Chloe by Design: Making the Cut Read online

  “I need to have some sort of a plan,” I tell Alex. “Otherwise I’m never going to be able to pick something. I’m going with the dress.” I stare at my best friend expectantly, like she’s supposed to jump up and down at the fact that I made a decision.

  “Great, let’s keep looking,” says Alex.

  “That’s it? No excitement about me finally making a choice?”

  Alex laughs. “Oh, sorry. Let me give you the appropriate applause.” She pretends her hands are a camera and starts snapping away. People walk around us. Some are amused, and others annoyed that we’re in their way.

  “Stop,” I mumble. Maybe I’ve gotten too used to the reporters fawning over my design decisions if I expected Alex to pat me on the back.

  “Celebrity Chloe,” says Alex, transforming her hands into a microphone. “Can you please tell us about how you came to the decision to accessorize the dress?” She holds her faux-microphone up to my mouth.

  Some people actually stop, realizing who I am. I want to fall through the ground. “Okay, okay, I get it. No more. Please.” I shield my face and walk away from her through the crowd.

  Alex runs after me, not ready to let the joke go. I speed up, not watching where I’m going, and end up crashing into a table. When I look up, the boy I see almost makes me forget why I’m there in the first place.

  “Sorry,” I say, gazing into the boy’s green eyes. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  The mystery boy smiles at me, and when he does, I see he has a dimple in each cheek. “No harm done,” he says, but I can see him rearranging a few of the pieces on the table. “Looked like you were a girl on a mission.”

  “She definitely is,” Alex suddenly pipes up. I didn’t even realize she was behind me. “Don’t you know who she is?”

  “Stop it,” I hiss. Sometimes I could kill her.

  Mr. Green Eyes, however, looks amused. He raises his eyebrows. “I don’t,” he says to Alex. “Do tell.”

  “You’re looking at a contestant on Teen Design Diva,” Alex says. “Just made it past the first round, which is why we’re here. She needs inspiration for round two.” She is having way too much fun embarrassing me, but I also know she’s super proud of me.

  Green Eyes looks impressed. “You’re going to be on that show? That’s awesome!”

  I blush. “Well, not yet. I’ve only made it past the first round of auditions. We’ll see what happens in round two. I have to design accessories to complement one of my existing designs.”

  “Well, then I want to do my part to make sure you make it,” he says. “I mean, imagine if you win. I can tell all my buddies at Parsons that I met you before you were famous.”

  This time, I can tell he’s being silly. He winks at me, and I blush again. But, wait, did he just say Parsons? That’s only my number-one dream school for fashion design. “How do you know about Parsons? Do you want to be a fashion designer too?” I ask.

  “Not exactly,” he says. “I’m studying fashion marketing there. My mom is the brains behind these pieces, but I’m her go-to on these travel missions. She likes to stay on the design end, and it’s good practice for me.” He reaches up to brush a strand of his dark hair from his eyes.

  I force myself to stop staring at Green Eyes and focus on the jewelry and stones on the table. After all, that’s what I’m here for. The pieces really are exquisite. If you look closely at the stones, you can see crystals reflected underneath. I can feel Green Eyes watching me as I study the pendants.

  “How about this?” he suggests, holding up a long brass chain. At the end is something that looks like a little cage, and inside is a reddish-orange sphere with sharp edges. The red reflects out of the cage, casting colored stripes on the table.

  “It’s cool,” I say, “but I don’t think it’ll quite work. I’m supposed to be creating something, not buying it. And I think I need something a little shorter to keep the proportions in line for the dress I’m accessorizing. I’m leaning toward a statement necklace of some kind.” I feel like I should apologize or something, but Green Eyes doesn’t look upset, just thoughtful.

  “I think I have the perfect pieces,” he says. He ducks under the table, and I hear him digging through boxes. When he comes up, he’s holding a bunch of clear, crystal stones and metallic studs in a variety of shapes and sizes. The studs all have a cool, vintage look. As he moves his hand, the light hits the stones, making them sparkle.

  I’m about to ask him why they aren’t on the table with the others, but then I realize why. Each one has little pieces broken off or some other imperfection about it. But for my purposes they’re perfect. They have just the right amount of distressing to them. I can already picture a cool statement necklace adding the perfect accent to the neckline of my dress. I can even use them on the shoulders of my dress or along the waistline to create an embellished belt.

  “You were right,” Alex says to me. “You’ll know when you see it.” Turning to Green Eyes, she adds, “You have a great eye for detail.”

  This time he’s the one who blushes. “Thanks.” He puts all the pieces in a small shopping bag for me, and then takes the cage necklace and puts it around my neck. “On me,” he says with a wink.

  I gently touch the necklace. “You don’t have to do that,” I say.

  “The stones weren’t something my mom could have sold anyway. She won’t care. And the necklace . . . well, just wear it on the show,” he says. “Mention my mom’s designs, if you can.” He hands me a card with the words, “Jewels by Liesel” written on it in neat cursive.

  I study the card carefully. The name of the line sounds so familiar. “I think I’ve heard of her,” I say.

  Green Eyes shrugs. “Yeah? It’s possible.” He grins, like he’s keeping a secret. Maybe he thinks I’m just making that up to be nice.

  “Well . . . thanks again,” I say, stepping away from the table. I hold out my hand to shake goodbye, and Alex bursts out laughing. I don’t know what possessed me to do that. I want to pull my hand back, but before I can, Green Eyes is holding it firmly.

  “No problem,” he says with a smile. “By the way, what’s your name?”

  “Um, it’s Chloe,” I reply. Our hands are still connected, and I know I must be blushing like crazy by now.

  “Nice to meet you, Chloe,” he says. He stares at me. Am I supposed to say something else? Finally he laughs. “So, you don’t want to know my name? I see how it is. Take the jewels and run, huh?”

  “No, of course I do. I didn’t mean to—” I begin.

  “It’s Jake,” he says. He shakes my hand, and it’s only then I realize he is still holding it.

  “Nice to meet you, Jake,” I mumble, gently pulling my hand away. “And . . . um . . . thanks again.”

  “Sure. See you on TV,” he says with another wink.

  I want to say something witty back, but instead I clutch my bag and hurry away.

  It’s been two days since the art fair, and I’ve pushed all (okay, almost all) thoughts of Jake out of my head to focus on my design for the next round of auditions. I’ve cleared off a section of my floor to use as a workspace and have spread out all the stones and studs Jake gave me. They’re even cooler than I initially realized. I have an assortment of pyramid-shaped, spiked, round, and faceted gold studs to work with. In another pile are all my findings for the earrings, bracelets, and necklaces — things like clasps, hooks, and earring posts.

  Walking in and seeing the mess would probably throw anyone else for a loop, but to me it’s complete organization. I have my own system that just works for me. When I was younger, my mom tried to help me clean up, and I couldn’t find anything for days. Luckily she gets me now and lets me keep my room in “organized chaos” mode, as she calls it.

  This week the plan is simple — eat, sleep, school, create. Rinse, repeat. It’s weird, but I’m less stressed about m
aking jewelry than I am about designing clothes. Maybe it’s because it works a different part of my brain or because the patterns are so repetitive. The process calms me.

  I carefully take out the thin beading chain I found online and thread some of the larger studs onto it. Then I pick up a small envelope with my most precious stones: Swarovski crystals. After I came up with my design plan, I bought a combination of clear stones in a variety of sizes to add some sparkle. I lace the crystals in between Jake’s stones to create a pattern.

  I move the mannequin over to my window and hold the necklace up against the neckline of the dress. The sun shines on the crystals and the metallic studs are the perfect accent to my neutral dress. The image, offset by the clean, white background, has the effect I was hoping for. It elevates the dress from everyday chic to an elegant, formal garment. I continue with the beading patterns, but then stop. There’s something missing.

  I add some larger stones and create a pendant necklace, but as soon as I hold it up to the dress again I know it’s not right. With all the gold tones it looks like some kind of Olympic medal — definitely not the look I’m going for. Maybe I need to take a break. Clearing my mind will probably help.

  My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since lunch, and it’s already six o’clock. I smile, thankful to my parents for not interrupting me while I was working, and head to the kitchen.

  “Well, well, well, look who’s emerged from the Cave of Style,” my dad says when I walk in. “I think it’s our daughter. At least it looks like her. I’m not sure, though.” He makes a big show of squinting and looking me up and down like he hasn’t seen me in years. “What do you think?” he asks, turning to my mom.

  “Hmm,” says Mom. She puts her finger on her chin like she’s deep in thought and studies me carefully. Sometimes the two of them are so dorky together. “You’re right, it does look like our daughter. But she has this strange look on her face. What would you call that?”

  It’s like a game of Ping-Pong, and it’s now my dad’s turn. “Uh, I think they call it happy,” he says.

  My mom shakes her head and grins. “Oh, then I don’t think it’s her,” she says.

  I roll my eyes at them. If I had a pillow, I’d throw it. “You guys are so annoying,” I say, laughing.

  “Phew,” my dad says, “that means we’re doing something right.”

  My mom laughs, and I shake my head at their silliness. “Anywaaaay,” I drawl, sitting down at the table to join them. “I’m starving.”

  The table is filled with my favorite foods: spaghetti, meatballs, and my mom’s special sauce. Dad even made garlic bread with three kinds of cheese sprinkled on top of it — his specialty.

  I immediately dig in. All that designing has left me ravenous. “This is so good!” I say between mouthfuls. “Thank you, guys.”

  “You’ve been working so hard, and we’re doing our part in keeping your energy up,” Mom replies.

  I’ve really enjoyed making all my designs, but I didn’t realize how much I needed to unwind until this moment. I’ve been going basically nonstop for the past few weeks, which is what I need for the competition, but taking this break is showing me I need to pause more often. If I make it to New York City, the process will be even more intense. I’ll have to remember to make Chloe time so I don’t crash and burn. Good thing Mom will be there to watch out for me during the competition.

  “So when do we get to see your latest and greatest piece?” asks Dad.

  “When it’s done,” I say, smiling.

  “Can you give us any hints?” asks Mom.

  I tell them about what I’ve done so far and my arrangement of studs and crystals.

  “That sounds really beautiful,” Mom says when I’m finished. “I can’t wait to see it.”

  “Thanks,” I tell her. “I really like it so far, but it’s just not quite there. It still feels like it’s missing something. I’m just not sure what.”

  “You know,” says my dad thoughtfully, “maybe you should take a look at some of the old photo albums we have around the house. A lot of your grandpa’s old rodeo clown uniforms had really cool, intricate beading. Maybe they’d give you some ideas.”

  I think back to some outfits I’ve seen Gramps wear in the pictures. I do remember lots of embellishments on his costumes. Before he died, we went to a ceremony to honor him, and I remember a shirt with beading I liked. I can’t remember exactly what it looked like, but I love Dad’s idea, especially considering that the third and final round of auditions is going to somehow involve the rodeo. Maybe this will give me a head start if I make it that far.

  Dad takes my silence for disagreement. “It was just an idea,” he says. “I thought they might offer some inspiration. You don’t have to.”

  “No, no, I was just thinking about it. It’s brilliant!” I get out of my chair and give him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you,” I tell him gratefully.

  Dad grins at me, and I run to the living room to get out the photo albums. I flip through them, and each time I see something that could work, I make a small sketch of it and write notes about the colors.

  When I get to the third album, I finally see exactly what I need. If I can pull it off, my design will guarantee me a spot in the next round for sure.

  “So no one gets to peek under the black cloak of mystery?” asks Alex, nodding to the huge black sheet I’ve put over my new design.

  I shake my head. There’s only one day to go until the next round of auditions, and I guess I’ve gotten superstitious. I promised my parents and Alex they’ll get to see my design tomorrow, and they’ve tried to be understanding. For the most part, they’ve succeeded. But being patient? Not so much.

  “I told you, I don’t want to risk overthinking it,” I tell Alex. “Even if you guys say you love it, and it’s the most amazing thing ever created—”

  “Which I’m sure it will be,” Alex interjects.

  I smile at my best friend’s confidence in my abilities. “Still,” I say. “I can see myself explaining it and then wondering if I should have done something differently.”

  Alex sighs. “I guess you’re right. You do think too much. You need to stop.” She throws a pillow at me.

  I throw it back. It lands on my nightstand, barely missing a lamp.

  “Good thing your dream isn’t to play basketball,” Alex says. She bends to pick up something that fell on the floor. When she holds it up, I realize it’s the business card Jake gave me. I forgot I set it on my nightstand. “Have you looked up this website yet?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “I meant to, but I’ve been so busy making the necklace I just haven’t had time.”

  “You mean to tell me you haven’t even thought about how gorgeous Jake is?” asks Alex, rolling her eyes. “Come on, Chloe. I know you better than that.”

  “Well, I didn’t say that,” I mutter. “Let’s look it up now.”

  Alex opens my laptop and types in the website address for Designs by Liesel. When the website loads, she frowns.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “There’s nothing here except a photo,” she says. “The rest of the page just gives the address of her store in New York City and then says ‘Under Construction.’”

  I lean over to get a better look. “That woman looks so familiar, doesn’t she?”

  Alex studies the picture. “Probably her eyes,” she says. “They look just like Jake’s.”

  “Yeah, but it’s more than that,” I say, shaking my head. “I know I’ve seen her somewhere before.”

  Alex studies the picture again, too. “You’re right. She does look really familiar. Maybe she’s a regular at art fairs? We could’ve seen her at one at some point.”

  I shake my head no. “I don’t think so. Jake said he’s the one who usually sells her stuff at the fairs, remember?”

 
“True,” Alex says. “But we’ve never seen him before either, so you never know.”

  I keep staring at the computer like if I look long enough the site’s ‘Under Construction’ logo will change into something else. “Oh, well. I give up,” I say, closing the laptop. “It’s not important, and I don’t have time to worry about it now. I have work to do.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time to check out her store when you’re in New York City,” Alex says. “Maybe that will jog your memory.”

  For once, I don’t correct her use of when instead of if. Instead, I just work on picturing myself in New York City. It’s so close I can almost taste it.

  The next day, my mom, Alex, and I drive up to San Francisco for the second round of auditions. Even though there are only seventy contestants left in this round — a major decrease from the hundreds that showed up the first time around — we still get there early.

  “I’d rather just get it over with right away than stress about it for another ten hours,” I say as we walk in.

  “I brought my pillow with me this time,” Alex says. She sits down and props the pillow against the wall. In minutes, she’s breathing deeply and sound asleep.

  “I think Alex could teach us both how to relax more,” my mom says.

  Alex lets out a low snore as if to prove Mom’s point. In minutes, the line has already grown behind us. Apparently I’m not the only one who thought it was a good idea to show up early.

  From down the hall, I hear Nina whining to her mother. “This is torture,” she complains.