Redesigned

by Denise Grover Swank

  The class breaks into shouts and applause. The show’s proceeds have always covered the expenses in the past. This means more money will go to the department.

  Ms. Carter’s smile fades. “However, there are certain stipulations.”

  The class quiets and an undercurrent of worry fills the room.

  She pats her hands in the air. “Not to worry, nothing terrible. The foundation wants us to incorporate clothing for children—they must be in twenty percent of the show.”

  Tension slides off my shoulders. I can live with that, even if it means we’ll have to find child models.

  “One more thing,” she says, and her smile loses some of its brightness. “The foundation has requested to be part of the student committee that oversees the program.” She pauses and takes a breath. “The committee will still consist of six members, but this year three of the members will be design students and the other three will be from non-apparel degrees.”

  “What?” someone asks and a chorus of dismay spreads throughout the room.

  “Now, I know this goes against tradition, and the instructors had a difficult time deciding whether to accept their offer. But the foundation is providing resources to make the show bigger and better than it’s ever been, which in turn will hopefully earn more money for the department. And not only that, but we’ll be raising money to help local children. While the Monroe Foundation is providing the donation, our name is attached. This is wonderful for the university’s community outreach.”

  I raise my hand.

  Ms. Carter nods. “Yes, Caroline?”

  “Who picks the committee members?”

  Her smile remains but turns grim. “The instructors have picked the fashion degree members and the foundation, along with the guidance of the chancellor, has picked the non-department students.”

  The chancellor? I wonder how many students the chancellor actually knows on a first-name basis. The only time I’ve known of the chancellor becoming personally involved in something like this was when he convinced Scarlett to tutor Tucker by dangling funding for the mathematics department.

  “Which fashion students did the instructors pick?” Megan asks. I know she’s as anxious as I am to be on the committee.

  “We wish to speak to our three choices before we make the announcement. We want to make sure they accept the position with the new criteria, then we’ll post the nominees.”

  Some of my classmates grumble. Everyone wants a coveted position on the committee and our chances have just been halved with the inclusion of non-design students. With my recent work effort, or more importantly, my lack of it, I expect my own chances are slim to none.

  “What’s the theme?” one of my classmates asks.

  “Oh.” Ms. Carter shifts her weight. “How could I forget? The theme is Everyday Living.”

  “Everyday Living?” Megan mutters, scrunching her nose.

  Ms. Carter pauses and the slightest bit of irritation creases her forehead. “This year’s theme was picked by the foundation.”

  So we completely sold out to the Monroe Foundation? This is the lamest theme any show has had in the history of the show. But I keep the thought to myself. My biggest worry at the moment is the likelihood that I won’t be part of the committee.

  Megan turns to me and lowers her voice. “Everyday Living? What are we supposed to do with that?”

  I turn my attention back to the fabric pinned to the mannequin. I had turned the fabric on the bias, hoping it would help the hang of the dress, but now I’m not so sure it works. I can’t afford to waste these three yards of silk. Literally. “We’ll figure something out.” I’m referring to the designs for the show as well as the dress for my recent project.

  “Are you going to stay much longer, working?” Megan asks, shifting her glance out the window.

  “Yeah.” This dress is for our current project, which is due the next class period. Megan finished her design only moments ago. I study the pinned dress and sigh again. For the last few weeks, I’ve been creatively stifled. I was hoping the theme for the show would help inspire me. Now I’m not so certain.

  Most of the students clear out and only three of us remain. I have no idea what’s wrong with me. I can usually whip an idea out of my head and onto paper or the design computer program, then construct the garment while the rest of my classmates are still gathering their thoughts. But the last two projects have been like dragging the dress out of my head, thread by thread.

  “Caroline, can I steal a few minutes of your time?” Ms. Carter murmurs behind me, and I jump.

  “Of course.”

  But Ms. Carter continues to stare at my design, and I squirm under her scrutiny. “It’s still not right, and I know I’ve usually completed my project by now—”

  She shakes her head, placing her glasses on her nose as she leans closer. “No, don’t apologize. I’m impressed.”

  My mouth hangs open before I quickly close it. “But—”

  “It still needs work, I won’t deny it. But for once you’re not playing it safe. You’re taking a risk. Finally.”

  “What?”

  She slides her glasses off and looks at me, crossing her arms. “I’ve always thought you had great potential, Caroline, but you’ve always taken the safe route. We’ve discussed this before.”

  It’s true, we have. Ms. Carter has been my advisor since I started my first design class in my sophomore year.

  “There are designers who simply regurgitate what they see around them and put a slightly different spin on it. Then there are designers who think outside the box. Their designs stand out. I’ve always seen a hint of different in your designs, but you play it safe. Go for broke this time, Caroline. Give me different.”

  My ideas all seem stale and boring lately. I’ve decided to take a risk on the dress hanging on my form, even if subconsciously, but the result is disastrous so far. I shake my head. “It’s not working. It’s a failure.”

  “There’s no such thing as failure as long as you learn from your mistakes.”

  I’m not sure what I’ve learned at this point.

  She points to the bodice. “Try a tiny dart here. I think it will help give a hint of definition. But I like that you’ve hung it on the bias. A very flattering silhouette, especially for real women.”

  I pin a dart on either side directly beneath the bust line and the dress is already improved.

  “Sometimes it doesn’t take much. Just a little tweak to vastly alter something.” She winks. “It’s like that in life too.”

  My life needs more than a tiny tweak, but there’s no sense telling her that.

  She pauses. “I wanted to talk to you about the committee.”

  I steel my back. Ms. Carter knows how badly I want to be on it. We’ve also discussed how tight the competition is.

  “After a heated discussion with the other instructors, we’ve picked our three members.” She smiles. “I’m pleased to say you were one of the three chosen.”

  I stare at her in disbelief. “But I don’t understand ... a few weeks ago you told me it would be close with six members. How could I make it with only three?”

  She leans her hip into the table next to me. “The involvement of the Monroe Foundation is a blessing and a curse. The increased operational and marketing budget could bring outside attention to our department, but their involvement also brings constraints. Like the theme.” She rolls her eyes. “And that was the best of all the suggestions.”

  I shudder, wondering what could have been worse.

  “You were chosen for two reasons. The first is because you’re well-known for being level-headed in disagreements. In group projects, you’re often the peacemaker. You’re diplomatic and on more than one occasion have brought opposing sides together into a compromise. I’m worried the addition of members outside the design department will make the committee a battleground. The design department needs an ambassador. Someone who is capable of knowing when to stand her ground and when to comp
romise. I’m positive that person is you, Caroline.”

  I blink, letting her words sink in. “Thank you. I’m honored.” I take a deep breath. “You said there were two reasons. What’s the second?”

  She smiles and points to the disaster hanging on the dressmaker form. “That. You’re taking risks and your design—even in its unfinished state—is one of the most exciting things I’ve seen you create in the two years I’ve known you. Take that excitement with you into the committee.”

  I want to tell her that there’s no excitement in this design, only fear, but I don’t want to risk my newly gained position. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

  Ms. Carter moves behind the mannequin. “You don’t have to say anything. Just don’t let me down.”

  I nod. “I’ll try my best.”

  “In the end, that’s all I can ask, although I’m not sure it’s fair of us to throw you into this potential mess. I suspect not only will this be a hornet’s nest, but it will be an even larger time commitment than previously anticipated. Will this be a problem?”

  “The timing couldn’t be more perfect.” With no boyfriend and no job, I’ve got nothing but time.

  Ms. Carter starts to walk away then stops, looking over her shoulder. “And even if the theme is lame, put your own unique spin on it. Think outside the box.”

  Think outside the box with Everyday Living? That seems impossible.

  Just add it to my list of impossible tasks to hurdle.

  Chapter Three

  The Voodoo Lounge is packed. It’s Friday night and a large population of the Southern University campus has assembled to hear Blue Tiger, the band that’s set to take the stage soon. Dylan drapes his arm around my back, his fingers slightly stroking my side, just below the band of my bra. The placement of his fingers is disheartening. They’re high enough to be a hint of a threat yet not high enough to make him stop without looking like a frigid bitch.

  I cast a glance at Scarlett on the other side of the table. Her face is guarded, and it’s obvious she’s only here because of Tucker. And me. She swings her gaze to check on me and I give her a smile. Even if I don’t feel like smiling.

  My date with Dylan is rushing headlong into failure.

  For some reason, Reed pops into my mind, and I imagine how a date with him would be going if I’d said yes. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be trying to cop a feel.

  Why am I thinking about Reed?

  In fairness, everything else in the world has triggered thoughts of him since last Saturday night. His reaction when I so thoroughly insulted him still haunts me. I don’t behave this way. Not since high school. Back in Shelbyville, I was Carol Ann Hunter from Pine View Trailer Park. I fought stares, whispers, sneers and outright taunts, and unlike Scarlett, who grew up in the same raggedy trailer park, I stood up for myself. Not that it did me much good. I can’t help wondering if Scarlett had it right all along, burrowing deep within and cocooning until she felt safe to emerge.

  Carol Ann Hunter didn’t burrow. Oh, hell no. She didn’t understand the concept of backing down. She accepted every challenge, every fight. She was hardened and jaded when I came to Southern three years ago. I knew I couldn’t be her and achieve my goals, so I changed, a metamorphosis of my own. Carol Ann is the old me and I thought she was gone until last Saturday night, when somehow, Reed set her loose. And that scares the shit out of me.

  My only consolation is that I’ll probably never see the man again. But instead of easing my prickled conscience, it stirs an ache deep inside. I find myself surprised that I want to see him again.

  Apparently, I’ve become a masochist now.

  I pick up my drink, a cosmopolitan, and take a larger sip than I intended. Dylan’s fingers brush the flesh underneath my breast. I shift in my seat, forcing his hand to drop, but he shoots me a cocky grin. This guy thinks he’s getting lucky tonight. Obviously, he’s never heard about my five-date rule.

  I can’t help thinking that Reed wouldn’t treat me this way. No, Caroline, he wouldn’t because he’d be with his girlfriend.

  What the hell is wrong with me? I’m obsessing over some man I hardly know. Get over it.

  The band goes on stage, and Tucker whistles to his friend. The guitarist straps his instrument over his shoulder and waves to Tucker.

  Dylan’s hand slides on my hip, trailing down to my thigh.

  I stand abruptly. “I’m going to the restroom.”

  My sudden behavior draws the blank looks of the three people with me. Dylan’s face darkens, but Scarlett kisses Tucker’s cheek and stands. “I’ll go with you.”

  Scarlett doesn’t say anything until we get into the ladies’ room, not that I could have heard her if she tried. The band has begun to play, deafening my ears.

  “What’s going on?” she asks the minute the bathroom door closes behind us.

  “Dylan’s handsy. More so than I’d like.” I’m used to guys like him. I know how to handle them, a skill learned long ago when teenaged boys expected poor white trash trailer park girls to be easy. The problem isn’t how to get him stop. The problem is my bitter disappointment.

  Scarlett leans her back against the wall and releases a heavy sigh. “What do you want to do?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing. I just needed a moment to regroup, is all.”

  “We can leave.” I think she secretly wants to leave. She hates this kind of thing and only tolerates it because Tucker wants to come. That’s the beauty of their relationship. They respect each other’s needs and try to make it work. They’ve definitely learned the art of compromise.

  “No.” Although I want to leave, I have to save face. I’ll look like a fool if we leave now. “But I don’t want to stay out too late. I still need to figure out my designs for the fashion show.”

  Scarlett grins. “Look at my Caroline, all grown up. Thinking about work on a Friday night.”

  I stick out my tongue.

  She laughs. “Okay, maybe not so mature.”

  The bathroom door opens and Reed’s girlfriend walks in and heads straight for a stall. I cast a glance toward Scarlett, but she doesn’t seem to notice. I’m suddenly very interested in the girl Reed is dating. I decide to hang around until she gets out of the stall and try to learn more about her.

  I think this might technically be called stalking, but I have just enough alcohol in me to convince myself otherwise.

  “I want to freshen up my lipstick.” I tell Scarlett. “If you want to get back to Tucker, I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Scarlett’s eyes narrow slightly, then shift to the stall Reed’s girlfriend disappeared in. So her entrance didn’t escape Scarlett’s notice. To my surprise, Scarlett agrees. “I’ll see you at the table.” Then she walks out, a grin lifting the corners of her mouth.

  I move to the sink and run my fingers through my hair, fluffing it a little before I pull a tube of lipstick out of my purse. Reed’s girlfriend’s door opens, and she walks to the sink to wash her hands.

  I know I shouldn’t call attention to myself, but the only thing I’m learning about her is that she’s an extra-thorough hand washer. That’s obviously not enough to satisfy my curiosity.

  I force a smile and twist to face her. “Didn’t we meet at Scarlett’s party last week? You were with Reed.”

  Her wary gaze brightens. “Yes, you’re Caroline, right?”

  It’s my turn to hesitate. I never introduced myself. “Yeah….”

  “After you left, I insisted that Reed tell me your name.” She smiles. It seems genuine and not the smile of a jealous lover. She must not have figured out that he asked me out.

  “Are you with Reed tonight?” I ask before I can stop myself.

  She sighs, the first sign of disgust crossing her face. “He’s here but we’re not here together.” The way she stresses the word makes me think she wants me to be aware that he’s unattached. If they broke up, what ex-girlfriend would encourage the woman her boyfriend had been interested in? “You should come o
ut and say hi.”

  I shake my head, my eyes widening. “That would be a very bad idea.”

  Her grin turns playful. “Oh, come on. It will only take a second.”

  Before I realize what’s happening, she’s looped her arm through mine like I saw her do with Reed last week, and she’s practically dragging me into the bar.

  Reed sits at a table in a dark corner, wearing a scowl as he surveys the dance floor, which has begun to fill up with people. His discomfort isn’t surprising, since he and Scarlett seem to be cut from the same antisocial cloth.

  She stops in front of the table and shouts to be heard. “Look who I found in the restroom.”

  His scowl deepens. “I didn’t know you were now trolling public restrooms for friends.”

  To my surprise, she belly-laughs. “Reed, you’re a really funny guy when you let yourself have a little bit of fun.”

  I wonder if I’ve walked into the middle of a disagreement between them. If so, I have no intention of being used as a weapon. Or a shield. “I need to get back to my friends.”

  Reed’s eyebrows rise conveying his distaste. “You mean your date?”

  I stare at him for a moment. Is that why he’s here? Because he heard Tucker say we were coming here tonight? I’m about to become outraged when I remember my own recent stalking experience only moments ago. “Yeah, my date.” I cast a glance to our table. Tucker and Dylan are clueless about what’s going on in this corner, but I have Scarlett’s full attention.

  I head back to our table, and I can feel Reed’s eyes on me as I leave. Instead of irritating me, I revel in it.

  I really am a masochist.

  Dylan’s arm and fingers return to their previous positions when I take my seat. Scarlett’s eyes question if I’m okay or if I’m ready to call it quits. It’s barely after ten o’clock, and I now have Reed’s attention. He’ll know my date isn’t going well if I leave now.

  Dylan ordered another cosmo while I was gone and I down it before I’ve realized what I’ve done. But holding a glass keeps me busy. Anything to make me look like I’m having fun. I soon find myself on my third drink in only an hour, more than I usually consume, but I need the alcohol to steady my nerves. Dylan might have my nerves on edge, but Reed has the rest of me on alert.