Confidentially Yours #6

by Jo Whittemore

  I held out my phone. “We know who did it, and we have proof.”

  By Friday afternoon, there was a last-minute write-up for Monday’s paper, assuring readers that the Advice Column Killer had been caught and would no longer be a menace. After Principal Winslow saw the video footage, he had a private conference call with Grace and her parents. Grace had to promise she wouldn’t post any more clippings or spread vicious rumors. And she and her friends went to every kid in school that they’d accused and apologized, including ones like Ryan Durstwich, who they’d included just to keep things from looking too fishy. No doubt Ryan had dragged out the apology and maybe even tried to get them to do chores for him, like he’d done to Tim.

  On Friday night I finished pinning my patterns, and on Saturday evening I was pacing in my driveway, waiting for my friends to come over. Since Katie lived across the street, I spent most of my time staring at her front door until she finally opened it, bag in hand.

  “Sewing sleepover!” I chirped, charging at her.

  She laughed and held up her hands. “I actually came out to tell you that I’m still getting my stuff together. But I thought I’d keep you busy with some new fabrics!” She held out the bag.

  “Ooh. Let me see!” I reached in and pulled out a length of pink gingham. “Oh. Hm.”

  I knew it was Lazenby’s style, but it was just so . . . not mine. Or Katie’s.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I tried to remember those pictures you had posted up in your room. My dad thought I’d hit my head or something when I chose this fabric.”

  “It’s okay,” I assured her. “We can get back to our own designs next weekend. For now, we’ve got”—I reached into the bag and pulled out some white eyelet—“a buyer we have nothing in common with to impress.”

  A car horn honked, and we both jumped.

  “Where’s the party at?” Brooke called from the passenger window of her mom’s van.

  Katie and I both waved, and Katie jiggled the fabric bag at me. “I’ll be over in a few minutes. Just let me grab my sewing machine and sleepover stuff.”

  “I’ve never heard anyone put those two items in the same sentence,” I said with a grin, taking the bag. “See you in a few!”

  I ran back across the street to help Brooke with her sleeping bag while she pulled a duffel from the backseat.

  “Bye, Mom!” Brooke shut the car door.

  “Bye, sweetie! Have sew much fun!” Her mom called through her open window. “Get it?”

  “Yes,” Brooke said with a groan as her mom honked again and drove away. To me, Brooke added, “There have been many puns since I told my parents the theme of the sleepover. My dad’s favorite? ‘You seam like you could do it.’”

  I giggled. “That’s actually cute.”

  “If you say sew,” said Brooke.

  And we both laughed.

  “Come on.” I motioned toward my house. “My mom sent Terrell to a friend’s for the night, so we have the whole downstairs to ourselves.”

  “Awesome!” she said, following me up the driveway. “With pizza, I hope?”

  “Of course.” I put her sleeping bag and Katie’s fabric bag down in the front hall. “Mom! Brooke’s here!”

  “Hey, Brooke, sweetheart!” Mom called from the kitchen.

  “Hi, Mrs. Jackson!” Brooke clapped her hands together. “Okay, when do the sewing lessons begin?”

  “Um . . . we can start now,” I said. “Let me just get some fabric scraps for you to practice on.”

  I ran to my room, and when I came back, Mom was hugging Heather’s mom while they brought in Heather’s stuff.

  “I wasn’t sure if you needed an extra sewing machine, so I brought my bubbe’s old one,” said Heather.

  Brooke and I glanced past her.

  “Is it invisible?” asked Brooke.

  “No, it’s heavy,” said Heather’s dad as he hefted it inside. “Where should I put it?”

  I removed some magazines and coasters from the coffee table. “Right there should work,” I said.

  After he’d gotten it situated, I turned to Heather. “Do you know how to use that thing?”

  “I can do basic stitches,” she said while her parents followed Mom into the kitchen for coffee. “But if you want buttons, I’ll have to sew those on by hand.”

  There was a knock on the front door before it opened a crack. “Vanny, can I come in?” asked Katie.

  “She has a sewing machine, too?” Brooke asked when Katie put her bags and machine on the floor. “Great! I’m the only person who doesn’t have one.”

  I patted her shoulder. “I think you’re better off sewing by hand, anyway.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Heather. Katie nodded too.

  “What do you mean?” asked Brooke.

  “Well, sewing is a delicate art,” I said.

  “I can be delicate!” said Brooke. “This morning I drank orange juice with my pinkie out!”

  “That’s dainty, not delicate,” I said. “And I have a feeling that if I put you in front of my sewing machine, you’d destroy the needles or the fabric or both.”

  “But you can use the scissors!” Heather told her with a big smile, holding out a pair of shears.

  Brooke took them from her. “You know, you guys underestimate me. All of you.” She waved the scissors at each of us in turn.

  “Maybe you should’ve started with a pincushion,” I said to Heather.

  Brooke stuck her tongue out at me and put the scissors down. “You don’t think I can use a sewing machine? Try me.”

  Heather and Katie watched for my reaction, and I handed Brooke the piece of practice fabric. “If you can sew a straight line of even stitches without breaking anything, I’ll let you use my sewing machine and I’ll do the sewing by hand.”

  I placed my sewing machine on the coffee table next to Heather’s. “The bobbin and needle are already threaded, and the knobs are set for a medium straight stitch. Go for it.”

  Brooke gave me a simpering look as she sat on the couch in front of it. “Well, you still have to teach me how to use it.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Start by lifting the foot and putting the fabric under it.”

  Brooke glanced down at her legs. “Which foot?”

  “The foot of the sewing machine,” said Katie.

  “The sewing machine doesn’t have feet,” said Brooke, staring at the base of the machine.

  I pointed to the metal piece in the middle of the machine that had the needle suspended above it. “This is the foot.” I lifted it for her and put the fabric underneath before lowering the foot back down. “Now, when you put one of your feet on the pedal, it’ll feed the fabric through.”

  Brooke tentatively pressed on the pedal, and the machine whirred to life, the needle pressing stitches into the fabric and pulling the fabric under the foot.

  “Whoa, neat!” she said with shining eyes.

  “Put your hands on both sides of the fabric to guide it,” I said. “But don’t get your fingers too close to the needle.”

  Brooke did as I instructed, and for a second, I thought she might actually be able to sew a top using the machine.

  But then she said, “Can’t this thing go any faster?” and started pumping the pedal with her foot. The machine whirred and stopped. Whirred and stopped.

  “It’s not a race car,” I said. “This is as fast as it goes.”

  “Bummer,” she said, pressing the pedal down and pulling the fabric under the needle so that it started skipping stitches.

  “You don’t need to do that,” I said. “It goes through on its own.”

  But Brooke kept pulling. With her other hand she fiddled with one of the knobs. “You only have this set on three. I’ll bet if you cranked it to—”

  The thread snapped, and a second later, the needle started to bend.

  Heather winced, and Katie hid her face in her hands.

  Brooke lifted her hands and took her foot off the pedal, slowly sliding away from the machine.
“You know, I think I’d be really good at cutting fabric,” she said, not daring to meet my eye.

  “I think that’s a good idea,” I said.

  Brooke cleared her throat. “Does anyone know where I put the scissors?”

  It was going to be a long night.

  Once Brooke found the scissors and was given patterns to cut, she actually turned out to be pretty useful. I think because she was trying extra hard to redeem herself after almost murdering my sewing machine. Heather took care of basic stitches for all the garments, and Katie and I put the finishing touches on them. Then we had Brooke and Heather model for us.

  “This is so cute! Can I keep it afterward?” asked Heather after she put on a top I’d made.

  “You can even model that one in the fashion show if you want,” I told her with a smile. It was nice to know at least one person was enjoying my creations.

  “This collar’s really choking me,” said Brooke, pulling on it.

  “That’s because you’ve got the shirt on backward,” I said.

  Brooke glanced down. “No, I don’t. Look at the buttons.”

  “They go on the back,” I said.

  Brooke gave me a crazy look while she unfastened the shirt. “That doesn’t make any sense. How am I supposed to dress myself if the buttons are behind me?”

  I shrugged. “Get a maid?”

  For now, I buttoned the shirt for her, and she frowned at herself in the mirror as she turned to look at herself from the front and back. “This doesn’t look right. It’s like my head is on backward.”

  “That would explain a lot,” I said. Katie and Heather giggled.

  Brooke didn’t. “I’ve never seen you wear anything like this. Why did you change your designs again?”

  “To get the buyer to like us,” I told her. “First, we show her what she likes, and then we show her what we like.” I gestured to myself and Katie.

  With Heather’s and Brooke’s help, we were able to get six pieces ready for the buyer.

  “You guys are the greatest.” I gave both my friends a squeeze when we were done. “KV Fashions will forever be in your debt.”

  “Hear! Hear!” Katie said, raising her glass of soda.

  “Just win that buyer over,” Heather told us. “That’s all we ask!”

  Brooke cleared her throat. “That, and for a fashionable line of sweatpants.”

  She quickly found herself buried under a pile of pillows.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Buyer Beware

  On Monday morning the first thing my friends and I did was check the bulletin board in the student lounge for new advice clippings. Thankfully, Grace seemed to be staying true to her word.

  During homeroom Katie and I met with our models so we could fit the garments we’d loosely put together for them. I watched their expressions as they tried on each piece, but nobody seemed to have any issues with the designs.

  “What do you think of the tops you’re wearing?” I finally ventured to ask.

  “Oh, they’re great!” said Linda.

  “Yeah, I didn’t think I’d look good in gingham, but I do!” said someone else.

  I beamed. Katie and I were definitely going to blow that buyer away.

  On Monday night we did the alterations for the tops we’d made and talked about what we’d be wearing the next day to our big meeting.

  “Gil thinks I should wear something that’s more my style and not Lazenby’s,” I said. “So I thought I’d wear the vintage tuxedo jacket that I cropped into a bolero, with the yellow blouse I made.”

  “Ooh. That sounds adorable!” said Katie. “I’ll wear my pencil skirt and the red cap-sleeve with the black lace overlay that I made.”

  “We’re gonna look so professional!” I said. “Do you think we should show her our lookbooks first or the actual samples?”

  “Actual samples,” said Katie. “Show her we mean business and we’re not just little girls doodling in our notebooks.”

  “Good point,” I said. “What if she asks about pricing?”

  Katie grinned. “You think she’s going to instantly fall in love with our stuff?”

  “Wouldn’t you?” I asked.

  Katie scooted closer with an excited bounce. “Okay, well, we have to think about how much the material costs and how much time it takes.”

  I thought for a moment. “So, if the fabric costs about ten dollars a yard, and we need two yards for a shirt, that’s twenty dollars right there. How much do we charge for the work?”

  “Thirty dollars?” suggested Katie.

  I made a face. “So we’re going to ask them for fifty dollars a shirt? That seems like a lot of money.”

  “For one of our fashions? Please. They’re lucky we don’t charge them double!” she said with a wink. “But worst-case scenario, we could always work with a distributor.”

  “A distributor?” I repeated.

  “You know, someone who’ll make our shirts and put them in stores for a cut of our profit,” said Katie. “Which might work out better for us, since we won’t really make any money if we have to sew these all ourselves. Plus, they’ll have storage facilities so we don’t have to turn our bedrooms into tiny warehouses, or worry about shipping.”

  I sat back and chewed on my fingernail. “Wow, there is a lot of stuff to this business I didn’t think about.”

  “My dad can help us with all that after we get our contract,” Katie assured me. “For now, I noticed something missing in all our samples.” She pointed to the inside collar of a shirt I made. “No shirt tag with our logo on it.”

  “You’re right!” I picked up the shirt. “Do we have time to order some?”

  Katie laughed. “Not by tomorrow afternoon! We’ll have to settle for sewing our logo into the shirts.”

  And that’s what we did.

  On Tuesday morning I slid the outfit I planned to wear for the buyer into a garment bag (no way I was risking stains or wrinkles), along with the samples I’d made over the weekend.

  “Good luck, sweetie!” Mom kissed me on both cheeks as I headed out the door. “And don’t sign any paperwork without talking to me first!”

  I hugged her extra hard for thinking it might get to that point. It’s always nice to have people who believe in you.

  Principal Winslow agreed to let us use the student lounge after school for our meeting with the buyer, so that afternoon Katie and I spread our samples on a long table, along with our lookbooks and some business cards Katie had printed. When she and I had first met, I remember thinking how ridiculous it seemed that a twelve-year-old had business cards, but now I was grateful at how professional she was.

  Heather, as a Lazenby’s clothing lover, had agreed to stand outside the student lounge and bring the buyer in, so Katie and I found the most businesslike chairs in the room and wiggled in our seats, waiting to shake hands with our future.

  Right on schedule, the door to the student lounge swung open, and Heather stepped through with a tall brunette woman. For some reason I’d expected her to be wearing Lazenby’s spring line, but she was in dark skinny jeans, silver flats, and an emerald-green cold shoulder top. Her hair was done up in a sloppy bun, with a few strands that played around her red, rectangular glasses, and a red leather jacket was draped over one arm.

  I so wanted her wardrobe when I grew up. Heck, I wanted it right now.

  “Ms. Stone, meet Katie Kestler and Vanessa Jackson,” said Heather, pointing to us in turn.

  The woman offered her hand. “Please, feel free to call me Michelle.”

  “I love your look,” Katie told her, shaking Michelle’s hand. “Can I be you for Halloween?”

  I cringed, but Michelle laughed and shook my hand next. “You know, I’ve never been asked that. It’s oddly flattering.”

  Well, the good thing was I couldn’t say anything more embarrassing than Katie.

  “Hi,” I told Michelle with a nervous smile. “Your shirt and jacket look like Christmas.”

&
nbsp; Or could I?

  Michelle gave me a strange smile, and Heather stepped closer. “These two are really into the holidays, in case you can’t tell,” she said. “Why don’t you guys show Michelle what you’ve been working on?” She gestured at the contents of the table.

  “Yes, I’m the new buyer on the block for the company, so I’m eager to see what you’ve made for your fashion show,” said Michelle, sitting in the chair opposite me and Katie. “I see you’re familiar with what Lazenby’s already carries.” She eyed our designs. “But what do you have to offer that’s new?”

  Katie and I smiled at each other.

  “Actually, these clothes that you think are Lazenby’s were the ones we made,” I said.

  Michelle picked up one of the tops. “These six pieces are what you’ve got for your fashion show?”

  “Oh, not just these,” said Katie. “We’re still finishing some more, but you can see them here.” She flipped open our lookbook, past our original designs, to the Lazenby’s ones.

  Under the table, Katie and I held hands and watched.

  Michelle glanced at the first design and said, “I believe I’ve seen enough.” My heart hammered in my chest, and I tried to not have my smile too ready. If we were going to talk money, it was best not to seem too eager. Something I’d learned from my mom.

  “Ladies,” said Michelle, “as much as I admire your handiwork, there’s nothing here I haven’t seen a hundred times before. I think I’m going to have to pass.”

  Katie and I unclasped hands and glanced at each other. Then we both leaned over the desk toward Michelle.

  “Sorry, what?” I asked.

  “You’re passing?” added Katie. “Does that mean the same thing in your world as it does in ours?” She pointed from herself to me. “Because passing is good in school!”

  Michelle gave us an apologetic smile. “It means Lazenby’s won’t be carrying your line. But thank you for the opportunity to meet! Maybe in a few years, we can try again.”

  I shook my head, still confused. “You’re still coming to the fashion show, right?”

  “I’m sorry, no. I wouldn’t have a reason,” said Michelle, getting to her feet.