Chloe by Design: Making the Cut Read online

  With a groan, I force myself to climb out of my cozy bed and walk over to my closet. Choosing an outfit always cheers me up. I study all my shorts, tops, and shoes, looking for something that screams confidence. If I look confident on the outside, maybe it will rub off on the inner me. A girl can hope. I grab a pair of red silk shorts and a long-sleeved, collared blouse, both of which I designed last summer. I pair them with my platform sandals with the cork wedge heel. The bold red seems to do the trick, and by the time I get to school, the cowardly lion has transformed into a scaredey-cat. Progress.

  I gather my books at my locker and look around for Alex so I can apologize for being such a spineless weirdo the night before. I don’t see her anywhere, but what I do see makes my stomach clench. Walking toward me with her posse of wannabes is Nina LeFleur, my perfectly dressed, number-one rival. Ugh. I can’t stand Nina. Not because her outfits rock. Because she’s constantly stealing my ideas and pretending they’re hers.

  It all started when we were five years old. It’s hard to imagine that Nina and I actually used to be friends way back then. But one day when she was over at my house, she copied the design for a duct-tape dress I’d made for my Barbie. Then, she told everyone in our neighborhood it was all her idea.

  It wouldn’t be a big deal if it was just the one time. I mean, we were five, right? But Nina struck again when we were in sixth grade. She saw my patterns for a pink, sparkly top and made her own identical version. And then she wore hers the same day I wore mine. Everyone called us Pinkalicious, like that picture book.

  But the absolute worst was when we were freshman. I was creating a dress that I was incredibly proud of for the school fashion show. I worked so hard on it. Guess who else was working on something for the fashion show? Yep, Nina. One day, my patterns just disappeared, and the bobbin on my sewing machine, which supplies the underside of the stitch when you’re machine sewing, was gone. Nina’s design, which was eerily close to what I had been working on, ended up winning.

  Today, like usual, Nina is surrounded by a crowd of groupies. Like Nina, her followers are all blonde. And, like her, their hair color comes straight from a box. Their outfits are nice enough, but something is always just a little off. It’s like Nina gave them a handbook detailing what to wear so they would never upstage her. Today, for example, Nina is sporting a sheer violet top over dark skinny jeans, and her five-foot frame gets a boost from high-heeled, metallic sandals. From my spot near my locker, I can hear the wannabes gushing to Nina about how amazing she looks. I want to throw up.

  Just then, Alex appears next to me. “Good thing I didn’t eat breakfast or I’d be blowing chunks right now,” she mutters.

  I laugh. Alex always knows what to say. “I can’t stand her,” I mutter.

  “Who can?” Alex replies. “She’s awful.”

  I gesture toward the groupies. “Well, they clearly don’t think so.”

  Alex rolls her eyes in response. “She has them brainwashed.”

  “They’d worship me, you know, if she didn’t steal all my designs,” I complain.

  Alex sucks in her breath. She does this when she’s annoyed, and I know I’m probably the one she’s annoyed with right now. I do whine about Nina — a lot. But sometimes I just can’t help it! She deserves it.

  “Sorry,” I mumble apologetically. “I know I complain about her a lot.”

  Alex shakes her head. “It’s not that you complain about her. You have every right to. In fact, if I were you, I wouldn’t have taken the high road so many times.” She pauses. “It’s just that now you finally have a chance to prove you’re better, and . . .” Her voice trails off.

  “And I’m totally wimping out,” I finish for her with a small smile.

  “Kind of,” Alex agrees.

  Just then, Nina spots us down the hallway. She smiles extra big when she sees me, doing her fake Miss America wave, but her eyes are anything but nice. “Hey, hon!” she calls. “Looove the top!”

  “Thanks!” I say back, giving her a tense smile.

  “Why does she insist on acting like you’re friends?” Alex asks. “Everyone knows you guys can’t stand each other.”

  I shrug. “Who knows. I just figure it’s easier to go along with it.” I watch as Nina and her followers turn a corner and disappear. Alex is right. Do I always want to fake smile and think about what could have been? Or do I want to do something?

  Do something, I decide. I turn to face Alex. “After school. You. Me. Mimi’s.”

  Alex’s face lights up. “Well, thank goodness for Nina. Maybe having her around isn’t all bad after all.”

  As soon as Alex and I are done for the day, we head to Mimi’s Thrifty Threads. If you ask me, Mimi’s is basically the best store in all of Santa Cruz. Picture Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory and then replace all the candy with every piece of fabric, strand of beading, and spool of thread imaginable, and you’ve got Mimi’s. Whenever I enter that store, it’s like Christmas and my birthday all rolled into one. And the best part is Mimi.

  “Girls!” Mimi squeals when she sees us enter the store. She runs over and pulls us both into a big hug, her standard greeting.

  “Love the hat, Meems,” Alex says, eyeing Mimi’s newest creation — a straw hat with a plastic bird perched on top of it.

  “Thanks, darling,” Mimi says, reaching up to adjust her hat. “I was thinking of adding an egg for the bird to sit on, but I thought that might be overdoing it. What do you think?”

  I smile. “Maybe just a little.” But the thing is, even if there was an egg perched up there, Mimi could carry it off. Her styles would look completely insane on anyone else, but they totally work for her.

  “You’re probably right,” Mimi says, but I can tell she’s a little disappointed. “Anyway, what brings my favorite girls in today?” Helping with designs and sketches always perks Mimi up. And despite her eccentric style, she has a great eye when it comes to figuring out what others need. Years ago, she even designed clothes for huge Hollywood productions.

  Alex points at me. “Chloe is going to try out for that new show: Teen Design Diva.”

  Mimi claps her hands together in delight. “Really? Well, that’s just fabulous! How can I help?”

  “Well, I didn’t even read the requirements yet,” I admit, blushing a little. “I guess I should do that first.”

  “I read them,” Alex says. “For the first round of auditions you’re supposed to create three outfits that speak to your fashion sense — whatever that means.”

  “That’s a cinch,” says Mimi. “That just means clothing that represents who Chloe is and what she’d wear. Easy.”

  I let Mimi and Alex chat about me like I’m not even there while I start thinking about what clothing screams Chloe. Definitely not the red shorts I wore today. Sure, they look good, but the red is much louder than my usual style. And they look much more confident than I’m feeling lately.

  As if to prove my point, the chimes on the door ring, and Nina walks in with two mini-Ninas in tow. She gives me a big, fake smile when she sees me. “Chloe!” she says, voice syrupy sweet. “I should have known you’d be here.”

  I just stare at her. “Yep,” I finally say. Brilliant, Chloe. Just brilliant.

  “Let me guess,” Nina says. “You’re trying out for Teen Design Diva too, right?” She’s still smiling, but her eyes have narrowed, like I’m a dartboard and she’s getting ready to shoot.

  Too? I think to myself. Of course. I should have known Nina would be auditioning. That means I’ll have to compete against her. Again. This day just got about a thousand times worse.

  Alex opens her mouth to say something, but I beat her to the punch. “Yep,” I say again. Way to use your words, Chloe.

  Nina laughs and elbows the mini-Ninas, both of whom laugh too. “I’m sure you’ll do great!” she says, all fake sincerity. “Maybe you can practice so
me designs on your Barbies. Do you still do that?”

  I’m standing there speechless, but Alex looks ready to explode. “Listen up, Nasty — I mean Nina. If you went head to head, Chloe would wipe the floor with you. Hands down. Assuming you don’t cheat, of course. But that’s pretty much impossible for you, isn’t it?”

  Now it’s Nina’s turn for silence.

  Mimi takes advantage of the moment to speak up. “That’s enough, ladies,” she says. “This store is a place of creativity and peace and not put-downs.”

  “Sorry,” Alex mumbles quietly. But it’s clear she’s not sorry at all.

  “I was just making friendly conversation,” Nina says with a fake pout. “I can’t help it if they took it the wrong way. Come on, girls, we’ll come back later.” She and her groupies turn and leave the store before any of us can respond.

  I think back to what Mimi said about the first challenge. Easy peasy.

  Maybe for someone like Nina. Someone willing to do anything to get ahead. Maybe I need to be fiercer and meaner, but Cheating Chloe is not who I am.

  I look out the window of Mimi’s store and see Nina and her followers in the distance. They’re only specks now . . . so why am I still so intimidated?

  When I’m safely back in my room later that evening, I try to put the competition out of my mind, but it’s not easy. My sketchpads are sitting right where Alex left them. My desk is covered with fabric swatches, tracing paper, colored pencils, and croquis — quick figure sketches — showcasing my latest designs. Even my walls serve as a canvas for sample fashion ideas. This is all I’ve ever wanted, but now everything I’ve done seems too simple and amateur. I have no idea what Nina has planned, but I’m sure her clothing will scream sophistication.

  Well, sophistication and snobbery.

  I curl up in a ball on my bed and try to resist the urge to cry. I hate feeling sorry for myself, but sometimes it feels good to wallow. For some reason it’s not as scary as imagining what can or can’t happen. I don’t know how long I lie there, but eventually a knock on my door forces me to take a break from my sniffling.

  “Chloe,” says my mom softly, “can I come in?”

  I sit up and see her standing in the doorway. She’s holding a large blue binder I haven’t looked at in months, not since my gramps died.

  The binder is a collection of every clipping ever written about Gramps’s rodeo days. When he was younger, he used to ride broncos and later became a rodeo clown, or bullfighter as they’re called now. He was quick and strong, and the bull riders depended on him to distract the bull. Gramps was one of the best in his field and loved his job despite the danger. After he retired, he still went to the rodeos and found ways to help. When he died last year, more than a hundred cowboys and riders came to the funeral. I miss him every day — and seeing the blue binder brings it all rushing back.

  I motion for my mom to come in, and I wipe away my tears with the back of my hand. Mom takes a seat beside me on the bed and brushes my hair out of my eyes. Without asking why I’m crying, she opens the album.

  “This picture here,” Mom says, pointing to one of Gramps when he was in his twenties, “is when your gramps first started out. The bullfighters were dressed as clowns back then. A lot of the time, they didn’t get the respect they deserved, but Gramps loved it anyway. He was determined to prove he was more than entertainment.”

  Mom flips through the pages, and I see Gramps at different shows, wearing different colored uniforms. In every picture, he’s smiling and his eyes are filled with excitement. Mom flips more pages to a ceremony where Gramps received an award for best rodeo clown. Another picture shows him older and wearing the same uniform as the riders. His face looks so proud. We flip through more photos of Gramps standing with his buddies and others where he’s retired and one of the noted speakers at the Cowboys and Chocolate Festival.

  “If he could see me now, he’d think I was a wimp,” I say. “Gramps never let anything get him down.”

  My mother shakes her head. “No, he wouldn’t, and that’s not why I showed this to you. But he would tell you to believe in yourself. He’d also tell you to lean on your family and friends if you need help. Like Alex.” Mom smiles.

  I sigh. My mom must have talked to Alex. That’s how she knew I was upset. “She has enough confidence for both of us,” I say.

  “Then what’s the problem?” my mom asks. “Why don’t you?”

  I take a deep breath. “Nina,” I say. “She’s trying out for this new show too.” There’s no need to explain more. My mom knows all about that history.

  Mom nods. “Okay, I get that you might be a little worried about that, but you’re you and Nina’s Nina. So, she didn’t play fair before. It doesn’t matter. If you make your best designs, that’s all that counts.”

  Mom smiles warmly and kisses the top of my forehead before standing up. She leaves the binder on my bed and walks over to my desk to study my templates and the sketchpad on my floor. “These are great, honey. I can see range you didn’t have before.” She holds up a sketch of an ombré skirt I did recently — the color starts out pink at the top then fades to white and finally to black at the bottom. “This skirt, for example. It stays with your style but brings in some subtle hints of color.”

  I get off my bed and walk over to my mom. I look at the designs in her hands and see them with clear eyes. She’s right; my range has grown. Even if the red shorts I’m wearing today didn’t make me as confident as I’d hoped, I wouldn’t have dared to wear such a bright color years ago.

  “Why don’t you take a look at the contest rules?” says Mom. “Let me know how I can help.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say, giving her a hug.

  Mom hugs me tightly. “You know,” she says with a little laugh, “when your dad and I first heard about this contest, we had a long talk about whether or not we should let you do it. Not that we’re concerned about driving to and from San Francisco for auditions. That’s not a big deal. But if you make it through all three rounds, it’ll mean a few weeks in New York City. The competition could be a lot of pressure. But we know this is your dream, so we decided we would let you. I’ll have the summer off from teaching and could go with you, so that would make it better. But you never even came to ask us. Who would have thought I’d be the one to have to convince you.”

  I laugh. I wouldn’t have thought that’s how things would end up either. “I guess I should thank Alex too.”

  “Good idea,” says Mom. She gives me another quick hug before she leaves.

  I sit on my bed and begin to read the contest info that Alex printed out. When I finish, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I wait for the clammy hands, the quick beating of my heart, and the nervous feeling in my stomach. But to my surprise, none of them come.

  Alex was right. There’s nothing here I can’t do. I take this as my cue and run out the door back to Mimi’s. I have three outfits to plan!

  I rush through Mimi’s door so quickly that I send fabric swatches flying to the floor.

  “Oh, shoot! Sorry!” I say, bending down to pick up all the pieces I’ve managed to make a mess of. When I finally get up, I expect Mimi to look shocked by my crazy behavior, but instead she’s smiling. I brush my messy hair back with my fingers. “Never know what you’re going to get with me, huh?” I say, smiling back sheepishly.

  “I just see a very excited girl,” says Mimi. “Besides, you don’t need to explain anything to me, honey. Just tell me what has you so hyper!”

  “Thanks, Mimi,” I say. I can always count on her. “So, I finally read all the info about the competition. They’re holding the first couple rounds of auditions all over the country, and then they’ll narrow it down. For the first challenge, I have to design and create three different outfits and present them to the judges. The second round is supposed to focus on accessories. The rules said something about showing ou
r creativity and versatility as designers. Then, there’s a third round where they’ll bring everyone together in Salinas and narrow it down to fifteen designers. That’s who gets to go to New York. But I don’t know what the challenge will be. They must only give you details if you make it that far.”

  Mimi holds up a hand to stop me. “No, honey, not if you make it that far. When you do. Because I know you will.” She pats my hand encouragingly.

  I beam. “Okay, when I make it that far,” I correct myself. It feels weird saying that, like I’m going to jinx the whole thing if I let myself believe it. “And after that there’s a final round that determines the top ten. One month in New York! Can you believe it?”

  Mimi sighs wistfully. “Oh, I loved living there. It’s one of the fashion capitals of the world,” she says. She stares off into the distance, then shifts her attention back to the present. “Ah, but that was a long time ago. I’m too old to live that hectic lifestyle now.” She laughs and shakes her head, obviously remembering something crazy from her past. Young Mimi must have been one heck of a character. “However, you, my dear, are in for something amazing. I can just picture you there. You’ll fit right in.”

  I grin with excitement. I can totally see it. The glitz, glamour, lights. The loud, big-city life. All things I’ve read about and seen on television. Suddenly, I see myself blending in, just like Mimi predicted. “I hope so,” I say. “It will be nuts, though. We’ll be doing a challenge or two a day!”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” says Mimi in a calm, soothing voice. “You can pull it off. Now let’s get to work. What’s your vision for the first challenge?”