Ready to Wear

by Chloe Taylor

  She tried to quickly think of who she could ask to model now that Kate was out. She bet the girls who’d be most interested had, like Priti, already answered the call. But the more she pondered the word “model,” the more one image came to her mind: tall, willowy Libby. The new girl!

  Oh my gosh! thought Zoey. How great would Libby look in Zoey’s clothes!

  Zoey decided to ask Libby the big question at lunch on Monday. She waited until they were all seated at the table that Libby had begun to share with her, Priti, and Kate. Little by little, Libby had opened up to them, and they’d learned a lot in the past few weeks. Her family had moved to town for her dad’s work as a scientist at a research lab. Her mom was an emergency room nurse at the local hospital. She had a sister in kindergarten who was also the tallest girl in her class. And her green overalls were, in fact, designer, though she hadn’t realized it until Zoey asked. She said her aunt lived in New York and was always sending her stuff like that. She definitely wasn’t in the Kate or Priti category of best-friends-for-life yet, but she’d become a good new friend.

  Zoey watched as Libby dipped her first french fry into her ketchup, then she took a deep breath and opened her mouth.

  “So, Libby . . . I have a question. . . .”

  “Uh-huh?” Libby nibbled her fry.

  “I was just wondering. . . .” Zoey paused.

  Priti gave her the get on with it wave.

  “This fashion show coming up . . . ,” Zoey continued.

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, have you signed up for it or anything?”

  Libby’s head swung back and forth. “No. I feel like I’m still getting used to this place. I don’t think I’m ready for stuff like that yet.”

  “Oh!” Zoey leaned forward. Talk about perfect openings! “But that’s why it would be such a great thing for you to do!” She nodded to Kate and Priti. “Right, guys? Don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, totally!” said Priti.

  “Oh my gosh, yes!” Kate agreed.

  Libby shrugged. “Well . . . maybe the next thing. I’m sure it’s too late to sign up now.” She grinned at Zoey and Priti and Kate and gulped down another fry. “What?” She wiped the corners of her mouth. “What are you all staring at? Do I have ketchup on my face?”

  “Actually,” said Zoey, “it’s not too late. It’s not too late at all. I still need someone to model my dress.”

  “Your dress?” Libby swallowed.

  Oh, please don’t say no, Zoey begged in her mind.

  She nodded. “Uh-huh. I just decided this weekend what I’m going to do, and it’s going to be really cool. And I really, really think, Libby, that it would look awesome on you. Please say yes!”

  “It should be a lot of fun,” said Priti. “And you know I’ll be there doing it too.”

  “Yeah,” Kate said. “And I’ll be watching . . . and it would take a lot of pressure off me.”

  Libby opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. “Well . . . if you really want me to . . . Yes! Thanks! I totally will!”

  - - - - Chapter 9 - - - -

  Band Coat . . . Deconstructed!

  What do you think of the final design for the fashion show? I’m pretty happy with it and have to thank Fashionsista for her comment about what to do with the epaulettes. Pockets! Of course! What would I do without you? They’re perfect, right?

  And the next thank-you goes out to my aunt. She surprised me this weekend with an out-of-the-blue “just because I love you” gift. A real dress form! I can adjust the measurements and everything! And I’ve decided to name her after the only other headless beauty I know of . . . Ladies and gentlemen, my new muse is called Marie Antoinette, s’il vous plaît!

  So that’s all for tonight. Signing off early so I can get back to work. It’s going to be a long night. . . .

  Finally, it was done!

  Or was it . . . ?

  That was the problem, Zoey realized, with finishing something before it was due: You always had more time to keep working on it. But Zoey didn’t really have more time. There was something else she had due on Friday, in addition to the dress for the fashion show: her first big social studies paper for Mr. Dunn—which she still had to start. Well, she had a subject at least. Athena, the goddess of war, or wisdom, or something. But she still had to write the five-page report—plus bibliography.

  “Hey, honey.” Zoey’s dad appeared in the dining room doorway. He leaned against the frame. “I was afraid you were still up. Lights-out, Zo. It’s after eleven, and you’re never going to get up for school in the morning if you don’t go to bed.”

  “I will,” she assured him. She yawned. “I just want to get this dress finished first. What do you think?” She spun Marie around so her dad could see the front.

  Jan had helped her pick out a classic sheath dress pattern and given her some tips for “spicing it up,” while Zoey found a rich cherry fabric that screamed “bandleader” to her. The dress pattern looked simple . . . but the look was deceiving, Zoey found, when she actually started to sew. It was her first zipper ever, not to mention her first up-close-and-personal encounter with darts, folds sewn into fabric to give it more shape. She ended up taking it back to the store three times for Jan’s tech support. All she could think about was how glad she was there weren’t any sleeves to worry about. The most time-consuming part of it all, however, was laying out all the braid and buttons and sewing them all on. Zoey had tried a dozen designs at least before finally deciding.

  “Wow,” her dad said. “It looks great to me. What else in the world would you do?”

  Zoey shrugged. “I don’t know . . . Maybe add some more braid . . . here . . . and here. . . . Maybe take some off here . . . and here . . . and fix the little ripple in the hem.”

  “Oh, Zo.” Her dad rolled his eyes fondly. “You’re just like your mom in so many ways.”

  Zoey smiled. She loved it when he told her little things like that about her mom.

  “And you know what I always told her?”

  “No, what?” she eagerly asked.

  “Sometimes you just have to take a step back and know when it’s time to say when.”

  Zoey leaned back on her hands. “And did she listen to you, Dad?”

  He rubbed the day’s worth of beard on his chin, which was grayer than his hair. “Not always, no . . . but that’s not my point,” he said with a sleepy grin. “My point,” he went on, “is that you’ve been holed up in here now all weekend and most of the week before. If you ask me, the dress you made looks perfect and tomorrow’s Monday and you need to get some sleep.”

  Zoey sighed and nodded slowly. He was probably right. Plus, she had to remember what she’d said in her blog herself more than once: The only thing worse than an unfinished look was a look that was overdone.

  “You know what I’m going to do,” she said. “I’m going to take it in to school tomorrow and leave it with the other clothes for the show, and if I really want to work on it any more, I’ll just work on it there.”

  “Great idea!” her dad told her. “Good night?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Good night, Dad,” said Zoey. “And thanks a lot. I’m just going to move these two buttons here . . . and then I’ll go right up.”

  “Yep, you’re just like your mom,” he said as he headed for the stairs.

  The next morning, Zoey zipped the dress up in a long, black garment bag and carefully toted it to school.

  “Ooh! Let me see it!” Kate begged as soon as she climbed on the bus.

  “Not here,” said Zoey. “At school. I don’t want to risk messing it up. I posted a sketch of it on my blog last night. Did you check it out?”

  Kate shook her head and stuck her lip out in a pout. “I was doing math homework and somehow I just forgot.”

  Math homework? Oh no . . .

  “I totally forgot about the math homework,” said Zoey. “Do you think I can get it done at lunch?”

  “Probably.” Kate nodded. “Well, how ’
bout the Spanish? Did you do that?”

  “Oh boy. I’m in trouble.” She moaned.

  All she could think, looking down at the dress in her lap, was that it was a good thing it was out of her dining room. She could only imagine all the homework she’d never get done this week if she’d kept it at home.

  When they got to school, Zoey headed straight for the auditorium, with Kate by her side. Then they ran into Ivy just outside the backstage door.

  “What’s in the bag?” Ivy asked.

  Zoey came this close to answering with “none of your beeswax,” but she bit her tongue. “Oh, it’s my dress for the fashion show.”

  “Yeah.” Kate nodded next to her. “The one that she designed and made herself.”

  Zoey watched as Ivy’s face turned from smug to puzzled and to at last envious.

  “You made it?” Ivy choked, as if the words had stung her throat.

  “Uh-huh.” Zoey nodded.

  Kate knocked open the stage door with her hip. “Come on, Zo. We’d better hurry or we’re going to be late for first period.”

  “Wait,” blurted Ivy. “Can I see it?”

  “Sure,” Zoey said, following Kate. “On Friday. Like everyone else. It’s going to be a big reveal.”

  That was sort of true, but Zoey also didn’t want to give Ivy the chance to say something mean, as usual. Why else would she want to see it?

  “Did you see her face?” Zoey asked.

  “I know! That was awesome!” Kate laughed. “So . . . where are you going to put this?” she asked, looking around the cluttered space.

  “I was hoping there was a hook . . . ,” said Zoey. And sure enough, there was—right under a shelf, to the side of the curtain control panel.

  Zoey hung up the garment bag, feeling extremely satisfied.

  “This’ll be great,” she said. “It’ll be right here, all ready for the show.”

  “Well, can I see it already?” Kate asked her.

  Zoey grinned and unzipped the bag. “Ta-da!” she said dramatically, stepping back.

  “Oh my gosh, Zo! It’s amazing!” cried Kate.

  Zoey exhaled with delight and relief.

  BRRINNNNGG.

  Zoey and Kate looked at each other, knowing that the bell meant they had better go.

  Quickly, Zoey zipped the vinyl garment bag back up and gave the shoulders a tender pat. “I’ll be back to check on you after school.”

  And with that she grabbed Kate’s hand and they hurried off to their first class.

  “Libby, wait till you see Zoey’s dress!” Kate said at lunch as soon as she set down her tray. “You too.” She turned to Priti. “You’re going to love it!”

  “It’s finished! Oh, I can’t wait,” said Libby. “When can I try it on, do you think?”

  “What? Is it here?” Priti asked.

  Zoey nodded. “My dad said I was spending way too much time on it . . . and I kind of guess maybe I was, so I decided to bring it in and hang it up backstage—and hopefully start getting some homework done.”

  “Do you think we have time to go now?” Priti shot an eager look at the cafeteria clock.

  Zoey shook her head and pointed to the thick book in front of her. “I really have to get this math done now—or as much of it as I can. How about after school? You all can stay for a little while, can’t you? We’ll take the late bus.”

  They met in the hall by Zoey’s locker after eighth period and went to the auditorium from there.

  The bag was hanging right where Zoey left it, but there wasn’t much room, so she let Priti, Kate, and Libby run up to it first. She knew they’d say something nice no matter what, and yet she was still nervous. She hung back and waited . . . and waited some more. But they didn’t say anything. Did they hate it that much? Her heart sank to the deep, dark bottom of her gut. She really thought they would love it!

  But then she looked at their faces when they came back, and her doubt changed to fear. They looked like they’d seen a ghost.

  “What’s wrong?” She started toward them, and Kate held up her hand to stop her.

  “You left the bag zipped up, didn’t you?” Kate asked.

  Zoey nodded. “Uh-huh. Why? Was it unzipped when you got here?”

  Kate nodded slowly.

  Priti sucked her lip.

  Libby’s eyes seemed to get red.

  “What?” Zoey couldn’t take it any longer. She ran up to see for herself. And that’s when she saw the bag splayed open, revealing her once red, now yellow-paint-covered dress.

  A can of paint lay on the shelf above it, empty and on its side. Only then did Zoey notice how the entire shelf was jam-packed with old paint cans.

  “I’m so sorry . . . ,” Libby murmured.

  “Can we fix it?” Priti asked.

  Zoey tried, but there was no way to make her mouth answer no. All she could do was sink to the rough, dusty floor.

  - - - - Chapter 10 - - - -

  Band Coat . . . Destroyed

  So remember that dress I posted yesterday? Of course you do. How could you not? Well, I’m glad that you remember it because now it’s ruined. Covered in paint. Completely and utterly destroyed. And I don’t exactly know what happened either. Every time I think about it—like right now—I’m literally blinded by these stupid tears of mine. Besides, I should really be writing the social studies paper that’s due Friday instead of feeling sorry for myself. Oh well . . . Maybe I jumped into this fashion show thing too quickly. What would a real designer do if their clothes were ruined? All I can say is I definitely learned a lesson today . . . even if I’m not sure that I know what it is.

  As my dad likes to say: “When life gives you lemons, make lemon meringue pie.” (That’s not a typo. He likes pie more than lemonade.) Maybe paint splatters will be the next big thing in fashion? What do you think? Hey, I tried.

  “I think Ivy did it,” Kate said. Her big Bambi eyes narrowed into slits.

  Priti’s jaw clenched in agreement. “Are you kidding? Of course she did.”

  It was Tuesday morning, and Ivy had just walked down the hall. Zoey hadn’t missed her sideways glances—or her uncomfortably bent head. Zoey slammed her locker shut and stared bitterly away. So what if she did? Zoey couldn’t prove it . . . and it sure didn’t change the fact that she had no dress for Friday night.

  Her friends had already urged her to make another one. But they didn’t understand. She’d spent something like fifty hours, at least, on that dress, and there was no way on earth she could do that again. Especially when she still had that stupid social studies paper to write! Plus, even if she made the basic shape of the dress, she didn’t have the trimmings from the uniform.

  “Maybe you can try asking Mr. Dunn for an extension . . . ?” suggested Libby.

  “Yeah!” said Kate. “You totally should.”

  “But he already said no extensions,” said Zoey. “And not just once—like, twenty times.”

  “These are extenuating circumstances!” said Priti. “What do you have to lose?”

  As it turned out . . . nothing really, except five minutes of her life.

  The moment she asked the question, she knew she’d wasted her breath. Mr. Dunn stared down his nose at her calmly and jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the board. “What does it say?”

  Zoey knew he wasn’t talking about the date or their assignment. (Still, she was tempted to say exactly that.) He was talking about the large block letters along the whole bottom.

  Zoey squeezed her fingers and cleared her throat. “ ‘No extensions,’ ” she read.

  “And there’s your answer,” he told her.

  “But . . .”

  “There are no ‘buts’ in social studies,” he said soberly. “Now, please take your seat, won’t you?”

  Zoey spent the rest of first period—and second also—swinging between moods. On one side was anger, on the other impending gloom.

  When the bell for third period finally rang, she started for art class, then
turned around. She had to talk to Ms. Austen. It was her only hope.

  “Hello there. May I help you?” Mrs. Beckstein, the secretary, looked up from her desk of forty-five years. “Do you need to see the nurse?” she asked. “You’re looking very pale.”

  Zoey shook her head. “No, ma’am. I wanted to see Ms. Austen. Is she, um, around?”

  Mrs. Beckstein placed her shaky palms on the sides of the blotter in front of her. “Well . . . yes, I believe so. Give me just a second. Tell me, what’s your name, sweetheart?”

  “Zoey. Zoey Webber. It’s about the fashion show,” she said.

  Mrs. Beckstein pushed herself up and made her way across the office on fat cream-colored shoes. Her lavender dress, Zoey noticed, was just a shade darker than her hair. Hmm . . . When Zoey’s hair went gray in the far, far future, that was a look she might just try, she thought. Or maybe she’d match her hair to the magenta tunic she made a few weeks ago. She could just imagine Dad’s face if she came home with magenta hair! Just thinking about it made her smile a little.

  When the secretary came to the door labeled PRINCIPAL, she rapped politely beneath the sign. She looked back and smiled at Zoey, then turned the knob and stepped inside.

  “Come right in.” She emerged and waved her fingers as a signal for Zoey to approach.

  Zoey obeyed and was suddenly aware of how very heavy her legs felt. It was like walking through a swimming pool . . . or maybe quicksand.

  Mrs. Beckstein shut the door gently behind Zoey, leaving Zoey to gaze around. The principal’s office looked much different than it had when Zoey presented her petition to Mrs. Hammerfall the year before. She distinctly remembered not being able to breathe and counting the seconds until Mrs. H. let her leave.

  Since then, Ms. Austen had somehow transformed the starched room into a . . . cozy space. The walls were no longer beige, but a warm apple green. They were dressed with crystal-clear photographs of lily ponds and fuzzy paintings of the beach. And nowhere did Zoey see a single framed diploma or Latin degree. It was more like a home than an office. Plants lined the sunny windowsill and propped-up books on the shelves. A vase full of enormous orange roses took up a whole corner of her sleek, polished desk.