by Meg Cabot
At least, I think she would have…
This is what I’m thinking to myself as I race into the house and up the stairs. I don’t see anyone on my way to the second floor, where I find Craig, tapping on the door to Vicky’s room and saying, “Vic. Let me in. Now.”
“NO!” Vicky cries in an anguished voice from behind the door. “You can’t see me! Go away!”
I approach, a little out of breath.
“What’s wrong?” I ask Craig.
“I don’t know,” the groom-to-be says with a shrug. “Something to do with her dress. I’m not allowed to see it, or it’s bad luck. She won’t let me in.”
Something to do with her dress?
I tap on the door.
“Vicky?” I say. “It’s Lizzie. Can I come in?”
“No!” Vicky cries.
But the next thing I know, the door has been flung open.
Only not by Vicky. By her mother. Who snakes out an arm, grabs me by the shoulder, and pulls me into the room with a terse “Please go away, Craig” to her future son-in-law before slamming the door shut behind us.
As I stand in the large corner room, with its pink-papered walls and enormous canopy bed, my gaze is instantly drawn to the girl sobbing on a pink stuffed chair in the corner. Mrs. de Villiers is stroking her niece’s hair in an attempt to calm her down. Dominique, looking darkly malevolent for some reason, glares daggers at me.
“Dominique says you know how to sew,” Mrs. Thibodaux says, still not having let go of my shoulders. “Is that true?”
“Um,” I say, completely confused, “yes. I mean, I can sew-”
“Can you do anything about this?” Mrs. Thibodaux demands, and spins me around so that I can get a look at her daughter, who has climbed to her feet and is now standing…
…in the most hideous wedding dress I have ever seen in my life.
It looks as if a lace factory threw up on her. There is lace everywhere…the poufed sleeves…the insert above the neckline…dripping from the bodice and skirt, then looped up in bunches all around the hem. It’s the kind of wedding dress some girls dream of…
When they’re nine.
“What happened?” I ask.
This just makes Vicky cry harder.
“You see?” she wails to her mother. “I knew it!”
Mrs. Thibodaux is chewing her lower lip. “I told her it wasn’t that bad. She’s so upset…”
I walk around the stricken bride to get a look at the back of the dress. Just as I suspected. There is an enormous lace butt bow in the back.
A butt bow.
Things could not be worse.
I exchange glances with Luke’s mother. She looks, very briefly, to the ceiling.
I have no choice but to admit the truth.
“It’s bad,” I say.
Vicky lets out a hiccupy sob. “How c-could you let this happen, Mother?”
“What?” Mrs. Thibodaux looks indignant. “I’m the one who warned you! I’m the one who kept saying not to overdo it! She designed it herself,” Mrs. Thibodaux explains to me, “and had a Parisian dressmaker hand-sew it, based on Vicky’s sketch.”
Oh. Well, that explains everything. Amateurs should never design their own dresses. And certainly not their own wedding dress.
“But I didn’t mean it to look like this,” Vicky wails. “It didn’t even look like this at the last fitting!”
“I told you,” Mrs. Thibodaux says to her daughter. “I told you not to wait until twelve hours before your wedding to try your dress on! And I told you not to add all that lace! But you wouldn’t listen. You kept saying it would be fine. You kept saying you wanted more.”
“I wanted something original,” Vicky cries.
“Well, it’s original all right,” Mrs. de Villiers says wryly.
“The question is,” Dominique says, speaking for the first time since I’ve entered the room, “can you fix it?”
“Me?” I fling a panicky glance at the gown. “Fix it? How?”
“Get rid of all this,” Vicky says with a sniffle, lifting up a limp layer of lace that hangs, inexplicably, from the gown’s bodice.
I stoop to examine the gown. It is, just as she asserted, hand sewn. The stitching is superb.
And is going to be nearly impossible to rip out without damaging the material underneath.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, it’s sewn on there really well. Removing it might leave holes. It could end up looking really weird.”
“Weirder than this?” Vicky demands, lifting her arms and revealing what appear to be wings of lace coming down from the sleeves.
“Good God in heaven!” Luke’s mother exclaims, seeing the wings.
The wings seem to have clinched the matter for Mrs. Thibodaux.
“Can’t you sew up the holes?” she asks me.
“In time for her to wear it tomorrow afternoon?” Luke’s mother’s tone is still wry. “Ginny, be reasonable. Even a professional seamstress-if we could find someone this late in the day-couldn’t do it.”
“Oh, Lizzie is quite accomplished,” Dominique chimes in. “Jean-Luc can’t stop raving about her many talents.”
Luke can’t stop raving about me? Many talents? What talents? What is Dominique talking about?
“Really?” Mrs. de Villiers is looking at me with pointed interest. I can’t tell if it’s because of what Dominique just said, or if it’s residual curiosity concerning what I told her earlier in the evening, about her son’s medical aspirations.
“Jean-Luc says she makes all her own clothes,” Dominique says. “She even made that dress she’s got on right now.”
“What?” I’m so startled I jump. “No I didn’t. This is by Anne Fogarty from, like, the 1960s. I didn’t make it.”
“Oh, don’t be modest, Lizzie,” Dominique says with a laugh. “Jean-Luc told me everything.”
What is she talking about? What is going on? What did Luke say to her about me? What did Luke say to Shari about me? What is Luke doing, going around talking about me all over the place?
“It won’t take Lizzie any time at all,” Dominique is saying, “to whip Victoria’s dress into shape.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Thibodaux claps her hands together, tears-actual tears-glistening at the corners of her eyes. “Is that really true, Lizzie? Can you really do it?”
I look from Mrs. Thibodaux to Mrs. de Villiers to Dominique, then back again. Something is going on here. Something that, I’m starting to suspect, has more to do with Dominique than it does anything else.
“Do you think you can salvage it, Lizzie?” Mrs. de Villiers asks me, looking worried.
Did Luke really say I have many talents? That I’m accomplished?
I can’t let him down. Even if he did rat me out to Shari.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I say hesitantly. “I mean, I can’t promise anything-”
“I don’t care,” Vicky says. “I just don’t want to look like Stevie Nicks on my wedding day.”
I can see her point. Still-
“Take off your dress and give it to Lizzie,” Mrs. Thibodaux tells her daughter. “And change into your rehearsal-dinner dress. There are a lot of people waiting to see us down there. God knows what they think is happening up here.”
I didn’t point out that it seemed as if most people hadn’t been too alarmed by Vicky’s screams, since she seems to let them out so often.
A minute later I find myself standing there clutching an armful of satin and lace.
“Do what you can,” Mrs. Thibodaux says to me as Vicky, having changed into a demure pink sundress and repaired her tear-stained makeup, opens the door and goes out to greet Craig, who has been calmly waiting for her all this time.
“You can’t possibly make it look any worse,” is what Luke’s mother says as she sails past me.
It’s Dominique who adds, as she follows the sisters, “Good luck,” with such malicious glee in her eye that I realize-belatedly-that I’ve just dug myself a grave I’ll
never be able to climb out of.
And that Dominique is the one who handed me the shovel.
Part Three
World War I was responsible for millions of deaths, but perhaps none more noticeable than the death of prewar conventions. A generation of women who had been doing “war work” in the absence of men, who were away fighting, realized that with the world about to end, they might as well start smoking, drinking, and in general doing everything else they had been forbidden from doing for so many years.
Girls who engaged in these activities soon earned themselves a special name-flappers-so-called because they were like baby birds, “flapping” the wings of their independence for the first time. In defiance of their parents and, in some cases, lawmakers, these girls bobbed their hair, hiked their skirts to knee length, and began paving the way for the fashion trendsetters of today’s youth (see: Stefani, Gwen, L.A.M.B designs, and Spears, Britney, banana snake halter top).
History of Fashion
SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS
21
It is vain to keep a secret from one who has a right to know it.
It will tell itself.
– Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882),
U.S. essayist, poet, and philosopher
Okay. It’s all right. I can do this. I can totally do this.
I’ll just rip out the stitches. I have my sewing kit with me, with its seam ripper and stitch scissors. It’ll be a snap. I’ll just rip off all the lace and see what I’ve got to work with when I’m done. It’ll be fine. Just fine. It has to be fine, because if it isn’t, I’ll have ruined a bride’s big day. Not only that, but I’ll have let down all these people who’ve been so kind to me.
Okay. I have to do a good job. I have to.
Rip.
Oh. Oh, okay, that looks really bad. Maybe I’ll start with the butt bow. Rip. Yes, that looks better already. Good. Rip.
The thing is, one person, I know, wants me to fail. It’s so obvious that’s why Dominique said the things she did. Luke probably didn’t say any of those things-rip-about me having many talents, or being so accomplished. I can’t believe I fell for that. She only said those things because she knew if I heard them, it would be harder for me to say no.
And she wanted me to say yes so I could screw up.
It’s just-rip-why would she want me to screw up? What did I ever do to her? I mean, I have been nothing but nice to her.
Well, okay, there was that thing about telling Luke’s mom that he wants to be a doctor. She might be a little peeved about that, seeing as how she wants to move to Paris.
And then there’s the fact that I let her little plan about converting Mirac to a lipo-recovery hotel slip.
But I never told Mrs. de Villiers that Dominique was the one who came up with it.
So why would she do something so incredibly bitchy? She knows as well as I do this dress is a lost cause. Vera Wang couldn’t salvage this thing. Nobody could. What was Vicky thinking? How could she possibly ever have thought-
“Lizzie?”
Chaz. Chaz is at my bedroom door.
“Come in,” I call.
He opens the door and pokes his head inside.
“Hey, what are you doing in here? We need you out-”
His voice trails off as he takes in the mess my room has become. Snowy fields of lace lay…well, everywhere.
“Sweet mother of God,” Chaz says. “Did the Sugar Plum Fairy explode in here?”
“Bridal gown emergency,” I say, holding up Vicky’s gown.
“Who’s getting married?” Chaz wants to know. “Bjork?”
“Very funny,” I say. “Anyway, don’t expect me back at the bar anytime soon. I’ve got my hands full up here.”
“That’s kinda obvious. But not for nothing, Lizzie…do you even know anything about fixing wedding dresses?”
I am trying hard not to let him see me cry.
“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” I say brightly.
“Yeah. I guess we will. Well, don’t worry, you’re not missing much down there. Just a lot of windbags going on about their yachts. Oh, hey, listen, what’s going on between you and Shar?”
I sniffle, and rub my nose with a shoulder as if it just tickles and isn’t running.
“She found out I didn’t actually graduate,” I say.
Chaz looks relieved. “Is that all? Jesus, the way she’s carrying on, I thought you said something about Mr. Jingles. You know she still feels guilty about that-”
“No,” I say. “I just neglected to inform her that I haven’t finished my thesis. And she found out. Somehow.”
You know, it serves me right. Luke telling Shari about me not graduating, I mean. Since I told his mom about the doctor thing.
It’s just that I physically can’t keep a secret. What’s his excuse?
“Didn’t finish your thesis? Jesus, that’s nothing,” Chaz says dismissively. “You can crank that puppy out in no time. I’ll tell Shar to cool it.”
“Right,” I say, sniffling. When he throws me a questioning look, I say, “Allergies. Really. And thanks, Chaz.”
“Okay. Well. Good luck.” Chaz looks around the room speculatively. “Looks like you’re going to need it.”
Then he leaves.
I let out a little sob but quickly pull myself together. I can do this. I can do this. I’ve done this hundreds of times to dresses at Vintage to Vavoom, dresses no one wanted to buy because they were too ugly. A few swipes of my scissors and a velvet rose here and there, and…voila! Parfait!
And we were generally able to sell them at a fifty percent markup.
I’ve just managed to get the wings dripping from the sleeves off when there’s another knock at the door. I have no idea how long I’ve been working, or what time it is, but I can see outside the tiny diamond-shaped window at the end of my bed that the sun is setting, turning the sky a brilliant ruby color. I can hear laughter drifting up from the lawn and the clink of silverware. The guests are eating.
And, having helped to carry in the food from the delivery truck it arrived in, I’m pretty sure, based on what I’ve seen, that what they’re eating is delicious. I’m pretty sure, in fact, that truffles and foie gras are involved.
“Come in,” I say in response to the knock, thinking maybe it’s Chaz again.
I am totally shocked to see that it’s not Chaz at all, but Luke.
“Hey,” he says, letting himself into the tiny room, then looking around, clearly concerned.
And why shouldn’t he be concerned? The place looks like a confetti factory.
“Chaz just told me what’s up,” he says. “I had no idea they’d roped you into this. This is completely insane.”
“Yeah,” I say stiffly. I am determined not to cry. At least, not in front of him. “It’s insane all right.”
Hold it together, Lizzie. You can do it.
“How did they talk you into this?” he wants to know. “I mean, Lizzie, no one can possibly make a wedding dress in one night. Why didn’t you say no?”
“Why didn’t I say no?” Oh no. Here come the tears. I can feel them, hot and wet, behind my eyelids. “Gosh, Luke, I don’t know. Maybe because your girlfriend was standing there telling them how talented you said I was.”
Luke looks taken aback. “What? I didn’t-”
“I realize that,” I cut him off. “Now. But at the time, I don’t know, a part of me was hoping it was true or something. You know, that you had said something nice about me. I should have realized, of course, that it was all just a trick.”
“What are you talking about?” Luke asks. “Lizzie-are you crying?”
“No,” I insist, lifting a wrist to wipe my streaming eyes. “I’m not crying. I’m just really tired. It’s been a really long day. And I really don’t appreciate your doing what you did.”
“What I did?” Luke looks totally confused.
He also, in the light from the little lamp by my bed, looks totally hot. He’s changed
into his party clothes, a collared white linen shirt and black trousers with a razor-sharp crease down the front of each leg. The white shirt brings out the deep tan of his neck and arms.
But I will not be swayed by masculine hotness. Not this time.
“Oh, right,” I say. “Like you don’t know.”
“I don’t know,” Luke says. “I don’t know what Dominique said that I said, Lizzie, but I swear-”
“I’m not talking about what you said to Dominique,” I interrupt. “I already know that was a lie. But why…” My voice catches. So much for refusing to cry in front of him. Oh well. It’s not like he’s never seen my tears before. “…why did you tell Shari about my thesis?”
“What?” His expression, in the lamplight, is a mixture of incredulity and confusion. “Lizzie. I swear. I never said a word.”
Wow. I really hadn’t expected that. You know, denial. I’d fully expected him simply to come clean…to admit he’d done it and ask for an apology.
Which I’d been willing to accept, of course, on account of my own guilt for having spilled the beans about him to his mom. It’s true things would never be the same between us, of course. But maybe, with time, we might have been able to build up some modicum of mutual trust…
But to stand there and deny it? To my face?
“Luke,” I say, my disappointment causing my voice to throb a little, “it had to be you. No one else knew.”
“It wasn’t,” Luke says. A glance at his face shows he’s no longer feeling incredulous or confused. Now he’s mad. At least if his frown is any indication. “Look, I don’t know how Shari found out about your not graduating. But I didn’t tell her. Unlike some people in this room, I can keep a secret. Or are you not the one who told my mother that I want to go to medical school?”
Oops. In the silence before I reply, I can hear more rattling of silverware from below, along with the chirp of crickets, and Vicky’s voice, crying out very distinctly, “Lauren! Nicole! You made it!”
I swallow.
I. Am. So. Dead.
“Well,” I say, “yes. Yes, I did. But I can explain-”
