by Meg Cabot
“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
Chapter 23
Gossip is news running ahead of itself in a red satin dress.
—Liz Smith (1923– ), U.S. journalist and author
I wake 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…”
Vicky, I realize, is barely listening to me. She still hasn’t unglued her gaze from the glistening Givenchy.
“Um,” I say, “do you want to try it on?”
Vicky nods, apparently unable to speak, and begins stripping off her peignoir without another word.
I gently pluck the gown from its hanger. Vicky’s original dress—the lace disaster—hangs on another hook nearby. I’d put the two side by side in order to let her choose. Her original gown doesn’t look that bad—if I do say so myself. I managed to tone down the lace, though there was no way I could remove it all and still have a dress left. Instead of looking like something Stevie Nicks might wear, it now resembled something Oksana Baiul might sport at Barbie on Ice.
But next to the Givenchy, it hadn’t stood a chance.
Which was just what I was hoping.
I find myself holding my own breath as I drop the yards and yards of creamy white silk over Vicky’s head. Then, as she slips her arms through the straps, I step behind her to begin fastening the pearl buttons. One by one, they easily close. And she isn’t, I know, holding her breath, because I can hear her excited panting as she looks down at herself.
“It fits,” she cries excitedly as I get to the top buttons. “It fits perfectly.”
“Well,” I say, “it should. I moved the darts—”
Vicky whirls away from me. “I want to see,” she cr
ies. “Where’s a mirror?”
“Um,” I say. “There’s one in the bathroom across the hall—”
She runs from my room, noisily banging the door, then just as noisily barges into the bathroom.
From which I hear, “Oh my God! It’s perfect!”
I find myself sagging against my bedroom wall in relief. She likes it.
I finally did something right, anyway.
Vicky barges back into my room.
“I love it,” she says. For the first time since I’ve met her, she’s all smiles.
And, smiling, Vicky transforms into an entirely different girl. She’s no longer the spoiled socialite who hates her brother and just about everyone else in the world.
Instead I get a glimpse of the sweet, engaging girl who chose to marry a phlegmatic computer programmer from Minnesota instead of the rich heir to a Texas oil fortune her mom had picked out for her.
It’s true, I guess, what they say about brides on their wedding day. They’re all beautiful. Even this early in the morning, with no makeup on, Vicky looks stunning.
“I love it, and I love you,” she gushes. “I’m going to go show my mom.” She leans over to plant a kiss on my cheek and pulls me into a surprisingly hard bear hug. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I will never forget this. You’re a genius. An absolute genius.”
Then, in a whirl of white silk, she’s gone.
And, completely exhausted, I fall back into bed, desperate for a few more minutes of sleep.
I’m able to snatch one, maybe two, more hours before I’m rudely awakened again, this time by someone hurling herself bodily against me. Someone who sounds very much like Shari as she says, “Oh my God, oh my God, Lizzie, wake up! You’ll never believe this—WAKE UP!”
I wedge a pillow over my head, keeping my eyes tightly closed.
“Whatever it is,” I say, “I don’t want to know. Seriously. I’m exhausted. Go away.”
“You’ll want to know this,” Shari assures me, prying the pillow out of my hands.
When she’s successfully lifted my only protection from the bright sunlight spilling into my bedroom, I peer at her through my puffy eyelids and say, in tones of great hostility, “This better be good, Shar. I was up till five in the morning working on that stupid dress.”
“Oh, this is good,” Shari says. “Luke dumped her.”
I just stare at her. “Who?”
“What do you mean who?” Shari hits me in the head with the pillow she’s taken from me. “Dominique, you idiot. He just told Chaz, who told me. And I rushed up here to tell you.”
“Wait.” I raise up to my elbows. “Luke broke up with Dominique?”
“Last night, apparently, after we all went to bed. I thought I heard them fighting, but the walls in this place are so thick—”
“Wait.” This is seriously too much for me to handle on a diet-Coke-buzz hangover. “They broke up last night?”
“They didn’t break up,” Shari says gleefully. “He dumped her. He told Chaz he finally realized they wanted totally different things in life. Also that her tits were fake.”
“What?”
“Well, that’s not one of the reasons why he broke up with her, of course. It’s just something he said in passing.”
“Oh my God.” I lay there, trying to figure out how I feel. Mostly I feel bad. But maybe that’s because I’ve only had, like, three hours of sleep, total.
“It’s my fault,” I say finally.
Shari looks at me as if I’m insane. “Your fault? How is it your fault?”
“I told Luke’s mom what Dominique told us…about him wanting to be a doctor. And I also let slip that stuff about turning this place into a lipo-recovery hotel. I bet she said something about it to Luke. His mom, I mean.”
Shari gives me a very sarcastic look.
“Lizzie,” she says, “guys don’t break up with their girlfriends because their mom doesn’t like them.”
“Still,” I say. I feel terrible. “If I had kept my mouth shut—”
“Lizzie,” Shari says, “Luke and his girlfriend were having problems way before you ever came along.”
“But—”
“I know, because Chaz told me. I mean, the woman has six-hundred-dollar flip-flops. Come on. Get over yourself. It had nothing to do with you or anything you may or may not have said to Luke’s mom.”
I digest this. Shari’s right, of course. It would be way conceited of me to think that what had happened between Luke and his girlfriend had anything to do with me.
“I knew they were fake,” I say at last.
“I know,” Shari says. “I mean, they never moved. Like when she was waving.”
“I know!” I cry. “Whose boobs don’t jiggle when they move? When they’re that big, I mean.”
“So you know what this means,” Shari says. “You’ve totally got a chance with him after all.”
“Shari,” I say, feeling alarmed. Because I know I’m only going to get my hopes up for nothing. “He hates me. Remember?”
Shari frowns. “He doesn’t hate you.”
“You said he was bitter.”
“Well. Yeah. He did sound kind of bitter about you last night.”
“See,” I say.
“But that was before he dumped his girlfriend!”
I flop back against the pillows. “Nothing’s changed between him and me since last night, though,” I say to the ceiling. “I still accused him of telling you about my thesis. When he totally didn’t.”
“Well, here’s a brilliant idea. Why don’t you try apologizing to him?”
“It won’t change anything,” I say, still speaking to the ceiling. “Not if he’s still bitter. And he probably is. I know I would be, if it were me.”
“Actually, you wouldn’t. But that’s another issue. Look, there’s no doubt in my mind you’re going to have to do some groveling,” Shari says. “But come on. Don’t you think he might be worth it?”
“Yes,” I say. “Of course.” I think about that day on the train, how kind and patient and funny he was. How long his eyelashes had looked against the setting sun. How sweet he was to me that day in the attic. The diet Coke he bought me.
The way he’d insisted I’m brave, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary.
And my heart lurches with longing.
“But, Shari,” I say, “there’s no point. I mean, look at—”
The door to my room thumps open and Chaz sticks his head in, looking annoyed.
“Excuse me, ladies,” he said. “I know it’s fun sitting around gossiping about my friend Luke. But has it occurred to either of you that we have a WEDDING WE PROMISED TO HELP SET UP?”
Which is how, an hour later, I find myself carrying around a tray of mimosas, offering welcome libations to the thirsty—and cranky—hordes gathered on the lawn for the wedding of Victoria Rose Thibodaux and Craig Peter Parkinson. It’s much hotter than anyone anticipated it would be, and the men are all sweating in their suit jackets and ties while the women are using the wedding programs to fan themselves. The wedding is supposed to start at noon, and by all indications it actually will. The minister—imported all the way from the bride’s own church in Houston—has arrived, as has the florist, the wedding cake, and even the string quartet that will march in the bride (Satan’s Shadow still refusing to play covers, including Lohengrin).
Even the bride, to everyone’s surprise, is actually ready, and is rumored to be waiting coolly in the house for the strike of twelve.
I wish I could be doing anything coolly, but I’m basically a mess. That’s because I still haven’t seen Luke yet. Well, I mean, I’ve seen him—he’s running around all over the place, greeting guests, fielding problems, looking stunning in a dark suit, and, unlike so many of the men at Mirac, not at all uncomfortable in it in this heat.
But never once has he come anywhere close to me, much less even glanced my way.
I can totally understand why he’s angry—I mean, bitter—with me.
But the least he could do is give me a chance to explain.
“Is there alcohol in that?” Baz, Satan’s Shadow’s drummer, asks me as he points at the glasses I’m carrying.
“Yes,” I say. “Champagne.”
“Thank God,” Baz says, and grabs two glasses, downs both of them, and puts them back on my tray empty. “It’s frigging hot out here, huh?”
“Well,” I observe politely, “at least you’re dressed for it.” Vicky’s brother’s band has, as far as I can tell, opted to eschew the dress code by wearing shorts, flip-flops, and, in the case of Kurt, the keyboardist, no shirt.
“Man,” Baz says, “have you seen Blaine?”
“I have not,” I say, my attention wandering. That’s because I see Luke nearby, helping an elderly woman in one of the folding chairs Chaz and he were apparently up at seven in the morning setting in rows to form an aisle down which they’re about to unroll a white carpet.
Baz follows my gaze and, spying Luke, raises an arm. “Luke!” he yells. “Yo, over here.”
No! Oh God, no! I want to have a word with Luke, of course, but not like this…a private word. I do not want our first meeting since that unpleasant scene the night before to be in front of anyone—particularly not a drummer named Baz.
“Yes?” Luke asks politely as he comes over.
As usual, the sight of him causes my pulse to flutter like a tween at a sale at Claire’s. He just looks so gorgeous standing there in the sunlight with his broad shoulders and freshly shaved face and, oh God, wingtips. Shiny, newly polished WINGTIPS!
It’s all I can do to keep from dropping my tray.
Why did I have to do something as stupid as accuse him of telling Shari about my thesis? Why, just because I can’t keep a secret, do I go around assuming no one else can, either?
“Dude, have you seen your cousin Blaine?” Baz asks Luke. “Nobody can find him anywhere.”
“I haven’t seen him,” Luke says. His gaze, I can’t help noting, is on mine. Though I can’t for the life of me read what’s going on behind those dark eyes. Does he hate me? Does he like me? Or does he ever even think about me at all? “Has anyone tried his room? Blaine’s a late sleeper, if I remember correctly.”
