by Chloe Taylor
Zoey ran down to the family room, where her dad and Marcus were watching what looked like the very same football highlights they’d sat and watched the night before.
“What’s up?” Her dad turned to her, grinning. “Hey, shouldn’t you be ready for bed?”
“No school tomorrow. Remember?” said Zoey, hurrying on to her big news. “So, guess what? There’s this sewing contest for Avalon Fabrics. You have to design and sew a dress for their one hundredth anniversary. And guess what the grand prize is?”
Her dad shrugged.
“They make your dress and they actually sell it. At H. Cashin’s! How great is that?!”
“They sell one dress?” Marcus asked. He was lying on the sofa and didn’t look away from the TV screen.
“No,” said Zoey. “They make a lot! Hundreds! Enough to sell in all their stores!”
“Wow,” said Marcus, finally looking at Zoey. “That’s cool, Zo. Any chance H. Cashin’s is having a drumming contest too?”
“Ha-ha,” Zoey said, leaning over him. “Very funny.”
Zoey’s dad raised an eyebrow. “To think, my brilliant daughter’s clothes are going to be in a fancy department store.”
“Hold on a sec, Dad.” Zoey laughed. “I haven’t won it yet! And the deadline’s on Sunday.”
“This Sunday?” her dad asked. He looked at Zoey. Then at Marcus. Then, doubtfully, at his watch.
Marcus pointed a mischievous finger at Zoey. “Looks like someone’s going to need some energy juice, Dad,” he joked.
Zoey shook her head and grabbed her stomach. “Oh no. I don’t think so!”
She ran back to her room to get started on a sketch. She was feeling pretty great—awesome, actually. And then she remembered Lorenzo. She wondered who he thought was the most awesome. Was it Kate?
I can’t be jealous of Kate, Zoey thought. She’s my best friend! Zoey forced herself to snap out of it, more grateful than ever to have a sewing project to distract her.
The next morning Zoey woke up later than usual. She’d stayed up way too late working on her design for the contest. Her dad came into her room on his way to work.
“Rise and shine! I’m off,” he said.
“Huh?” Zoey glanced at her clock. “Eight thirty, already?” She groaned.
He chuckled and kissed her lightly on the top of her tousled head. “There’s cereal for breakfast. Marcus does have school, you know, so he’s already gone. But Aunt Lulu said she’d check in on you. Do you have much homework to get done?”
Zoey groggily shook her head. “No . . . thank goodness,” she said. Then she yawned and stretched and rolled over and pointed to the open sketchbook by her bed. “I have that contest to work on, remember? What do you think of these sketches?”
Her dad picked up the book and studied it for a second with the faintest of frowns. “Ah!” He grinned and flipped it over. “That’s much better,” he joked.
“You’re hilarious, Dad,” said Zoey as she smiled and sat up. “Seriously. What do you think?”
He nodded. “I think these are really great, hon. They all look like winners to me.” He handed the book back to her. “Which one do you think you’re going to pick?”
“I don’t know . . . .” She rubbed her eyes. “That’s my job for today, I guess.”
- - - - Chapter 6 - - - -
Make a Wish
News! Big news! News so humongous you have to sit down! Okay, I guess there’s a good chance you’re already sitting while you read this, so . . . hold on to your hats! I’m entering Avalon Fabrics’ Break-Out Designer contest! It’s their one hundredth anniversary, and the grand prize winner gets to have their dress produced and sold at H. Cashin’s department stores nationwide!!! Did I mention that H. Cashin’s is my happy place? When I go there I feel like I’m walking through a fashion magazine. All of which means I really, really, really want to win!
There is a catch. I haven’t quite come up with an entry yet—and it has to be sewn and photographed by THIS SUNDAY NIGHT! But, hey! They do it in even less time every week on Fashion Showdown, right? So why can’t I?
Maybe because I keep wasting time getting carried away with sketching ideas. As soon as I read that the contest was to celebrate Avalon’s birthday, I started to think about birthday cakes! The “birthday cake dress” would be pretty in pink, with fabric twisted to look like icing, and layers of ruffles. So pretty, right? And then I started thinking about cupcakes . . . and how accordion pleats would make the skirt look just like a cupcake wrapper and the top could look like swirls of frosting covered in sprinkle-shaped beads. Or maybe I could make a dress covered with one hundred twinkly lights to stand in for birthday candles? Not sure that one would work, but it’s so much fun to imagine. So, here’s the one-hundred-twinkly-light question: I think they’re sweet (pun intended), but would anyone shopping at H. Cashin’s actually wear these? Does it matter? For now, it’s back to the drawing board. Wish me luck.
Zoey spent the whole morning sketching . . . and sketching some more. By the time Aunt Lulu stopped by the house around noon, Zoey had used up three mechanical pencils and every scrap of paper in her room. She laid out a dozen designs for Aunt Lulu to look at as soon as she walked through the door.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” asked Aunt Lulu after Zoey outlined how the contest would work. “Sounds to me like we need to take a trip to A Stitch in Time, don’t you think?”
She was right, of course. Designing the dress was just the beginning. Zoey had to sew it too.
“But I can’t get fabric till I know what I’m making,” Zoey explained to her.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Aunt Lulu replied. “You’re very close, I think, and I wonder if seeing what fabric you have to choose from—in person—might help you narrow your ideas down even more. You never know. Plus, I was kind of feeling Yo-Yum for lunch, and it’s right next door, you know.”
Zoey ran to find her bag. “You’re right! What are we waiting for?”
Aunt Lulu was great in so many ways that it was impossible to count. But way up there on the list was definitely her willingness to consider frozen yogurt—even chocolate—a wholesome and nutritious, well-balanced, anytime meal.
They drove to the yogurt shop, where Zoey ordered a large chocolate and pomegranate swirl. She topped it with coconut and raspberries and a sprinkle of Cap’n Crunch. Her recyclable bowl was nearly as clean as new by the time she was done.
“Thanks! That hit the spot,” she told Aunt Lulu as they made their way next door.
“Well, it’s about time you got here!” Jan called as soon as they walked into her store. “That contest dress of yours sure isn’t going to make itself!”
Zoey laughed. Sometimes she forgot that what she wrote on her blog was actually read.
“Don’t remind me,” Zoey replied. “And, honestly, I’m still not sure what I’m doing yet, but we thought it might help to come in and look around.”
“Be my guest,” said Jan. “Most of my Avalon fabric is back with the silks. But if you have any trouble finding what you want, just holler, do you hear?”
“Thanks!” Zoey said just as her phone went off.
She pulled it out from deep in her bag. It was a text from Kate: Where r u? it said.
Zoey frowned . . . and thought . . . and winced.
Ugh! Right. Kate’s boy-girl soccer game. After school the day before, Kate has asked her to come and watch. “Sure,” Zoey had told her. But then she got Cecily Chen’s e-mail . . . and she completely forgot. She felt awful. Oh, but Kate would understand. She was probably just texting to be nice, anyway.
Sorry! she quickly texted back. Did u read my blog? Big sewing contest! Dress due Sunday! Good luck and lmk the score!
She hit send and set her course for the Avalon aisle. Soon she was in her own personal heaven, looking through bolts and bolts of beautiful fabric.
The next morning Zoey daydreamed about her Avalon designs while she waited for the bus to arrive at Kate’s sto
p.
“Hey!” Zoey smiled at Kate as climbed on.
“Hi,” said Kate, sinking into the seat across the aisle.
“So, how was the game?”
“Good,” said Kate.
“You guys won?”
“Uh-huh. Four to two.”
“Did you score?” Zoey asked.
Kate nodded matter-of-factly. “Two.”
“That’s great!” Zoey grinned and waited for more details . . . but Kate seemed ready to move on.
“So . . . how’s your contest thing coming?” she asked.
“Ugh!” Zoey groaned. “It’s so much work. I haven’t even started sewing yet—or decided on my final design.”
“It’s due this weekend?”
“Yeah.” Zoey nodded. “Sunday night. By then I have to have it finished and send in a picture of somebody in it. I guess since they’re actually going to sell the winning piece, they want to make sure it can really be worn.”
Kate grinned. “Marie Antoinette’s not good enough?”
Zoey smiled back. “Apparently not. But we won’t tell her. And don’t worry . . . I’m not going to ask you,” she assured Kate. “You’re totally off the hook. I actually thought I’d ask Libby, since Priti’s away, and she did so great modeling in the school fashion show for me.”
“Oh . . . that makes sense,” said Kate softly, leaning back in her seat.
They were quiet for a moment.
“So, do your teeth still feel weird?” Zoey asked.
Kate shrugged and turned to look out the bus window. “I’m getting used to it,” she said.
Zoey knew Libby well enough already to know that her first reaction to being asked to model again would be the same as it was before: no.
Libby wasn’t so much embarrassed by attention, like Kate was. She was just plain shy. And it didn’t help that she was new to school or that she naturally stood out. She was five foot nine, covered with freckles, and wore her copper hair in a short bob. Libby was slowly but surely coming out of her shell, however, and had been such a good sport about the school fashion show that Zoey had hope she’d say yes again.
She waited to bring up the subject at lunch . . . and it started out pretty much as she’d feared.
“Couldn’t I just take a picture of you?” asked Libby.
“I guess . . . ,” Zoey said. “But I look so young . . . and you’re so tall . . . you’re more like a real model, you know?”
Libby pointed to Kate. “Kate’s tall too. And, Kate, you could show off your new smile.”
“She could,” said Zoey, “but Kate hates having her picture taken. She always covers her face with her hands.”
Kate stared at the ham-and-cheese sandwich she was working on and peeled off some crust. “In some parts of the world, you know, they think pictures steal your soul . . . .”
“But not in Mapleton!” Zoey laughed. “Come on, Kate. Tell Libby to do it.”
Kate took the last bite of her sandwich. “You should do it,” she said, crumpling her bag.
“Fine. Okay,” Libby conceded, smiling. “Just tell me where and when, I guess.”
“Yay! My house. This weekend,” said Zoey. “We can do the fittings and the photo shoot then. Oh! Hey! But if you could maybe come over and go through my sketches with me, that would be great too. Want to come over today, even? Are you busy after school?”
“Yeah, totally,” said Libby. “Now that part sounds like fun.”
“How about you, Kate?” said Zoey. “Want to come over too?”
Kate, however, had already pushed her chair back and was gathering her trash. “Soccer game. Remember? We’re playing the Cavendish School.”
“Oh right. Well, how about this weekend?” said Zoey.
But Kate was already up and well on her way to the trash can.
- - - - Chapter 7 - - - -
Vote for Your Favorite!
Okay. I did some serious fashion editing with my friend Libby last night, and we’ve narrowed my Avalon contest entry down to the two designs you see above. To say that it was HARD might be the understatement of the year. There are so many dresses I dream of making! Picking one is like having to choose one ride at an amusement park, you know?
But ultimately there were three criteria we knew the dress we picked had to meet (and if you’re impressed with the word “criteria,” you can thank my vocab word list this week.):
1) It had to be unique and cute! (Duh! Of course!)
2) It had to be right for one of the GORGEOUS fabrics I found at A Stitch in Time: a pink taffeta, an amazing off-white raw silk, and a cream brocade.
3) It had be something I could figure out how to make my own pattern for!
And so now, my dear Sew Zoey readers, it’s YOUR turn to vote. And fast, if you don’t mind! As you know, the contest deadline is THIS Sunday at midnight! So what do you think?
Should I go with A, the “Avalon” dress? Thanks to the wonders of Internet search engines, I discovered that Avalon was an island in Arthurian legend. I love anything medieval. (Just ask Mr. Dunn, my social studies teacher. I totally aced the Middle Ages unit.)
Or should I go with B, the pink “birthday cake” dress. This is my friend’s favorite, since she loves pink more than life itself. White silk could be “the icing on the cake.” Get it?
So that’s it! Cast your votes, ladies and gentlemen! Really. Vote now. Right this second. As soon as you can. As they say in Monopoly: “Do not pass GO. Do not collect two hundred dollars.” Why? Because the sooner you vote, the sooner I can get started sewing. And because I can’t wait to hear what you think!
By the time she posted her blog on Friday morning, Zoey was feeling good about her contest design. But no matter how hard she tried to ignore it, she was feeling weird about something else. Things just weren’t right between her and Kate, and it was starting to feel heavy . . . like a wool coat that was really wet.
Zoey realized, when she thought about it, that she’d had the feeling on Thursday, too. But it wasn’t until Kate climbed on the bus on Friday—and sat by herself right away in the front—that Zoey knew for sure something was really, truly wrong.
This was new for them. Zoey and Kate had been friends—best friends—since they were little, long before they started school. In all those years, they’d had just one fight Zoey could remember, which had lasted approximately one day—until Kate’s mother suggested one take the hook and one take the eye patch, and they both could be lady pirates for Halloween back in first grade. Zoey knew everything about Kate, and Kate knew everything about her. At least, that’s how it always had been. But it was different now . . . .
Of course, maybe Kate just needed space, Zoey thought. Maybe she needed to be alone. So Zoey sat back and tried to give it to her as the bus drove along. But when they got off, she couldn’t stand it. Zoey hurried and followed her to the front door.
They both waved to Ms. Austen, who greeted them with a warm smile. She was wearing her Friday staple, a basic black dress, tall suede boots, and a soft ocher scarf.
“Good morning, Kate, Zoey,” she told them. “Oh, Zoey,” she added. “Stop by the office when you have a minute. A package came to your attention late yesterday afternoon.”
“For me?” said Zoey.
“For you,” Ms. Austen replied. “And it looks like it might be from the same Fashionsista who sent you the dress for the fashion show.”
Zoey’s jaw dropped a good half inch as a spark shot up her spine. Fashionsista was one of her earliest and most encouraging blog followers, whom Zoey had come to depend on for the most helpful fashion advice—and who had gone way above and beyond the call of duty when Zoey had her fashion disaster right before the school’s fund-raiser fashion show. But why was she sending Zoey something now? Zoey wondered. She couldn’t imagine what it could be. But if it was, indeed, from her fashion fairy godmother, Zoey couldn’t wait to see!
“Thanks! Come with me!” she said, reaching for Kate . . . and coming away with an em
pty hand.
She looked around until she spotted Kate making her way toward a group of kids. They were waving her over to the trophy case, and one of them, Lorenzo, was pointing to a plaque. Zoey watched as Kate joined them, and Lorenzo warmly patted her back.
Quickly, Zoey spun on her heels, glad the office was the other way.
That wet overcoat feeling? Suddenly it was twice as heavy.
It took Mrs. Beckstein, the secretary, a moment—and a few “ah-hem”s and “excuse me”s—to notice Zoey had walked in.
“Oh, hello there! Good morning,” she said, looking up from her desk at last. “What can I do for you, dear?”
She pushed herself up and padded over to the counter, wearing a sweet, eager smile. Her hair was a bluer shade today, Zoey noticed. More hydrangea than lilac.
“Good morning. Ms. Austen said there was a package here waiting for me . . . .”
“Oh really? Okeydokey. Well, then, let’s find it. What’s your name again?” Mrs. Beckstein asked, setting her glasses on her nose.
“Zoey. Zoey Webber.”
“Zoey Webber . . . ,” the secretary repeated slowly as she shuffled to a mail cart near the wall. “Zoey Webber . . . no . . . no . . . no . . . Zoey Webber . . . Nope, not it . . .” She looked back. “Zoey Webber, did you say?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Aha! Got it,” Mrs. Beckstein said.
She picked up a small box—half the size of a box of tissues—and returned to Zoey and set it down.
Zoey read the label. Her name was printed clearly, followed by C/O MAPLETON PREP. And, sure enough, there in the upper-left corner was “Fashionsista.”
“Something good?” asked the secretary, seeing Zoey’s face light up.
“I don’t know. I mean, I’m sure it is. But I don’t know what . . .”
“Well, why don’t you open it?” asked Mrs. Beckstein.
“Right,” Zoey said. “Good idea!”
She carefully tore away the brown paper from the box, revealing a removable lid. Mrs. Beckstein was leaning over the counter, as eager as Zoey to see what it held. Zoey couldn’t help noticing she smelled like the office—like coffee, paper, and hairspray.
