.”
“Her dress,” said Mr. Atwater, “was quite remarkable.”
“It is. She is,” I said. “And that dress definitely was.” And then I thanked them both for the opportunity to participate.
I turned to leave and saw Tesla standing near the door. I stopped, thought about going over to speak to her, but she shook her head and I kept going. When I got outside, my eyes were a little prickly. I probably need glasses or something.
forty-two
HERE’S AN IDEA © CHARLIE DEAN DESIGNS:
Dress like you are in love with you. You deserve the utmost care.
JUNE 14
Days after competition: 41
It was a shock when Mr. Carmichael invited me to meet with him otoko wa hito ni (which is Japanese for person to person, or man to man) at the Green Pastures Academy of Making Dreams Come True! (I’m so grateful that I’m going to be able to learn Japanese just like I’m learning French, thanks to Google Translate. The world is impossibly full of educational opportunities!) I don’t know what caused him to reach out. I don’t know why he asked if he could read this diary.
Because I have nothing but the utmost respect for Mr. Carmichael, who is a magnificent teacher and fashion person, I gave this book to him. He learned about my childhood, my parents’ struggles with drugs and with basic functioning, my mom’s death. He learned that fashion is everything to me and why I thought that dress was the right one for Mischa. He learned how and why I became a kidnapper and why abandoned malls and derelict buildings have something to teach us about beauty and damage.
When I first handed him this journal, back in May, right after the results of the competition were announced, I felt sick and exposed. But then I didn’t care because this book is the truth. On Wednesday he invited me to come and see him after school on Friday. He said it was chaos with the end of term, but to come anyway. He asked me to bring him my drawings and designs in progress. During that Friday-afternoon meeting, he gave this book back to me and said nothing about what was inside, which I appreciated. We talked about new designers we liked and old ones we loved. He told me how it was when he grew up in a small town in New Brunswick, one of the few kids of color, one of the only fashionable people in a town that didn’t care.
He told me how fashion kept him alive.
He invited me to see him the next two Fridays in a row and then, when school was nearly out for the year, he invited me to join the summer fashion intensive with the other candidates. Well, I nearly didn’t cope with the excitement!
Mr. Carmichael suggested I encourage John to come to the summer program, too. Since the fashion show John and I have had coffee a couple of times. We have good laughs about working retail. The Salad Stop sounds delicious but also like a hard place to work. My job at the makeup counter at Shoppers is much better. The clients there need me. But John doesn’t want to come to the summer intensive. He says he’s got a lot going on in his metalworking shop and won’t have time, and I think he’s putting together a portfolio for art college.
Still, I’ve promised Mr. Carmichael I’ll keep working on John!
At Mr. Carmichael’s suggestion, I also did something truly phenomenal.
I started an official Fashion Design Club! We meet at R. S. Jackson, and the club is open to the fashionably oriented from every high school in town! We only had time to meet once before exams started, but we have big plans for next year. Almost everyone from the competition came to the first meeting after school, and even some new people showed up, maybe because they wanted to see whom I would kidnap next. They soon forgot about that and were swept away by the power of creating style!
Jo is a memb
er and, just as an aside, we have gone on five dates now and I think we’re officially seeing each other. This is an epic and marvelous and ultra-romantic story deserving of its own journal that I will never share with anyone because it is simply too wonderful and precious to me.
Cricket and Jason are secretary and treasurer. Madina came from her school in the north end, Ainslee even came over from Gabriola, where she is homeschooled, and Ellen, the girl who looks sort of like Audrey Hepburn and who doesn’t really speak, and the girls who look the same showed up. Everyone! We worked on designs together, shared fashion books and magazines. We have plans to watch New York Fashion Week on a laptop together, and study all the big designers’ shows next year. Mr. Carmichael has promised to come and give us a guest lecture on menswear in September. The only one who didn’t come was John, even though he was invited.
I think his heart is broken. His girlfriend is now his ex-girlfriend. I saw her holding hands with that big, handsome guy who used to be his best friend. No surprise there. I have never seen a human being look happier than that best friend of his. Except perhaps me every time I think about fashion club and summer school!
Poor John. The next time we have coffee I’m going to ask him to make a metal bodice for me. I think it will do him good.
I suppose I ought to say something about the home situation. My dad had a small relapse shortly after the show and is currently on methadone. He is attending his meetings; he has not sold everything we own or met a new, inappropriate lady, which is a relief. We are nearly a Hallmark household!
A few days after she dropped by to see us, Mischa left for Vancouver. Then my dad heard that she left her treatment program and disappeared. I have no idea where she is, but I wish her well and I will keep the Mall of Reborn Dreams dress for her until she comes back. The dress may be the capstone piece of my Resilience Rising Collection™.
