by Meg Cabot
“Do you really think,” Luke interrupts, “that it’s okay for you to go around accusing people of failing to keep a secret when you obviously can’t keep one yourself?”
“But-” I say, feeling all the blood drain from my face. Because he’s right. Of course. I’m the biggest hypocrite in the world.
“But,” I say again, “you don’t understand. Your girlfriend-your uncle-everyone was going around saying you were going to take that job, and I just thought-”
“You just thought you’d get involved in something that was none of your business?” Luke demands.
I. Am. So. Stupid.
“I was trying to help,” I say in a small voice.
“I never asked for your help, Lizzie,” Luke says. “Help was never what I wanted from you. What I wanted from you was…what I thought we might have-”
Wait. Luke wanted something from me? Luke thought we might have-what?
Suddenly my heart starts pounding a mile a minute. Oh my God. Oh my God.
“You know what?” Luke says suddenly. “Never mind.”
And he turns around and stalks from the room, closing the door very firmly behind him.
Some argue that the rise of Hitler-and Fascism-can be blamed for the return, in the 1930s, to longer skirt lengths and the restrictively tight waistline, sending women into corsets once again. The onset of the Depression made it nearly impossible for ordinary women actually to own the expensive Parisian fashions they saw sultry stars wearing in the movies-but talented seamstresses who could imitate the designs with less costly fabrics found plenty of business, and the “knockoff” was born at last…long may it live (see: Vuitton, Louis).
History of Fashion
SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS
22
Gossip is charming! History is merely gossip.
But scandal is gossip made tedious by morality.
– Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), Anglo-Irish playwright, novelist, and poet
Can I just say it’s really hard to snip straight when you’re crying so hard you can’t see?
Well, whatever. Who needs him, anyway? I mean, okay, sure, he seems really nice. And he’s definitely good-looking. And smart and funny, too.
But he’s a liar. I mean, obviously he told Shari about my thesis. How else could she have found out? I don’t know why he couldn’t have just admitted it, the way I did, about having told his mom about his secret dream of being a doctor.
At least I did that for a good cause. Because I suspect Bibi de Villiers is the kind of woman who, upon learning her child has a secret dream, will do everything in her power to see that that dream is achieved. Should a mother like that really be kept in the dark about her son’s most heartfelt ambition?
I was actually doing Luke a service in telling his mother. How can he fail to see that?
Oh, all right. I’m a busybody and a loudmouth and a big stupid jerk.
And because of it, I’ve lost him…though the truth is, I never really had him. Oh, sure, there was that moment this morning, when he bought me the diet Coke-
But no. That was clearly all in my head. There’s no doubt about it now. I am destined to live and die alone. Romance and Lizzie Nichols simply do not mix.
And that’s just fine. I mean, there have been plenty of people who have had perfectly happy, fulfilled lives without a significant other. I can’t think of any right now. But I’m sure there have been. I’ll just be like one of them. I’ll just be Lizzie…alone.
I’m trying to angle my scissors beneath a particularly tight row of stitches when there’s yet another knock on my door.
Seriously. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
The door opens before I even have a chance to say “Come in.”
And, much to my surprise, Dominique is standing there, looking tall and cool in high-heeled Manolo slides and a low-cut slinky green dress.
I shake my head.
“Look,” I say, “I know it looks bad, but it’s always worse before the storm. I’ll get the dress done if people would just leave me alone so I can work.”
Dominique steps into the room, looking around carefully, as if afraid there might be trip wires across the floor, instead of just mounds and mounds of lace.
“I didn’t come here about the dress,” Dominique says. She stops by my open suitcase and looks down at the jumble of vintage dresses and Sears jeans that are lying there. Then she smirks.
“Look,” I say. I have really taken about all I can mentally stand. “If you want me to finish this thing by morning, you’re going to have to leave me alone, okay? Tell Vicky I’m doing the best I can.”
“I told you,” Dominique says. “I’m not here about Victoria or her dress. I’m here about Luke.”
Luke? That causes me to lay down my scissors. What could Dominique have to say to me about Luke?
“I know you’re in love with him,” she says, lifting my family-size pack of Tums from the top of the dresser and examining it closely.
I stare at her openmouthed. “Wh-what?”
“It’s quite obvious,” Dominique says, putting the Tums back where she found them. “At first I was not alarmed because…well, look at you.”
Like the total jerk that I am, I actually do look down at myself. There are now approximately eighty-five thousand bits of white lace stuck to my black dress. I’ve pulled my hair into a haphazard ponytail and lost my shoes somewhere under all the folds of material lining my floor.
“But I know he’s…fond of you,” Dominique says, lifting her pointed chin.
Yeah. Well. Maybe at one time. Now? Not so much, I suspect.
“He thinks of you, I think, like a big brother thinks of a funny little sister,” Dominique goes on.
Great. The way Blaine thinks of Vicky. Just great.
Although it’s better than hating me, I guess.
“He tells you things, I think.” She’s found one of my many book lights and lifts it up to examine it. “I’m wondering if he has said anything to you about his uncle’s offer.”
I feign ignorance. What else can I do? I can’t let on that I was eavesdropping. Even though of course I was.
“Offer?”
“Surely you heard? A job in Paris with Monsieur Thibodaux’s very exclusive firm. Making a great deal more than he is making even now. Hasn’t he mentioned it to you?”
“No,” I say. And for once, I’m not even lying.
“How odd,” Dominique says. “He’s acting so strangely.”
“Well,” I say conversationally, “that can happen. You know, when a lot of money suddenly gets thrown your way. People freak. Look at what happened to Blaine.”
“Blaine?” Dominique looks blank.
“Right. Blaine Thibodaux.” When Dominique continues to look blank, I explain, “His band got signed by a record company, and Blaine’s girlfriend left him. Because she says he’s too rich now. Like I said. When it comes to large amounts of money, some people just…freak.”
Dominique looks startled. My book light sits forgotten in her hand.
“Record companies pay that much?”
“Well, sure,” I say. “Plus, you know, Blaine just sold the rights to one of his songs to Lexus. For a commercial.”
Dominique’s eyes narrow. “Really.” She puts down the book light. “How interesting.” Her tone suggests she finds it anything but. “Then you don’t know why Luke is acting so strangely?”
“I have no idea,” I say. Because I really don’t. At least, not why he’d be acting strangely toward Dominique. Unless she, like me, accused him of being a liar. Then, of course, I’d understand.
“Well,” she says. And starts for the door. “Thank you. Good luck with the dress.” Her mouth twists at one end into something like a smile. “It looks as if you’ll need it.”
Then she’s gone, before I can even say “Thanks.”
Oh well. If that’s the kind of woman Luke prefers-tall, naturally skinny, artificially inflated in the chest are
a (I’d stake Grandma’s life on it), and obsessed with money, more power to him.
Although, you know. I can sort of understand why he might prefer that kind of woman to one who accuses him of being a liar. Even if he is one.
And that doesn’t seem like something Dominique would do. She’s way too crafty.
Crafty enough to have gotten me to commit to a project there’s no way I’ll ever complete on time. At least, not to anyone’s satisfaction. By the time the toasts start downstairs-I can hear the clink of spoons on crystal, then a lull, then appreciative laughter-I’ve denuded Vicky’s gown of lace.
And found that what the lace was covering is actually worse-looking than the lace.
I’m standing there asking myself if I should just put the lace back on and admit defeat, or possibly pack up all my things and just make a run for it, when the door to my room opens and Shari comes in, without knocking. In her hands is a plate of food.
“Before you open your mouth and make things even worse than they actually are,” she says angrily as she sets the plate on top of my dresser, by the book lights, “I want you to know that I got my period today, and like a fool, I forgot to bring any tampons. So I came in here to look for some, because I know you always pack like you’re going to Mount Everest and won’t see civilization for weeks, even for an overnighter. And that’s how I found the notebook you’re writing your thesis in. I mean, you left it open, right on your bed. There’s no way I could avoid looking at it. I thought it was your diary. And I had PMS. I had to read it, obviously.”
I stare at her openmouthed.
“I know it was wrong,” she goes on. “But I read it anyway. And that’s how I knew you hadn’t actually graduated. Luke didn’t tell me. Although may I just take this moment to say I can’t believe you told Luke, a man you only met a few days ago, and not me, who has been your best friend since kindergarten?”
I feel something rumble beneath me. At first I think it’s the floor. Then I realize it’s my entrails, clenching.
“Luke didn’t tell you?” I ask in a weak voice.
“No,” Shari says. She flops down onto my bed, heedless of the piles of lace there. “So it was really nice of you to accuse him of it. He seems to really appreciate it. And you.”
“Oh God.” Clutching my stomach, I sink down on the bed beside her. “What have I done?”
“Fucked up,” Shari says. “Big time. I mean, considering you’re in love with him and all.”
I glance at her miserably. “Does it show that much?”
“To those of us who have known you for eighteen years? Yes. To him? Probably not.”
I collapse back against the bed and stare with tear-filled eyes at the raftered ceiling.
“I’m such an idiot,” I say.
“Yes,” Shari replies. “You are. Why didn’t you just tell me about your thesis in the first place?”
“Because,” I say, “I knew you’d be mad at me.”
“I am mad at you.”
“See? I knew it.”
“Well, come on, Lizzie,” Shari says. “Just because your education was free doesn’t mean it’s all right for you to squander it. History of fashion? As a major?”
“Well, at least I didn’t have to kill any rats!”
The minute the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Because now Shari’s eyes have filled with tears.
“I told you,” she says. “I had to kill Mr. Jingles. A scientist has to be able to distance herself.”
“I know,” I say, sitting up and wrapping my arms around her. “I know, and I’m sorry I said that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m just…I’m just a mess.”
Shari doesn’t hug me back. Instead she looks across my room and says, “You are a mess, and you’ve gotten yourself into a mess. Lizzie, what are you going to do about that girl’s dress?”
“I don’t know,” I say sadly, surveying the damage. “It actually looks worse than before.”
“Well,” Shari says, “I didn’t see it before. But I don’t see how it could look worse than it does now.”
I take a deep breath.
“I’m going to fix it,” I say. And I’m not just talking about Vicky’s dress, either. “I don’t know how. But I’m going to fix it. If I have to stay up all night.”
“Well,” Shari says. And she gets up off the bed and goes to retrieve the plate from the dresser. “Here. Peace offering.”
She puts the plate in my lap. On it is an assortment of some of the food from the rehearsal dinner-what appears to be Cornish game hen, some kind of vegetable gratin, a salad in a vinaigrette, assorted chunks of cheese, and…
“That’s foie gras,” Shari says, pointing at a blob of brown on the edge of the plate. “I know you wanted to try some. I didn’t get you any bread, because I trust you’re still doing the low-carb thing-croissants and Hershey bar sandwiches aside. Here’s a fork. Oh, and here-”
She goes to the door to my room, opens it, stoops down, and retrieves something from the floor outside.
It’s an ice bucket. She lifts the lid to reveal-
“My diet Cokes,” I say, fighting back a new wave of tears.
“Yeah,” Shari says. “I found them wedged way back in the fridge, behind the Nutella. I figured you could use some if you were going to pull an all-nighter up here. Which”-she glances at the remains of Vicky’s wedding dress-“is what it looks like you’ll be doing.”
“Thanks, Shar,” I say, starting to sniffle. “And…I’m sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t stay more on top of things with school. I was just too wrapped up in Andy toward the end there, I guess, to really pay attention to what was going on.”
“That’s not it,” Shari says. “I mean, that’s probably part of it, but let’s face it, Lizzie. School was never your thing.” She nods at my sewing basket. “This is. And if anybody can fix that ugly dress, well, I guess it’s you.”
My eyes well up again. “Thanks. Only…I mean, what am I going to do about Luke? Does he…does he really hate me?”
“Hate might be a strong word for it,” Shari says. “I’d say he’s more…bitter.”
“Bitter?” I wipe my eyes with my hands. “Bitter’s better. I can deal with bitter. Not,” I add quickly, seeing the curious look Shari darts at me, “that it matters. Since he’s already got a girlfriend, and he lives in Houston, and I’m just coming out of a dead-end relationship, and I’m not interested in starting something new and all.”
“Right,” Shari says with one eyebrow raised. “Okay, then. Well, get to it, Coco. We’ll all be eagerly awaiting your creation in the morning.”
I try to laugh, but all that comes out is a hiccupy sob.
“And Lizzie?” she asks as she pauses on her way out the door.
Uh-oh. “Yeah?”
“Is there anything else I need to know?” Shari asks. “Any other secrets you might be harboring from me?”
I swallow. “Absolutely not,” I say.
“Good,” Shari says. “Let’s keep it that way.”
And then she stomps out of my room.
The thing is, I don’t feel at all bad about not telling her about the blow job. There are some things even your best friend doesn’t need to know.
When the Germans invaded Paris in 1940, fashion as the world knew it came to a standstill. The war put an end to the export of couture, and rationing to save resources for the war effort meant that items like silk, which was needed to make parachutes, were impossible to come by. Die-hard lovers of fashion, however, would not give up their stockings, and so stained their legs and drew seams down them to imitate the look of their favorite hosiery. Women who were not so artistically inclined opted instead to wear trousers, a look finally acceptable to a society becoming used to things like air raids and bebop.
History of Fashion
SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS
23
Gossip is news running ahead of itself in a red satin dress.
– Liz Smith (1923-)
, U.S. journalist and author
Iwake to find a strip of lace stuck to my face. Also to an urgent knocking on my door.
I look around blearily. A wan gray light fills my room. I realize I forgot to close my drapes the night before. I realize I forgot to do a lot of things the night before. Such as change into pajamas. Wash my makeup off. Or brush my teeth.
The banging on my door continues.
“Coming,” I say, rolling out of bed-then staggering a little as a wicked head rush seizes my temples in a vise. This is what comes, I know, of pulling a diet-Coke-fueled all-nighter.
I make my way to the door and pull it open a few cautious inches.
Vicky Thibodaux, in a pale blue peignoir, stands in the hallway.
“Well?” she demands anxiously. “Are you finished? Did you do it? Could you save it?”
“What time is it?” I ask, rubbing my gritty eyes.
“Eight,” she says. “I’m getting married in four hours. FOUR HOURS. Did you finish?”
“Vicky,” I say, slowly forming the words that I have been going over and over in my head since around two in the morning. “Here’s the thing-”
“Oh, fuck it,” Vicky says, and throws her full body weight against the door, shoving it open, and me aside.
Three steps into the room, she freezes when she sees what’s hanging from the hook on my wall.
“Th-that…” she stammers, her eyes wide. “Th-that’s-”
“Vicky,” I say. “Let me explain. The gown that your dressmaker used to sew all that lace onto didn’t have enough structural integrity in and of itself to exist on its own without-”
“I love it,” Vicky breathes.
“-all the lace that covered it. In essence, your bridal gown was lace…and that’s it. So I-wait. You what?”
“I love it,” Vicky says. She reaches excitedly for my hand and squeezes it. She hasn’t once taken her eyes off the gown on the wall. “It’s the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen.”
“Um,” I say, relief coursing through me. “Thanks. I think so, too. I found it in the attic upstairs the other day. It was kind of stained, but I got those out, and fixed a few tears along the hem, and reattached one strap. Last night I adjusted the fit according to the measurements on your old dress. It should fit, so long as you haven’t shrunk-or grown-in the night. Then I spent about an hour pressing it…thank God I found an iron down in the kitchen…”
