Fashion Week Finale Read online

  As we break for lunch, the models change out of their heels and back into the flats they were wearing when they arrived. I remember the day I walked to the Vogue offices, feet full of blisters. My heels weren’t nearly as tall as the ones these models are wearing. Their feet have to be killing them, but you wouldn’t know it. They didn’t complain when Jordan asked for photo retakes or had them stand perfectly still under the hot lights. It’s all about making Stefan’s styles a success. I need to remember that the next time I consider complaining.

  When I get back to my dorm that night, Madison, Bailey, Avery, and I chomp on Chinese food and talk Fashion Week. “I can’t wait for you guys to meet Alex on Saturday,” I say. “I’m so excited for her to get here!”

  “Oh, that’s right,” says Madison, frowning. “I forgot she was coming.”

  Avery waves her hand dismissively in Madison’s direction. “The more the merrier. When we hang in my dorm back at school, we can cram twenty people in there to watch a movie.”

  “She’d better not be bringing an entourage with her,” Madison grumbles.

  “Just her,” I say, then try to change the subject. “I wish she could help out with Fashion Week. I got to work with some of the models today! It was so cool!”

  “I could never model,” says Avery. “I’m way too shy for that.”

  “I’m sooo not graceful,” Bailey adds. “I’d probably trip on the catwalk and ruin the designs.”

  I laugh. “Me too! But I got to stand in for one of the models today — just for a second — and I’ll admit, it was pretty cool. Intimidating, but cool.”

  “I’d rather see my name in lights for my designs, not for how I appear in front of a camera,” Madison says snidely.

  You’d have to be an idiot not to get that dig. I take a deep breath and remind myself that my stint on Teen Design Diva was not about fame — it was about my skill as a designer.

  “Agreed,” I say. “But if it weren’t for models, the designs wouldn’t get noticed.”

  Madison turns away from me and directs her question to Avery and Bailey. “Do you think we’ll get to be involved in the show?”

  “My cousin interned out in LA a while back and got to help out with Fashion Week there. She mostly ran around making sure all the set-up went smoothly. But she said she got to help in the back of the house getting clothing ready, dressing the models, that sort of thing too. We won’t see our names in lights yet, but all this stuff is also really important.”

  Madison frowns. “I guess,” she says, sounding unimpressed. “I was hoping to talk to celebs or something. I worked really hard in the jewelry department, and I helped with dresses.” She turns to me. “Don’t you want everyone to know which pieces you put together or which design is yours?”

  I’m so surprised she’s talking to me again that it takes me a minute to answer. I’m sure she’s expecting me to rant about wanting all the credit I can get, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care about that at least a little. But one thing I’ve learned the past six weeks is that it takes a lot of people to put something together. There are plenty of designers who’ve been working a lot longer than I have who deserve credit too. All our ideas together, bouncing off each other, blending into one, is what made each design work.

  I open my mouth to answer, but it’s obvious I took too long, because Madison rolls her eyes and says, “Oh, please. Don’t even try to say you don’t care about that. Everyone does!”

  “Why are you always so mad?” Bailey asks Madison.

  “I just think we all have to pay our dues,” Madison says, giving me a pointed look. “I work hard too, and no one’s said a word about what I’ve come up with!”

  “That doesn’t mean they haven’t noticed,” I say quietly. “The only reason —”

  “Whatever,” Madison interrupts. “I don’t need advice from Miss Diva here.” She picks up the remains of her food, throws it in the trash, and slams the door to her room.

  “Oh my gosh,” says Avery. “That girl is a bottomless pit of negativity. What is her problem?”

  I shake my head. “Who knows? I mean, to a certain extent, I get where she’s coming from. We all want the spotlight. Waiting for it to happen can be hard.”

  Bailey nods. “That’s true, I suppose. But it still doesn’t give her the right to be so rude.”

  Avery, Bailey, and I finish eating and spend the rest of the night chatting and gossiping, imagining the day, years from now, when interns will be working for us.

  * * *

  The next morning, I’m putting the finishing touches on my outfit — a short-sleeved, black triangle dress — when my phone buzzes with a text from Michael: “Meet me at Lincoln Center.”

  I quickly pull my hair back with a metallic clip, grab my sketchpad, and run out the door. I’m looking forward to the twenty-minute subway ride. I haven’t had nearly enough time during my internship to work on my own designs, but there’s nothing like Fashion Week to inspire!

  When the train arrives, I plop down in the nearest open seat and take out my sketchpad. So far most of my sketches have been of people I’ve seen around the city. Today, I’m thinking of some Chloe Montgomery originals. I choose a shimmery blue pencil and sketch a high-low dress that swoops to the ankles in the back and stops just above the knee at the front. I play with the idea of straps but nix them in favor of a halter neckline and keyhole opening at the bust. Suddenly, I get another idea. This could be the perfect dress for prom — my own personal version of Fashion Week!

  We arrive at my stop before I know it, and I stow my sketchbook, mentally vowing to return to my design later. I hurry off the train and into Lincoln Center, where I quickly spot Michael waiting for me.

  “Today we’re scouting out our Fashion Week location!” he announces, sounding energized and excited. “Since Stefan’s emphasis is on art deco, we want a clean, white tent. Anything too over-the-top will distract from the designs.”

  Michael cups his hands around his eyes like he’s going to take a picture and steps back, trying to visualize the area from all angles. “This,” he says, motioning to the sides, “is where the audience will sit. The runway will flow down the middle.”

  I picture what he’s describing — models walking down the runway, an opening at the back of the runway from which they’ll enter, chairs on either side, everything in white, maybe little white lights on the ceiling.

  “It needs something,” says Michael. “Like a centerpiece of some kind.”

  I play the show in my mind. Models wearing Taylor and Liesel’s art deco designs strut down the runway. One is wearing a satin gown embroidered with overlapping V’s. Another showcases a floor-length gown of shimmering silver satin. Dresses with light beading and fringe with metallic threading parade in my head. I remember the press release I worked on with Michael — “Stefan Meyers Brings Back Roaring Twenties with Elegant Art Deco.” Whatever we add has to be grand but not take away from the designs.

  “How about an enormous chandelier at the end of the runway?” I suggest, imagining light ricocheting off the crystals and illuminating the metallic threading on the dresses. “That would really add some drama and glamour. We could do something reminiscent of the 1920s.”

  Michael closes his eyes. “That will be perfect! The bee’s knees, some might say! Just like you, my dear.”

  On Thursday I’m back with Laura and Taylor. As soon as I arrive, they wheel out racks of clothes that will be used in next week’s show. I saw some of the designs during the model fitting, but things were moving so quickly, I didn’t pay attention to every garment. Now I take a closer look and am thrilled to see some items I worked on during my internship.

  “The show is Wednesday, so we’re down to the wire,” says Laura. “We’ll need your help getting these ready and packaged away. Everything needs to be steamed.”

  Taylor
wheels out a machine and tells me the dos and don’ts — mainly how not to burn myself or ruin the clothes. Then she fills the machine with water and runs the handheld attachment over the garments. All wrinkles disappear.

  “Practice on these first,” Taylor says, pointing to a pile of clothes.

  I pick up the steamer and slowly go over the clothes. The water drips on a few of the pieces, but after a couple tries I get the hang of it.

  “There are forty pieces here,” says Laura. “Take your time. If you need us, we’re only a shout away.”

  They leave, and I do a few more practice steaming runs before moving on to the Fashion Week items. Steaming may not be glamorous, but it’s surprisingly relaxing. It’s also really gratifying watching tiny wrinkles disappear and seeing the clothes come out looking like new.

  I spot the flowered pockets and denim designs, along with the art deco sweater dress I worked on with Laura. I remember discussing how great the dress would look with a geometric pattern and metallic threading. Seeing the finished piece is like a dream come true.

  The silk dresses I worked on with Taylor are there too, and I remember the sketches I drew for her. I find the dressy jackets I helped Laura design and hold them up to the dresses. The shawl collars in silk and velvet complement Taylor’s floor-length gowns. Another jacket, lightly embroidered with pearls, helps bring out the pearl embellishments on one of Taylor’s art deco dresses.

  I smile to myself as I steam. There won’t be a place in the program that says, “Chloe helped with these,” but I’ll know. And for now, that’s enough.

  * * *

  After lunch, Laura and Taylor examine my work.

  “Nice job,” says Laura. “My first time steaming I ruined five dresses.”

  “I only ruined two,” Taylor brags.

  Laura shoots her a knowing look. “I wouldn’t get cocky. If I remember correctly, most of the stuff you steamed was dripping wet. It took days to salvage it.”

  Taylor scowls. “Maybe. But it was salvaged.”

  “Barely,” Laura mumbles.

  I stare at them. Their competitiveness kind of reminds me of the rivalry I have with Nina LeFleur, a girl from back home. The only difference is that Laura and Taylor seem to like each other too. “Where do I go next?” I ask, trying to diffuse the argument.

  Taylor checks her watch. “Stefan wants you to see what sound editing is all about. Gary, the sound engineer, is the brains behind the music for Fashion Week.”

  “His studio is on the ninth floor,” says Laura. “I’ll take you there.”

  When we arrive on the ninth floor, a guy wearing a white button-down over dark blue jeans greets us. “I’m Gary,” he says, tipping his black derby hat.

  “Chloe,” I say, extending my hand.

  “Take good care of her,” Laura says before heading off.

  “I’m working on the music the models will be walking to,” Gary explains as we head to his studio. “I’m thinking something fun and dance-centric.” He plays a few samples and has me walk to the music. I feel a little silly and wonder if he’s making fun of me, but when I peek at his face, I see that he’s deep in concentration, fidgeting with the dials and changing the speed and songs.

  To be honest, I don’t usually pay attention to the songs used on the runway. All I focus on are the designs. It makes me wish Alex were already here — music is so her thing.

  Gary plays with the dials, switches tunes, and writes something down. He does this a few more times before taking a break. “What do you think?” he asks.

  I’m not a music expert, but I like the beat. “The rhythm is good,” I offer.

  Gary nods. “Good. I think so too,” he says.

  “Do you like being behind the scenes like this?” I ask. As soon as the words are out, I put my hand over my mouth. That sounded kind of rude.

  Thankfully, Gary just smiles. “You mean not getting the spotlight?” He shrugs. “It bugged me when I started out. Reviewers rarely, if ever, mention the songs. But it’s cool. I’ve been doing this for years now, and I love watching the impact the right songs have on the show.”

  He has a point, I realize. I might not have noticed the songs in the past, but I imagine a fashion show without music — it would be dead and boring.

  “I work for a variety of designers and do films too,” Gary continues, “but there’s something about Fashion Week. There’s nothing like that immediate thrill of watching an audience react to the shows. Yeah, it’s totally about the designs, but I sometimes see people tapping their feet to the music. It reminds me how important this job is.”

  I nod. I’m glad Stefan had me spend the afternoon here. It’s a perfect reminder of how much goes into a successful fashion show — every step, no matter how small, counts.

  Gary and I spend the rest of the day listening to music and testing out songs. By the end of the day, he has a selection ready to go.

  “Wow,” I say as he packs up, “that’s a lot of work for a show that’s only fifteen minutes long.”

  Gary smiles. “You remember that next week. Not everyone wants the spotlight, Chloe. You can have credit without lights shining on your face.”

  When the weekend finally arrives, I wait impatiently for Alex. Her last text, “Leaving airport now!” was an hour ago. How far is the airport, anyway? Darn New York traffic.

  When the taxi finally pulls up in front of my dorm, I rush out to meet it. It’s been two months since I’ve seen Alex, and I miss my best friend so much. She clearly feels the same way, because she already has one foot out the door before the cab has even come to a complete stop.

  We throw our arms around each other as we jump and screech. The taxi driver honks his horn and reminds Alex to pay him. “Oops,” she says, quickly handing him a wad of cash. Then we get back to yelling and hugging.

  I take a step back and see how much Alex has changed. “What happened?” I say, noticing her highlights, makeup, and new outfit — a fitted black T-shirt, distressed boyfriend jeans, and studded black flats. She still looks like the same old Alex, just a much chicer version.

  Alex grins and twirls. “You can’t have a best friend living the high life and not have that rub off on you. I’ve been reading fashion blogs and trying to find stuff that is stylish but still feels like me. I wanted to surprise you. You like?”

  “Definitely,” I say. “Does this mean we can shop together now?” My eyes glaze over as I envision hours of store hopping with Alex. “We have years to make up for!”

  “Hold up,” says Alex, grimacing a little. “Baby steps. You’re making me want to crawl back into sweats.”

  “Please, no!” I say in mock horror. “Not that!”

  Alex laughs, and it reminds me again how happy I am to have my friend here. I wish she could stay longer so I could really show her around NYC, but two days is better than nothing. We quickly take her suitcase up to my room and head over to Bryant Park.

  “How do you deal with all these people?” Alex asks as we get jostled on the busy streets.

  I shrug. “It doesn’t bother me anymore. I actually love it. I’m afraid Santa Cruz’s silence will kill me when I get back.”

  “Don’t worry,” says Alex, putting her arm around me. “I’ll stand outside your window and bang drums all night to make the transition easier.”

  “Ha! Speaking of home, what have I missed?” I ask. Since I started my internship, there hasn’t been much time to gossip with Alex. There’s so much I want to talk about. None of it is earth-shattering, but when you’re talking to your best friend, it feels like everything is.

  Alex fills me in on Nina and her groupies. Turns out Nina has less of an entourage than she did when I left. Apparently, after watching us on Teen Design Diva, there’s a bit of a divide between Team Nina and Team Chloe.

  “I kid you not,” Alex says when I look at her in di
sbelief. “Be prepared to have your own groupies upon your return.”

  “Just what I need,” I say, rolling my eyes. But then I get an idea on how to make good with this ridiculous news. “Maybe they’d want to learn designing and all that. Then they can do it themselves and lay off the hero worship.”

  “Good luck with that,” Alex says as we walk into the park. We sit in the games section and choose a table with Jenga. “So, tell me what’s going on with Jake. You’ve hardly said a word about him lately.”

  “I figured it would be easier to talk to you about it in person,” I say, pulling a wooden piece from the Jenga tower. “He’s a really nice guy, and he’s so cute, but I have so much going on right now. It’s been almost impossible to make time for him. And then when we did make plans, I’d have to cancel. The day of Teen Design Diva judging was the worst. My phone died, so I couldn’t tell him I was running late.” I frown, still feeling bad about that day.

  Alex smiles sympathetically. “That must have been hard for both of you.” She pulls a wooden block, and the tower wobbles but doesn’t fall.

  I nod. “It was. Trying to hang out was too much pressure.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Alex. “I know you really liked him.”

  “I still do, but it’s not like I won’t see him again. Besides, boyfriends are drama. Friends always stay.” I gently push a loose block from the bottom and stack it beside Alex’s piece.

  Alex blushes and fiddles with the tab on her soda. “So, um, boyfriends can be drama, but I sort of have one. His name is Dan,” she says.

  I’m so surprised by her announcement that I almost knock over the blocks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It wasn’t official until last week, and then I figured I might as well wait and tell you in person,” she says. “Are you upset, since you and Jake…” Her voice trails off.