Will Work for Prom Dress

by Aimee Ferris

  I thought, mom-wise, Ms. Parisi did pretty good, considering her history. It can’t be easy having to see the face of your kid’s secret biological father plastered across the cover of the “sexiest man alive” issue of every other publication on the news rack. I was one of the few people in the whole world Anne had let in on her parentage and was under threat of death if I ever let it slip. Her parents had a onetime fling at a runway show when her dad was just an unknown model straight from the cornfields of Iowa. She liked to say she got her good looks from her dad and her taste in guys from her mom.

  I thought she got a lot of other good things from her mom, like her independence and her crazy impressive smarts. Not that I would say that to her right now. Anne hadn’t dealt with the crackdown of supervision with a whole lot of grace. She was currently using the majority of her brilliance to find the most cutting things possible to say to Ms. Parisi. This was in revenge for the injustice of having a curfew—a phenomenon that had neatly escaped Anne so far in life.

  The headlights of Ms. Parisi’s convertible lit up the hall.

  “They’re here! I’ll be back by ten,” I called over my shoulder.

  Anne was sitting in the backseat, flipping through a magazine in the dark. Ms. Parisi smiled and patted the front seat.

  “Hey, Anne. Hi, Ms. Parisi,” I said.

  “Victoria, dear. I tell you every time I see you, just call me Victoria. Ms. Parisi is so formal,” she said. She clicked a button on the dash and pulled back into my cul-de-sac.

  “It’s not her fault her parents did a good job raising her. She’s respectful to her elders,” Anne said.

  I hid my smile at Anne’s unconscious slam to her own manners. Ms. Parisi ignored her, smiling and patting my knee. I wiggled a little as the heated seat kicked in. Sitting in Ms. Parisi’s car always made me feel like I’d peed myself. Ms. Parisi turned up the perfect digital speakers to cover the lack of conversation as we headed down the highway into the city.

  The studio was filled with twelve tall tables. Each held one student, a pile of fabric swatches, and half-formed dress pieces. All twenty-four eyes were glued on Ms. Parisi as she strolled into the room and dropped her bag lightly on the table in front. Hero worship hung thick in the air. True fashion lovers appreciated her historical body of work, but her stint as judge on a popular design-based reality show had thrown her into a whole new category of celebrity.

  I had invited Anne over to watch the show with my parents, who tolerated it so as not to be rude to my friend. I hoped their seeing Ms. Parisi’s evenhanded and thoughtful way of critiquing even the most bizarre designs, not to mention designers, would impress them and let them see her in a new light. Unfortunately, Anne’s ridiculing and snarky jokes throughout her mom’s appearances pretty much made it a wash.

  “Good evening, designers.” Ms. Parisi smiled graciously.

  The faces of the students lit up at the title. They leaned toward her like she was some sort of magnet. I expected applause to spontaneously erupt at any minute. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like inspiring that kind of reaction from a group of strangers. Anne rolled her eyes and flopped into a chair along the wall. I sat beside her and tried to guess which one of the guys Anne would go for first.

  “As I mentioned last week, I brought in some live models for you to get a better feel for the movement in your designs. They will be joining us for the class throughout the semester and will be at your disposal for fittings and draping exercises. I’d like to introduce Anne and Quigley.”

  Ms. Parisi motioned us up to the front. I gave a shy little half wave. Anne stepped forward and struck a dramatic pose.

  “Hello, everyone. I’m sure you will all enjoy Mother’s class,” Anne said.

  Ms. Parisi’s perfectly made-up mouth tightened the tiniest bit at Anne’s exaggerated Mother. Anne beamed at the audible gasps. She looked a lot less pleased with the flood of “you look way too young to have a daughter that age” compliments that followed. Ms. Parisi bowed a little thank-you and quickly moved on.

  “As you can see, these lovely young ladies have very different body types. This should enable you to find a good match for whatever you are working on this semester. I’ll be handing out a lesson plan with your objectives for this week, as well as the girls’ measurements. But first, I’d like to test your eye for figure. This will be important when you are in a position to pick and choose your models. You’ll need to guesstimate who would work well for what is in your mind’s eye. I’d like you all to take out paper and pencil and write your estimates of bust, waist, hips, inseam, and shoulder to waist for each of the girls as they appear in their street clothes.”

  My face flamed as twelve sets of eyes shot to my body. They looked from head to toe with concentration, sizing me up. I wished I’d refused my mother’s signature pork chops and just had the green-bean-and-mushroom-soup casserole at dinner. Or that I had at least worn my jeans without the frayed waistband. That frayed denim must add at least a half inch. Maybe more.

  Anne seemed to have no such concerns and stood with one hip thrust forward, allowing her already low-slung jeans to slide an inch lower. Her gaze had landed on a guy with black spiky hair. He had what looked like a dog collar around his neck. A strategic rip in his shirt revealed a tribal armband tattoo. Anne’s interest had not escaped the notice of Ms. Parisi, whose perfectly shaped brows were wrinkled in the tiniest frown of dismay.

  The students looked up, one by one, as they completed the task. Ms. Parisi circled the room, nodding and pointing down at their sheets.

  “Very good. Here are the girls’ actual measurements—take a look and see where you might have erred a bit,” she said.

  I blushed again as the class looked from the paper to my body and made notes and adjustments. I was beginning to wonder whether I had let go of the pizza-making dream a little too soon.

  “Now go ahead and pull out your designs from last week to see which of the girls will better work to model your dress. May I have a show of hands as to who will be using Anne this week?”

  I cringed as all twelve hands shot up. This was like gym class. A guy with wavy, light brown hair looked around and yanked his hand back down.

  “Okay, then. Alexander, will you be needing Quigley for your fitting?”

  “Yes. Sorry, I just got their names mixed up.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. At least it wasn’t total and complete rejection. Just an eleven out of twelve rejection. Anne squeezed my hand.

  “It’s only because they were doing sheath dresses last week—you know, boobs need not apply,” she whispered.

  I tried to give her a genuine smile back. I really didn’t have any major problems with my body, but getting scrutinized standing next to Anne could give anybody a complex. Anne made a beeline for The Spikester, and I wandered over to Alexander’s table.

  “Hi. I’m Quigley.”

  “Cool name. You can just call me Zander. Do you want to see what I’m working on?”

  I pulled up a stool and sat down. Normally, a guy as good looking as he was would have me stammering and tripping over my feet. But he had such a laid-back manner, it was like I was hanging out with family.

  “See this? The fabric hangs over here and then gets bunched into a shirred bustline,” he said.

  I nodded politely. But in reality, the whole drawing had a sort of bunched look to it. I wasn’t sure what he was going for, but if I had to choose one word for his design, it would have to be stumpy. I was starting to feel less than complimented that he chose me for a model. He suddenly threw down his pencil and hung his head in his hands.

  “I know. It’s terrible,” he moaned.

  “Um, nooo. No, it’s just—”

  “Terrible. Terrible! It’s all a bunch of crap.”

  “No, I wouldn’t say crap exactly.”

  I tried to tear my eyes away from the overly bright red and fuchsia blob on his sketch pad. The arms and legs he had added for reference had a definite Picasso-esque
quality about them. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through pursed lips. He met my concerned gaze and shrugged with a chuckle.

  “Such a drama queen, aren’t I?” He dropped the offending sketch pad into my hands. “Here, let me show you the actual dress.”

  Anne was across the aisle, leaning not so subtly into The Spikester as he laid a swatch of black lace across her shoulder. Ms. Parisi was doing a fair job of pretending she wasn’t hovering over the edgy designer’s shoulder. When I turned back to Zander, I almost dropped his sketch pad. What he held up was a fluid dream in crimson with such a subtle touch of purple that is seemed to glow.

  “Wow.”

  Zander’s eyebrows shot up in relief. “Really?”

  “Oh my God, yes! Oh, I want that.”

  Zander laughed, but I was dead serious. I set his sketchbook down to pull the skirt out for a better look. Zander sighed as he caught sight of the awful blob on his sketchbook. I sighed as I saw that the dress was going to be a good six inches too small for me. I’d have said I would be six inches too big, but I preferred to think of the dress as being to blame. It was my own version of the glass half-full/half-empty distinction.

  Zander stared down at the sketch. “Hopeless.”

  “Hopeless.” I agreed and let the shimmery silk slide out of my fingers.

  We sat there for a minute lost in mutual misery until the clicking of Ms. Parisi’s approaching heels snapped us out of it. She always wore shoes with super-long, skinny toes that reminded me of the legs under the fallen Oz house. They cost a fortune and were in all the fashion mags, so I guess “witchy” was in, and I just had no taste in footwear.

  “How are we doing here?”

  “Oh, good. Fine. Just need to make a few adjustments,” Zander stammered, and leaned over to hide his sketchbook.

  Ms. Parisi stroked the dress. “Beautiful choice of fabrics, Alexander. You have a good eye for movement.” She cocked her head and slid her hand inside the dress and nodded. “Smart to leave a decent seam allowance. It’s delicate material; be sure not to damage it when making your alterations. This color will look lovely on Quigley.”

  “I agree,” said Zander.

  Ms. Parisi’s radar went off at Anne’s giggle. Across the room, The Spikester was taking Anne’s waist measurement as she pretended to be ticklish. Ms. Parisi’s witchy shoes clicked off to intervene before he moved on up to the bust.

  “So can you really fix that dress to fit this body?” I asked.

  “Of course.” Zander was already turning the garment inside out to inspect the seams.

  “I’m sorry you have to do all that. I know I’m not exactly a model figure.”

  “Are you kidding? You have a great figure—perfect proportions. Today’s model figures are pretty warped, if you ask me. Look at how tiny your waist is—to tell the truth, hourglass is a great look for this style of dress. You’re actually helping me out—helping me envision how much better it can be.”

  My cheeks probably matched the dress. “It’s still a lot of work.”

  “Sure, but this”—he flipped the skirt with grin—“I’m good at.” He glanced at the sketchbook in disgust. “That, on the other hand …”

  “Well, the final product is what matters. Right?”

  “I wish that was all that mattered. I just can’t seem to translate what I see in my head to what my hands draw on paper.”

  I sat back down on the stool and flipped through the rest of his sketchbook. I searched for something to compliment. When he was engrossed with his little thread picker, I turned several of the pages to the side, and even upside down, trying to figure out what garment the sketch was supposed to be. He was right—hopeless.

  “You, umm, choose really beautiful colors?”

  He looked up and laughed. It was so genuine I couldn’t help but laugh with him.

  “That’s like saying my dresses have really great personalities,” he gasped.

  This set me off on another round of giggles. The class had turned to see what was so funny. We tried to compose ourselves. Zander was still chuckling as he went back to his seam snipping.

  I turned to a fresh sheet in his sketchbook and picked up a red pencil. The lines of his gown flared out, and I added a swoop of purple here and there where the material would catch the light. I exaggerated the length of the limbs and neck of the figure with a thick black line. Satisfied, I picked up the red pencil again and started coloring.

  This was turning out to be the best job ever.

  Chapter Four

  Mrs. Albertt’s voice droned on and on about processing times and F-stops. The tangy smell of developing chemicals wafted from the darkroom. I jerked out of my near doze and wondered if they were related to chloroform. I heard you had to contact the government for proper disposal of toxic substances, which did not make the thought of hours spent elbow deep in the stuff very enticing.

  I shifted in my seat trying to keep myself awake with the little clicks that sounded each time the stool leg hit the ugly green linoleum. David’s voice snapped me out of my daze.

  “This is fascinating, Mrs. Albertt. So we can purposefully overexpose our pieces for effect?” he asked.

  “Suck up,” I said under my breath.

  Everyone knew this particular class was a complete waste. Only at an arts-dedicated charter school would a course devoted to only film and prints even exist. The future of photography was digital. Nobody did print work anymore. But Mrs. Albertt was a technophobe purist when it came to photography. David would surely find some way to wow her. It was all politics.

  “Exactly, David!” Mrs. Albertt beamed. “The citywide show our very own David won last year will feature a new category—art photography. Maybe as the semester progresses, some of you might try your hand at the type of effect David was just asking about.”

  The bell interrupted Mrs. Albertt’s David-adoration. I hopped off my stool and headed for the theater to track down Anne. She’d become a regular drama convert in the past few weeks since T-Shirt had caught her eye. I’d have worried she was actually getting serious about one guy, if not for the weekly reassurance to the contrary, courtesy of The Spikester.

  As the other designers continued to choose Anne’s waiflike look over my, ahem, sturdier build, Zander stuck by me. And, occasionally, into me. But the prick of fitting pins was part of life as a model. We had settled into a comfortable Wednesday night friendship. He’d play with fabric and the physical lines of his garment; I’d redraw the blobs in his sketchbook to resemble whatever he was actually working on. During the week he’d use my sketches to practice his own drawing skills. So it wasn’t really like cheating or anything.

  I almost felt bad taking the thirty bucks a night for having such a good time, but Ms. Parisi didn’t seem to mind. Though she might have been preoccupied trying to keep a handle on the abundance of fittings The Spikester seemed to require of his all-too-willing model.

  She handled it quite well when Anne, while being pinned by The Spikester, nearly experienced a wardrobe malfunction with the neck string on her bikini. Ms. Parisi had pounced before anything was revealed and pulled the strings back into a double knot as tight as her smile. The poor woman had nerves of steel.

  “What’s so funny?”

  I jumped as David’s arrogant drawl cut through my thoughts.

  “Why are you following me?” I snapped at him, embarrassed.

  “I didn’t realize I was. You own the halls now?”

  I sped up and turned down the empty hall to the auditorium. I’d blown my physics test that morning and had a meeting with my guidance counselor after school. My day needed no further challenges, particularly in the form of dealing with David. I heard the echo of his feet still following me. The only thing down this hall was the theater.

  I spun around to face him. “What do you want?”

  “What do I want?” David took a step closer and lowered his voice. “I want you, Quigley. You’re a pretty girl. You’d make a nice Art Qu
een. What do you say?”

  My heart pounded as a mini-gasp slipped out. Maybe the residue of developer fumes on his way-too-close body had clouded my brain. I struggled in vain for a response for several eternally long seconds.

  He pulled back and laughed at me as I stammered in shock. “Or maybe, just maybe, I want to get back to the sets I’m painting for the play.” He sauntered past me chuckling. “It’s not always about you, Quigley. You should work on that whole self-involvement thing you’ve got going on.”

  I stood frozen in a mix of rage and humiliation, wishing I had studied enough physics to know if it was possible for a human being to melt into linoleum. And if so, how I might achieve that. I heard welcoming yells of “Hey, Art King!” and “Art King’s here!” echoing from the theater doors.

  I turned and headed back down the hall to the cafeteria instead. Sorry, Anne. This is so not worth it. With every classroom I passed, I thought of another good comeback.

  That always happened to me. A whole pile of stunners materialized, too late to use them. Self-involved. David thinks I’m self-involved? Unreal. It was during times like these that I felt like counting the days left of high school. That thought just reminded me of my meeting with my guidance counselor.

  According to the note, we were supposed to work on a Plan B college entrance strategy. Which sounded suspiciously like teacher code for crappy-student-who-needs-help-to-get-pawned-off-on-some-school-any-school-so-she-doesn’t-screw-up-our-placement-ratio. Anne had received telltale fat manila envelopes from three different Ivy League schools. My letters from universities came back in your standard business envelope. It didn’t take much room when the letters started, “Thank you for your interest. Unfortunately …”

  Anne tried to pump me up about the one that included a “waiting list concession” at the very bottom. It was like they didn’t even mean it, like an afterthought. Really, it was just that—an afterthought. After all the good students thought about where they’d attend, they would let me know if they needed a warm body to fill a dorm bed.