by Amy Spalding
“I thought we could maybe do a hashtag of—” I stop myself because it sort of seems like I started in the middle and not the beginning. “I had some thoughts on Instagram, and—”
“That’s great, Abby,” Maggie says, though does it ever feel great getting interrupted? “I thought you could update inventory for online orders. Let’s try to find time to talk about Instagram and everything else later, okay?”
“But …” I don’t mean to glance toward the sales floor as if I have X-ray vision and can watch Jordi work, but I realize my face is pointed in that direction anyway.
“I know, it seems like Jordi’s getting the fun, easy work, but this is so valuable to me, and I honestly always have fun doing it. I love seeing what people are buying most.”
“It’s not about fun,” I manage to say, and it’s true. Everything at Lemonberry is pretty fun. Even steaming dresses, potentially the most boring task on the planet, feels like magic when dresses go from wrinkly messes to flowing works of fashion. “I just know that you liked all my social media stuff when I interviewed, so …”
Maggie smiles right at me, in that special way that convinces you that you’re her whole world. No matter how untrue you know it is.
“I love your social media stuff, Abby. But ultimately the internship is about helping out where we need it, and today that’s inventory. We’ll find time to talk soon, though, okay?”
I nod, not just because I’m still in the glow of her smile, but because I also can see that she’s right. Before the summer started, I wouldn’t have thought there were so many parts to making a shop great. But Maggie has to think of them all and then make sure they’re actually taken care of. Clothes have to hang perfectly and dust can’t gather on fixtures and window displays can’t appear stagnant and forgotten. And filing isn’t, like, fun, but obviously, it’s essential. And I like that I’m a part of it all.
It’s true Jordi gets to do the thing that Jordi is specifically very good at, but as I survey our recent orders, I remind myself that what I’m doing matters, too. And if Maggie can look this relieved when I give her the updated report, hopefully she sees that, too.
But of course the truth is that I don’t know what Maggie’s thinking at all.
Maliah meets me at my house after work, and I’m glad we have plans tonight even though I just lost several minutes inside Jordi’s gate with my fingertips on the bare skin of her lower back and her lips on mine. There’s so much that I didn’t know before, like that you could see someone all day long and yet still feel physically unable to get enough of their kisses, or that someone’s hand on the back of your neck could make you feel like you’re melting but in a good way.
“Did you have to work late?” Maliah asks with a look to the time on her phone.
“Sure,” I say while realizing my lip gloss is probably smudged. “What do you want to do?”
Maliah pats the bumper of the Honda in the driveway. It’s covered in more than a fine layer of dust, dirt, and pollen. “Isn’t this your car?”
I shrug. “It’s technically my mom’s. Rachel got to use it, and now I could. If I wanted. Which I don’t.”
“You have been my best friend my entire life,” Maliah says.
“Since fifth grade,” I say.
“Ugh, details. Anyway, I know you better than anyone else.”
I don’t correct her, mainly because I know my connection with Rachel is different. Sisters and best friends are good in a lot of the same ways, but that doesn’t make them the same. Of course, maybe I don’t even have that with Rachel anymore.
“This is the thing I don’t get about you,” Maliah continues. “You could have so much more freedom with this!”
“You’ll never convince me,” I say. “I’m going to college in New York. And I like walking. I have exactly as much freedom as I need. Also, whatever! You’re always saying you don’t get things about me, like when I said strawberries aren’t overrated.”
“Oh my god, how can you even think that?” Maliah pauses and then bursts into laughter. “Why do I take that so seriously?”
“I’m terrified to know. Look, I don’t want to drive. Does it have to be a thing? Does it have to keep being a thing?”
We stare each other down because we are not the kind of best friends who like losing to each other. It hits me that if I were competing against Maliah for the Lemonberry job, I might have strong-armed my way into Maggie’s office for a social media meeting today.
Is it bad to know that?
Is it worse to know it and also that I might not do anything about it?
“What?” Maliah asks, because she’s right that we know each other extremely well.
“I wish I didn’t have to compete for the job at the store,” is what I tell her. “Please don’t say anything mean about Jordi. You don’t want secrets, so there you go.”
“You’re going to get the job,” Maliah tells me. “Don’t even worry about it.”
“That is not how not worrying works, Maliah!”
She laughs. “Come on. Zoe and Brooke are over at Wanderlust getting ice cream.”
“What? We could have already been walking toward ice cream and you took this long to tell me?”
“I’m a monster, right?”
CHAPTER 18
Maliah and Trevor are not exactly my favorite couple—whether or not that makes me a bad person—but one good thing about them is that there isn’t any drama. Before my best friend fell in love, that’s the main gist I got from overhearing other people’s relationship talk at school. There’s jealousy, misunderstanding, ignored texts, someone else. But Maliah and Trevor have never been that.
And maybe that’s a little why Jordi and I aren’t either, but also because I can’t even imagine wanting to fight with Jordi. I can’t imagine Jordi’s tone stern or angry with me. Instead I imagine the year stretching out before us, school and Homecoming and the tree-lighting at The Americana. I don’t know which one of us gets the job at Lemonberry but the other one can hang out there, at least the shifts when Laine’s working. Laine loves having us around.
Not that I don’t want to get the job. Not that I don’t still hope that it’s me. Not that I don’t keep a running tally in my head of our chances. Jordi gets fashion shows, but I get private sewing lessons. Jordi has the air of a professional, but I’m the one who lives and breathes fashion. Photographers are probably more expensive to pay than bloggers—I assume—but does the savings matter when the job is mainly going to be straightening clothes on racks and operating a cash register?
Also, I can’t help but worry that it’s not, like, morally sound to want to beat your girlfriend at something like this. Shouldn’t I want the best for her over myself? I’m not sure how it sorts out. I’ll be happy if the job’s awarded to her at the end of next month, but also I won’t be. So for now I’ll just try to do my best and put the rest out of my mind because otherwise I might lose it. My mind, that is, not the job.
Though I guess maybe the job, too.
“Hey, Abby?”
I look up as Maggie walks out of her office, or maybe she already walked in a moment ago while I was running through scenarios in my head. I’ve definitely been less daydreamy since my first day, but there’s still vast room for improvement.
“I got you a present.” Maggie hands me a bag from a fabric store. “That’s everything you said you wanted for your project.”
“Maggie, you totally didn’t have to. I just wanted your advice on where I could find it.” I look in the bag and see every single thing I asked about: black canvas, sage green canvas, a shiny gunmetal fabric, and—“Oh my god, Hello Kitty fabric exists!”
“I told you that I’d seen it before,” she says. “I also thought you’d want to put a pouch in the bag, so I got you an extra zipper, and hardware for the strap so you can make it adjustable.”
“Whoa,” I say. “I think that’s past my ability level. I just made, like, a couple bags that my mom’s using for grocery shoppin
g. Zippers?”
“I think only the Amish are allowed to be overwhelmed by zippers,” Maggie says. “And, silly, I’ll be helping you. Are you doing anything tonight? You can stop by my house. Wait, I’m sorry. Is that appropriate? I have no idea.”
I can’t even imagine what Maggie’s house must be like, if her workspace is weird piles of paper and her clothing is faded concert T-shirts and expensive but very worn jeans.
I would, obviously, really like to see it.
“I’m free tonight,” I tell her. Sure, I’ve gotten some texts from Jax about getting burgers, but that can wait. Ever since I got the idea to make a bag for Jordi, I’ve wanted to actually do it, but I knew I wasn’t even ready enough to mention it to Maggie much less make it before practicing more at home. Mom now has a whole set of green bags of varying quality to take to Gelson’s and the Atwater Village Farmers’ Market.
“Great. If you don’t mind hanging around a little later than usual, I can drive you from here. Sound good? Again, unless it’s too weird.”
“I don’t think it’s weird,” I say. “Or I don’t care, because I definitely need your help on this. You’re really okay giving up your evening to help me?”
Jordi walks in from the front, camera in hand.
“Of course, Abby,” Maggie says.
I realize I have the bag from the fabric store wide open, so I quickly close it and roll it so that there’s no way anyone could see into it. Maggie seems to notice me doing it, but she doesn’t say anything.
“I was going to eat,” Jordi says. “If it’s a good time for you to break, too.”
“It is.” I try not to glance at Maggie to survey her face for signs of suspicion. It would be normal for Jordi and me to hang out at work if we were just fellow interns, wouldn’t it? Ugh, maybe not, considering that we’re also rivals for the job. Hopefully our friendliness just adds to whatever professionalism we’re already projecting.
I know my parents are out running errands today, so Jordi and I head there under the guise of leftover zucchini pizza bites in our fridge. But of course we head back hungry, because once we were alone inside, she leaned into me and my hands outlined all her lean curves. Almost like magic, we were on my bed, and now that we’re in public again, almost back at work, I feel like we pulled off some brilliant heist. How could a standard lunchbreak compare to making out with Jordi Perez?
“You look suspiciously happy,” Jordi tells me as we approach Lemonberry.
“Too happy for getting a burrito at Hugo’s?” I ask, since that had been our cover story. But I’m still smiling as scenes replay in my head.
“Definitely out of proportion for burritos,” she says, and there’s something about her knowing look that cuts right through me and makes me feel all melty.
“It’s weird that now you’ve seen me without my shirt on,” I blurt out, even though I wasn’t even thinking it, and, also, no no no. “Sorry, I mean—”
We are literally back at the front door of Lemonberry, which would be the wrong place to have this conversation even if it was a conversation we should be having. Also, obviously, I know why I said it and how much I hope Jordi assures me. And why, if something can be completely out of your head as it happens, can it come back to haunt you later?
“Weird is not the word I’d use,” Jordi says, and then smiles.
“Okay,” I say.
“How were those burritos?” Maggie asks, walking up behind us.
“Really good,” I say quickly.
“Agreed,” Jordi says, looking right at me. I’m melty again.
Inside the store, Jordi’s tasked with breaking down a bunch of boxes in the back while I’m reorganizing the jewelry cases. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and even though it’s unprofessional, I sneak it out while Laine’s talking to a customer and Maggie’s nowhere to be found.
not weird. beautiful.
I look up into one of the floor-length store mirrors, trying to see what Jordi sees. I picture her camera pointed at me and the resulting image, but it still doesn’t make sense to me.
Maggie’s ready to head out tonight at the same time Jordi and I would be getting off work anyway, so I wave good-bye to Jordi and follow Maggie outside to her Jeep. It’s surprisingly mostly clutter-free.
“I let Jordi know that I’m helping you with a project,” Maggie says. “I didn’t want her to worry it was any kind of favoritism.”
Obviously I don’t mention that I’ve already halfway explained this to Jordi on our way to my house today, and, even more obviously, the half I left out was that my sewing project is for her. I wish there had been a way I could have completed it before she gave me the necklace, but at least I’m finally getting started.
Maggie’s house is on a green and quiet street in Glassell Park, which is about halfway between my part of LA and Highland Park. It’s a small house like ours, but inside the chaos seems controlled and not at all cluttered like I’d expected. There are toys everywhere and a few random Lemonberry dresses hung in the kitchen, but it’s no episode of Hoarders.
“Okay, talk me through this again,” Maggie says, and I explain how I want the bag to be color-blocked in black, green, and gunmetal, with the Hello Kitty lining like a secret for the owner of the bag only. Maggie nods, very seriously, and leads me down the hallway to what must be her design studio. This is the room that looks like it’s owned by the Maggie I’m used to, because stuff is everywhere. Dress forms, sewing machines, a huge iMac, piles of fabrics, and sketchpads lying on every surface. She flips one open, draws something, and holds it up.
“Like this?” she asks, and it’s amazing how it’s exactly what I saw in my head. She unrolls gridded paper from a huge roll and shows me how she begins designing her own patterns. Before long we have pieces for each color and the lining, as well.
“Should we order a pizza before we continue?” Maggie asks, and I agree that it’s a great idea.
“You’re quiet tonight,” she says while completing the order online. “You’re never my quiet intern. Is everything okay?”
“I’m just trying to learn,” I say. “And be professional.”
Maggie laughs. “Abby, please never be quiet to be professional. At least not where I’m concerned. I know that Jordi has the silently cool thing down, but it’s hardly how I’m evaluating the two of you. God, I really wish I’d never mentioned that on your very first day, but I think you’ve noticed I’m about as loquacious as you are. The last thing I want is for you to feel like it’s a constant competition.”
“Isn’t it, though?” I ask.
“No. Definitely not. This summer is for you two to learn, and for me to get the benefit of having two really talented girls helping out my store. That’s it.”
“Then I’ll try to …” I laugh. “Talk more?”
“You talk the right amount, Abby,” she says with a serious look in her eyes. “Don’t try to be something you aren’t.”
I nod. “Can I ask a question?”
“Of course,” she says. “But let’s start pinning the pattern to the fabric while we talk.”
I follow her lead and begin attaching the pattern to the four different fabrics with tiny stickpins. “I seriously love Lemonberry, and I’m not saying that to suck up. I love, like, every dress you’ve designed, and I love most of the other brands you carry, as well. But your look is so …”
Maggie looks down at her ultra-faded Ramones T-shirt. “Glamorous?”
I laugh. “Exactly.”
“I love designing dresses for girls like you,” she says. “And, occasionally, when I’m feeling fancy, that includes myself. But most days I’m happier just like this.”
“Um … I really do like everything I’m doing at the shop,” I say, because the moment feels so safe. “But I haven’t been able to do many social media things yet. I know you’re busy, but—”
“You’re absolutely right,” Maggie says. “Also, you don’t have to pretend you like dusting, Abby. No one likes dusting.”
“I’ll find time for you, okay?” she asks, and maybe I’m just caught in the beams of her smile again, but I nod and smile back.
We get the entire pattern cut out before the pizza arrives, and after we eat, we wash our hands free of grease and get back to work. It hits me as the pieces of material begin to take the shape of an actual bag that, ideally, Jordi will be carrying it, and Maggie will see.
But I’ve put in too much work to turn back. And I want to give Jordi something I’ve created myself too badly to keep this hidden from her.
“This will be a nice gift,” Maggie says. “Or at least I assume it’s a gift. It’s not quite your vibe.”
“It’s a gift,” I say. “Yeah.”
“Someone special,” Maggie says, doesn’t ask. I guess that much must be obvious.
“Yes,” I say, and I hope I can leave it at that. For now. And lots of people can be special. Jordi’s my girlfriend, yes, but she’s not the only special person in my life. When Maggie sees her with it, it doesn’t have to be a thing.
“Thank you so much for helping me with this,” I say. “It’s way more complicated than I could manage.”
“You’re picking it up quickly,” she says. “I can tell.”
“Still. Without you, it’d just look like a weird black and green lump, probably.” I stroke the nearly completed bag with my hand. “I can’t believe I thought this up and now it’s real.”
Maggie smiles. “I feel like that every time I see one of my finished dresses.”
I’m not sure I’ll ever be capable of designing anything more elaborate than a bag, but it’s still nice to have something in common with someone as talented as Maggie. When I sit down at home to write my latest blog post (rompers, even though I am wary of them), I feel less like someone doing the fashion thing from the sidelines. Yes, I just made a bag, and only due to someone else’s abilities and equipment at that. But suddenly it’s as though I’m finding my way to something, and I’m not just in its approximate area.
