The Allegra Biscotti Collection

by Sherri Rifkin; Olivia Bennett

  Charlie smiled. “Kind of like a baby’s first word?”

  “I know I’m being lame, but suddenly Allegra is becoming a real person. She designs clothes and gets messages from an important fashion editor and has pictures of her dresses on the Web…plus, I’m a little freaked out,” she admitted.

  “Paige Young is going to be so stoked that she’s gonna be the first person ever to wear an original Allegra Biscotti design. She won’t think twice about the stupid text message. Seriously. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Emma pressed send.

  Charlie stood. “The second Marjorie gets back and unchains you from the desk, you should finish the dress.”

  The dress. Charlie’s right, Emma realized. It’s all about the dress.

  In her cozy studio, surrounded by her tins full of buttons and ribbons and a rainbow of scraps from the beautiful things she’d made with her very own hands, the anxiety building up inside her disappeared. Now she was just excited.

  She could already picture Paige wearing the raspberry halter dress—her dress. Maybe Paige would tie the sash on the side, or right in the center—or knot it in the back to make it her very own. Maybe she’d even get photographed in it at some fancy fashion-industry party. How cool would that be?

  Or maybe she would come out of the bathroom wearing it on the first day of her honeymoon, and her new husband would be blown away at the sight of her. Maybe he would say that she had never looked prettier. And maybe—just maybe—Paige would remember that moment for the rest of her life.

  CHAPTER 5

  SPECIAL DELIVERY

  Emma hugged the carefully wrapped package that held the Allegra Biscotti dress—the first one that was going to be worn by an actual person instead of just a dress form— against her chest. She tipped her head back, looking skyward at the impossibly tall and sleek-angled all-glass building that housed Madison magazine.

  “You coming?” Charlie asked, as he pushed one of the three massive, revolving glass doors leading into the building. Emma hurried to catch up.

  The spacious marble lobby crackled with energy and activity. Several women and a few men stood speaking into their cell phones. The women quickly strolling in and out of glass revolving doors wore narrow pencil skirts in an array of neutrals—grays, blacks, browns, and beiges—no bright colors, as far as Emma could tell, and super high-heeled strappy shoes in rich-looking suede, exotic speckled skins, and here and there a metallic shimmer.

  Cashmere wraps and fabulously cut jackets were thrown over shoulders just so—it was as if each and every woman walking through the lobby was camera-ready. Even the men were photo-shoot ready. Their navy-blue and slate-gray suits were slim and fitted, with a dash of color in the ties—subtly textured pastel lilac and eye-popping fuchsia.

  Visitors lined up at the front desk between two red velvet ropes, as if trying to get into an exclusive party instead of attend a meeting in the offices upstairs. Messengers—some in neon spandex bike gear—crowded around the far end of the security desk in a less organized way, jostling each other so they could drop off their packages and make the rest of their deliveries before businesses closed for the day.

  A shiver ran up Emma’s spine. This is the real deal, she thought. This lobby oozed fashion.

  Emma looked down at her nautical navy-and-white boat-neck top and jeans and then over at Charlie’s chunky black sweater and red classic Chucks.

  “We don’t exactly fit in.”

  “Who cares? We don’t need to,” Charlie replied, filled with confidence as usual. Still, Emma wished she had thought to go home and change into something more stylish.

  She stared across the lobby at a tall woman in an African-print minidress with a huge collar. Even from this distance, Emma could see the dress was runway-worthy. Amazing, really. The package in her arms suddenly felt strangely heavy, as if she were a child lugging home her beloved preschool art project.

  “This place is sort of giving me the creeps.” “I think we have to go over there with the other messengers.” Charlie headed toward the security desk.

  “Okay.” Emma wished she could pull out her sketchbook. The Game would be really easy to play here. She turned to follow Charlie.

  “You can not be serious!”

  Emma froze. Paige Young stood five feet in front of her.

  “I am not taking a subway down to Tribeca with all these garment bags,” Paige told a twenty-something girl with a super-high ponytail and the skinniest pants Emma had ever seen. Paige covered the phone speaker with her hand and focused on the girl.

  “I thought you confirmed the car service. ‘Confirmed’ means calling an hour before the pickup time to make sure they have the booking, not just checking to see that you have it down on my calendar.”

  Ponytail Girl quaked in her stacked-heel boots. “I-I can call them now…” the girl who must be Paige’s assistant stammered.

  “He-llo! It’s Friday afternoon! The chances of them being able to send a car in the next ten…” Paige looked down at her gold watch, “make that five minutes are slim to none, and none just left town in a stretch limo.”

  Paige put the phone back up to her ear. “I’m so, so sorry, Pierre!” she said, her tone instantly shifting from an irritated growl to a sweet coo. “S’il vous plaît excusez-moi. I will be at the photo shoot as soon as humanly possible. Yes, yes—breaking in a new assistant. Ah, so you understand. Ciao, Pierre!”

  Emma was fascinated. She couldn’t stop from openly staring, as if watching some sort of improv theater performance. Pass the popcorn—she was set.

  Charlie came up beside her. “What happened? I thought you were right behind me. I was almost at the front of the—”

  “Shhh!” Emma nodded her head toward Paige, who had ended her call.

  “That’s her!” Charlie exclaimed, before Emma could gag him.

  Paige’s gaze shifted quickly over to Charlie and then back to Emma. “Hey! Aren’t you—?”

  Emma’s first instinct was to run. Fast. They had learned about animals’ flight-or-fight responses in biology. And she was most definitely a fleer. But Charlie blocked her path to the door.

  He moved in front of Emma and smiled. “Allegra Biscotti’s interns. We met at Laceland earlier in the week.” He sounded smooth and confident.

  God, what acting skills, Emma thought. Either his mother had taught him well, or it was in his genes. Emma didn’t care which as long as Charlie stayed in control, because she sure had no idea what to say.

  “Actually, Ms. Young, we’re here to deliver a package to you from Allegra Biscotti,” he continued.

  Emma slightly raised the package—for protection as much as proof.

  Paige pursed her mauve lips and blinked a couple of times. “I’m kind of on my way out—if I can manage to find a taxi or horse-drawn carriage or one of those stupid bicycle cabs to get me downtown before the photographer walks off the set,” she said, narrowing her eyes at her ponytailed assistant, who rapidly typed on her phone in a flurry of concentrated activity.

  “Caroline.” Ponytail Girl jolted into ready position. “Take this package up to my office when you return.”

  Emma stared for a moment at the girl’s outstretched hand. She wanted Paige to have the dress. She did. But not like this. She had been expecting something different. A gasp, knowing she had gotten the beloved dress. Oprah-like exclamations of joy. Happiness.

  She shifted the package in her arms. Her clothes were joyful things. They made her happy. She knew that sounded odd, but Paige just wasn’t in the right mind-set now. Emma couldn’t loosen her grasp.

  “Thank you,” Paige prompted, shooting Emma a quizzical look.

  Charlie nudged her hard with his elbow.

  Emma slowly released the package. She watched as Ponytail Girl casually tucked it under her arm and then held the screen of her phone toward Paige.

  “We got it! A car is coming down the street now.”

  Paige headed for the front doors without a glance back at Emm
a or Charlie.

  Emma hoped she had done the right thing. Would this woman like her dress? Love it? Wear it? Even care?

  Emma slowly followed Charlie back onto the street, letting herself get swept up in the growing crowd of tourists taking over Times Square.

  “Okay. Pause. What was that about?” Charlie demanded.

  Emma couldn’t even begin to find the words to explain how it felt to part with her dress.

  “Whatever. It’s your deal, but I think it went well,” he said, clearly satisfied with their mission.

  “You don’t think us being there made Paige suspicious or anything, do you?”

  Charlie waved his hand as they stopped at a crosswalk. “Nah. Our story was totally believable. Besides, it seemed like Paige had more important stuff to worry about. She’s totally forgotten about us by now.”

  “Hopefully,” Emma said. “You know, if she doesn’t go back to the office tonight, she might not get the dress until Monday morning.”

  “So?”

  “It’s a long time to wait.” Emma tore at a hangnail on her thumb. “I’m just saying, that’s all.”

  “Just think how happy she’ll be when she gets into the office after the weekend and finds the dress inside,” Charlie replied, always the optimist.

  “I just hope she likes it as much as she thought she did.” Emma now feared that her dress wouldn’t live up to Paige’s first sighting. Under the harsh fluorescent lights of the magazine’s office, the dress might look…ordinary.

  They crossed Broadway. Street vendors set up along the sidewalk sold knockoffs of designer handbags, books, jewelry, and souvenirs from folding tables. Charlie stopped.

  “Look at these awesome old concert T-shirts.” He rifled through a stack of shirts. “Beastie Boys, Tears for Fears, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, the English Beat, the Go-Go’s? I’ve never heard of any of these bands. Oh wait, I think I know the Cure.”

  “Who cares?” Emma said, feeling her mood turning. Clothing did that to her. “The graphics on them are so blocky and retro. I could totally do something fun with these.” She glanced at the crudely lettered sign: 12 for $25. “Help me pick.”

  A half an hour later, Emma sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, while Charlie played a video game on her computer and munched on stale pretzels he’d pilfered from the kitchen. Sorting the shirts by color—black-gray, red, white, yellow-orange-pink, green-blue-purple—was working to calm her down.

  “So what’s your master plan?” Charlie asked, nudging the stack of shirts with his foot.

  Emma reached for her fabric shears. “I was thinking about cutting out the band logos and sewing them onto plain T-shirts. You staying?”

  “Definitely.” He turned back to the computer. “Mom’s holding an acting workshop at our place tonight. Ten women sitting around practicing how to cry realistically on cue for three hours.”

  “Sounds brutal.” Emma began cutting. She didn’t want all her patches to be squares or rectangles. She trimmed around the outline of the artwork on each shirt instead.

  “It’s one of her most popular classes,” Charlie explained. “She gets to charge extra. That’s good.” Charlie didn’t have to say more. Emma knew his mom hadn’t landed many parts lately, even though she was always going out on auditions. His mom had once been a big deal—part of the original Broadway cast of Rent—but she couldn’t get cast these days. Charlie didn’t like to talk about it.

  Emma retrieved a gray T-shirt from the bin on top of the dryer and placed a Rolling Stones big lips logo on top of it, then played around with pieces of other logos to see what worked together.

  “So what’s Holls up to this weekend?” Charlie asked.

  “Get this. Apparently she’s going to a teen yoga class with Ivana tomorrow.” Emma waited for the humor to sink in.

  Charlie snorted. “You’re lying!”

  “Am not. Swear to Chanel. I couldn’t believe it when she told me either. She never exercises except by force in gym class.”

  Emma tilted her head and considered the arrangement of patches. That works, she decided. She reached for her sewing kit, took out some black embroidery thread, and started threading a needle. “But the weird thing was that when I made a teeny, tiny joke about it, she got all defensive. She said I was making fun of her. What’s that about? How could she not see that her suddenly going to a yoga class is at least kind of funny? She never used to be that hyper-sensitive.”

  “I know what you mean,” Charlie agreed. “I think I’ve seen and spoken to her even less than you have—and I don’t have an after-school job. And when I do see her, it’s like she forgot how to talk.”

  Emma finished sewing on the first patch. She held it up to see how it looked. It’s pretty good, she thought, but I should make the sewing rawer, not so neat and even. She re-threaded the needle and picked up another patch.

  “I should probably try harder to like Ivana for Holly’s sake, but I just…can’t. The thing is that I don’t want to not be friends with Holly either. I miss her. But these days, I kind of miss her even when she’s sitting right next to me.”

  Charlie shook his head slowly. “You girls are so complicated.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Her dad popped his head in the door. “Cookie, I’m home. I’m going to start dinner soon. Can you set the table?”

  “Isn’t it Will’s turn?” Emma asked. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

  “Nope. He did it last night.” Her dad walked into the room and picked up a black INXS T-shirt. “Wow, this sure brings me back.”

  “It does? To what?” Emma asked. “You know these bands?”

  “Anyone home?” her mother called from the hallway.

  “In Emma’s room!” her dad answered.

  “Hi, everyone.” Her mom slumped in the doorway, rumpled and tired from her day. Emma took one look at her mom and decided to make her a new tote with her gel pens…anything to liven up that drab wardrobe!

  “Taking a break from studying for the Western civ exam?” her mom asked Emma.

  Emma gritted her teeth. Her mom never let up.

  “It’s Friday, Mom.”

  Her dad grabbed an R.E.M. shirt off the floor.

  “Joanie, look at this! Remember this concert?”

  Her mom took the shirt out of his hands. A smile transformed her face.

  “Yes! Wow, I haven’t thought about that night in years.”

  “What happened?” Emma asked.

  “Oh, nothing,” her dad said slyly. “Just that your mother sweet-talked our way into a sold-out R.E.M. concert. She faked a Southern accent and pretended she was the lead singer’s slightly demented sister.”

  “Noah!” Joan batted his arm playfully and blushed.

  “No way!” Emma exclaimed. She couldn’t match up the clog-wearing, schoolteacher mom in front of her with a girl sneaking into a concert with her boyfriend.

  “And then she got us invited to the after-party,” Emma’s father added with a wide grin. “By the end of the night, I think Michael Stipe thought you really were his sister!”

  Her mother laughed. “I forgot about that part. He was adorable, that’s for sure. I don’t think I ever got over that crush, even after he shaved his hair off. That was a wild night.”

  “One of the best,” her dad agreed.

  Emma knitted her eyebrows together and watched these new alien parents beam at each other, reliving their happy moment. She couldn’t believe her mom had partied with the band all night. Emma could kind of see her dad doing that. He was way more relaxed than her mom. He liked to joke around and play harmless practical jokes on people.

  But her mom was so serious all the time—so all about academics. What other wild things had her mom done? And why had she stopped doing them?

  “You can have the shirt if you want,” Emma offered. Her mom smiled. “No, thanks. You keep it. It’s not really my style, and it doesn’t look like it would fit me anyway. I’m going to go change and
help your dad with dinner.”

  Her parents shared a private laugh as they left the room. Emma loved that a random piece of clothing could transport her parents to another place and time. A very different place and time…

  CHAPTER 6

  THE WOMAN BEHIND THE DRESS

  Monday was almost over, and Emma still hadn’t heard a peep out of Paige.

  She must’ve gotten the dress by now, Emma thought as she walked to her locker after her last class. Or maybe not. Maybe she spent the day out of the office at another photo shoot or visiting a designer’s showroom. Maybe she’s at home with the flu. Or maybe she hates it. Maybe the other editors are gathered around her right now, mocking her for featuring the dress on her blog.

  Emma tried to delete that recurring thought.

  There could be a million good reasons why Paige hasn’t called yet, Emma decided. She opened her locker, grabbed her messenger bag, and pulled out her phone.

  There was a text message. From Paige.

  Pleasebegood, pleasebegood, pleasebegood, Emma wished. She flipped open the phone.

  Thx so much 4 the dress! I ADORE it. I’d love 2 speak with u ASAP. I wld like 2 interview u 4 Madison magazine. Pls let me know when is convenient. Paige Young

  Emma tried to steady herself as kids streamed around her in the hallway, completely unaware of how the earth was shifting under her feet at this very moment. Paige liked the dress. No, she adored it. That meant that she would wear it. And now Madison magazine wants to interview me? I mean, Allegra?

  Emma caught sight of Charlie’s white-blond hair down the hallway.

  “Charlie!” Emma shouted. “Char-lie! ”

  But no matter how loudly she called his name over the sounds of slamming lockers and chattering students who were finally free for the day, he didn’t turn around. She was too far away for him to hear her. She jogged down the hallway, bobbing and weaving, running an obstacle course to get to him as six strands of vintage art-glass beads banged against her chest.