by Meg Cabot
“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…voilà! 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—”
“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
Chapter 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 area (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 open
mouthed.
“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?”
