Charlie calling her name from down the hallway just barely penetrated the fog Emma had been in for the thirty-six hours since the Bloomingdale’s Incident. While Holly was acting as if nothing had happened, texting and chatting with Emma like usual, Emma couldn’t shake the feeling that something—kind of big, actually—had happened. Every time she thought of Holly telling the group about her sketches of Jackson, Emma felt her stomach ballroom dance again. The fast stuff like sambas and tangos.
Now Emma stopped in her purple lace-up army boots— the ones she always wore when she needed a pick-me-up—so Charlie could catch up to her.
“Big news. And I mean, huge,” he said.
“Like what? Like a new album by one of your freaky-weird European techno-bands was leaked online?”
Charlie considered that for a moment. “Well, yes, that’d be pretty awesome—but no. This is something you’re actually going to care about.”
He checked to the left and the right to make sure no one was listening and then leaned in close to Emma’s ear. “Allegra’s interview with Paige—your interview—was just published on the Madison website.”
Emma’s stomach upped the beat into cha-cha mode.
“Really? It was? How do you know?”
“Because I’ve been checking the website like twelve times a day. Haven’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but not in the last hour. But, you’re serious? You’re not just saying this to cheer me up, are you?”
“Why would I do that? I’m not that insane. Go take a look. Now,” he said.
“But how? I don’t have study hall today.”
“Simple. Just tell Mr. Singh you need a library pass. He’ll give it to you. It’s not like you’ll miss much in his class. He takes so long to explain everything—”
Before Charlie could finish, Emma was already on her way down the hall. By some miracle, the library was practically empty. Emma grabbed the carrel facing away from Ms. Williams and brought up the Madison website. There on the home page was a teaser to the interview: “4 Fabulous Questions: A Madison Mini-Interview with Up-and-Coming Designer Allegra Biscotti.”
She clicked open the page for the mini-interview. Along the side were the photos of her dresses that Paige took, and in the middle was the same headline as on the home page. Beneath the headline were the questions Paige had texted, each followed by Emma and Charlie’s answers word for word, though taken out of text-speak and put into complete words and sentences.
Emma marveled at how Allegra Biscotti sounded smart, fashion-savvy, and worldly. When she had read over her responses last night, she worried that they sounded childish and silly. But even though what was on the site was practically the same as the original answers, they seemed different here. They made Allegra Biscotti real.
Emma floated back to class. Mr. Singh still seemed to be droning on about the same thing he had been when she’d left the room fifteen minutes earlier, giving Emma plenty of time to daydream: an Allegra Biscotti boutique in the West Village with a small, sunlit studio in the back to start…a show at New York Fashion Week…eventually a showroom on Fashion Avenue, her clothes in department stores across the country…
Then Paige Young storming Allegra’s office, followed by a team of nervous editorial assistants and demanding to know the real identity of Allegra Biscotti…a photo of a disgraced Emma published on the front page of Fashion News Daily … her beautiful clothes being thrown out of apartment building windows by angry customers in protest…
Emma’s mind spun around and around like a tornado forming in her head. Have Charlie and I gone too far? How much longer can we keep this going? What is Paige Young going to say—or worse, do—when she finds out that Allegra Biscotti doesn’t exist, or really, that I’m Allegra Biscotti?
I should stop this, she decided.
Dear Paige, Emma began drafting in her head, I never meant to mislead you but—
The bell rang, snapping Emma out of her daze. Now, now, now—was all Emma could think—I have to take care of this now. She gathered her books in her arms and raced to her locker. She yanked her phone out of her bag, ready to type out the apology she had composed during class.
But it was too late.
A text from Paige was already waiting for her. Uh-oh. She beat me to it. Game over. Emma clicked open the text.
Ms. B: Requesting exclusive photo shoot of pieces from AB collection 2 b featured in upcoming print edition of Madison, Designers 2 Watch section. Interested?
Emma needed several seconds to process the fact that Paige was not accusing her of pretending to be Allegra Biscotti. Instead, this was the exact opposite.
She wants what?…but I don’t…I can’t…now what?… how could I not…but I shouldn’t…but I want to so badly… Her brain tornado whirled, the conflicting thoughts tossed about by a force that felt out of her control.
The only clear thought she had was: find Charlie immediately.
“Breathe in…breathe out,” Charlie coached a hyperventilating Emma a few minutes later. He pushed her toward a chair near the administrative offices and sat down beside her. “It’s all good. Really good.”
But Emma wasn’t convinced. This wasn’t some little white lie. This wasn’t pretending to like Holly’s unfortunate new haircut or telling her mom she would clean her room tonight. This was pretending to be someone else on the pages of the country’s biggest fashion magazine. And she didn’t need psychic powers to know that if Paige found out she was being tricked, it wouldn’t end well.
“Hi, guys.” Emma’s mom appeared in front of them, the door to the admin offices closing behind her. Her smile quickly faded into concern. “Emma, is everything all right? You don’t look so good. A little white, actually.” Joan put the back of her hand against Emma’s clammy forehead. “Are you here to see the nurse?”
“No!” Emma blurted, more forcefully than obviously necessary. “I mean, I’m not here for the nurse. I…um…” Emma fumbled, pleading with her eyes for Charlie to do what he did best. Talk his way out.
“Emma’s just in shock because, uh, she just got an A on a pop quiz in bio,” Charlie offered.
“Really? Way to go, Em!” her mother said. “Now, if you just focus your energies like that on the Western civ exam, you’ll ace that too.”
That’s what he came up with? Why doesn’t he dig a hole and bury me now?
Emma smiled weakly at her mother.
“Well, got to run to class,” her mother said. “Which is probably what you two should be doing now, too. Right?”
Charlie scrambled to his feet and dragged Emma up with him. “On our way!”
Emma’s mom waved good-bye before heading off in the other direction. Emma watched her mom leave and had the sudden feeling she was in a What Not to Wear episode, featuring Joan Rose. She was about to protest her mom’s scuffed clogs when she noticed that Charlie’s usual smirk had suddenly turned serious.
“You can’t fess up now,” he lectured Emma, pulling her behind the stairwell. “This is your big break—the biggest! It’s one of those once-in-a-lifetime things.”
“But, what about—”
“You can’t freak out. I have a plan—well, sort of. Listen, you design, and I’ll run everything else. It’s going to be awesome. You can do this, Em. And you should.”
Emma thought back to all the happy designing daydreams she’d had during class. “I should, shouldn’t I?” she echoed, the conviction growing in her voice. Having Allegra’s clothes photographed for the magazine would get her that much closer to all her dreams and maybe even more. “I mean, it’d be silly to turn down this opportunity, right? Who knows when—or if —it will happen again.”
Emma pulled out her cell, and together they composed a very different message than she would’ve just ten minutes earlier.
Ms. Young: Wld b honored 2 provide my designs 4 the photo shoot. Pls let me know what u need 2 make the shoot happen. All best, AB
Emma felt herself drifting that afternoon, mentally afloat, as she sketched madly in the margins of her world history notebook. Sheer, flowing tunics. A braided vine-like belt. Ms. Lyons’s words on Athens and ancient Greece flicked in and out, background noise serving only to add to design inspiration. A toga dress with gladiator sandals.
Suddenly, she noticed Jackson Creedon looking at her across the classroom with a strange expression on his face. She bolted to attention. Why is Jackson looking at me? He never looks at me! Then it hit her. She had been staring at him for the last five—God, was it ten?—minutes without even knowing it.
Her eyes grew wide. This was beyond mortifying. She quickly lurched back in her chair, pulling her textbook up to mask her face, which felt as if she’d baked it in the oven. Her hot pink hoodie knocked the strap from her messenger bag, and, as if in slow motion, the bag slid off the back of her chair. She lunged to catch it.
Too late! Fashion magazines flagged with dozens of Post-It Notes spilled out around her chair. A dozen random antique-coin buttons clanked and skittered in all directions across the linoleum floor. But worst of all, her sketchbook landed spine down, open to the page of Jackson in her redesigned soccer uniform.
The teacher stopped talking. Emma could feel everyone’s eyes on her. She had to get that sketchbook before Jackson—or anyone else—saw her drawings!
Emma hurled herself to the floor. She dove for her sketchbook and slapped it shut, shoving it deep inside the bag. Crawling on hands and knees, she grabbed at buttons right and left. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed something shiny near Jackson’s sneaker. A button. One of her buttons was sitting inches away from his foot! There’s no way I’m going over there, she vowed as she scrambled around scooping up the other buttons.
Finally she had all but one of them clutched in her fists. She spun around to clamber back to her desk. Just then, a closed hand thrust toward her and slowly opened to reveal the renegade button. It was Jackson’s hand. He carefully placed the shiny silver button in her open palm. It was still warm from his touch.
“Thanks,” Emma said. As she stood up, she sneaked a peek at his face. Maybe it was the post-traumatic stress of the whole embarrassing incident distorting her vision, but maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t imagining that Jackson was smiling at her.
She tucked the Jackson button into a small zipped pocket of her messenger bag for safekeeping. If she was ever going to use it, it would be on something super-special.
Emma jogged up the subway stairs and inhaled deeply when she reached the street. The sun was shining; the sky was azure blue; the air was crisp; the boy she liked had smiled at her and she had a button to prove it…and the stoplight was red, meaning that she could cross 34th Street. What a great day, she thought, practically skipping across the crosswalk and dancing around people who didn’t seem to notice or appreciate the amazing-ness of the afternoon. She leaped onto the curb and strolled up Fashion Avenue, humming and smiling.
Then her cell buzzed with a new text.
Ms. Biscotti: I need 3 brand-new pieces 4 Spring season @ Madison offices by Mon 11/2 4 the photo shoot. Pls confirm that’s doable 4 u. Thx. Ciao, Paige Young
Emma stopped, confused. Three new pieces…for the spring season?
Minutes later, she sprinted back to her studio, barely waving to Marjorie. She threw down her school bag and lunged for the garment rack where her finished—or in some cases, temporarily abandoned—designs hung.
Let’s see. There must be something here I could use that would be right for spring, Emma thought. She was much more adventurous with her original fashion designs than with the outfits she wore to school. It was easier to design for fantasy people whose lives were definitely far more exciting, dynamic, and glamorous than hers.
The two dresses she just finished were on the front of the rack. Too bad Paige had seen them already and now owned one that looked a lot like the pineapple-colored dress because they would’ve been perfect.
She loved the off-white cotton-linen corset dress she’d made during the summer, but somehow it didn’t feel special enough for Madison. The dusty rose and white geometric-print silk jersey dress would’ve been great, but she messed up the ruching big time. It was all bunched up and uneven in the back. There was no fixing that.
She could try finishing the fire-engine red coat that she constructed with her grandmother last spring, but hand-sewing all that embroidery on the collar and oversized cuffs could take two weeks alone. The only other thing she had was a Chanel-like sheath dress, but she’d made it in black wool tweed. Hardly springy.
The truth suddenly became crystal clear.
I’m going to have to make three new pieces…from scratch.
After dinner that night, Emma sat on her bed, surveying the chaos she had created. She’d ransacked her room looking for design ideas in every old sketchbook. Thousands of sketches, and nothing seemed cutting edge enough. She flipped through her work again. Party dresses with flirty hems and playful beadwork. Leather pants that fit like a second skin. Short skirts with hundreds of pleats. Long, flowy tunics with funky necklines.
Do I even know how to make half of this stuff? she wondered. Sketching is one thing. Constructing a few cute dresses is still basically one thing. But three perfectly finished pieces that work together like they’re part of a collection? How am I going to pull that off—alone and in two weeks?
Emma’s bedroom door swung open. William.
“What happened to your hand? Forget how to knock?” Emma said. Honestly, she didn’t know whether she was annoyed that he had interrupted her…or the teeniest bit relieved to have the unexpected distraction.
“Why should I bother knocking? It’s not like you’d let me in anyway,” William replied with a shrug.
“True but so not the point,” Emma warned. She was just about to kick him out when she had an idea. “Hey, since you’re here, maybe you could make yourself useful.”
William’s face lit up. “Really? I mean, sure, whatever.”
“Come in and sit.” She cleared off a tiny spot for him to perch at the end of her bed. Emma held up sketches of two different dresses to show William: one a fuchsia strapless tiered-ruffle mini, and the other a long-sleeved subtle A-line black one with leopard-print collar, cuffs, and pockets. “Which one do you like better: this one or this one?”
He scrunched up his face and then pointed to the strapless mini.
“Hmm. Okay, good.” She put down those sketchbooks and picked up two more, flipping to a drawing of an updated opera coat with three-quarter-length sleeves and big rhinestone buttons and shimmery trim, and another of a short-cropped gold jacket with bracelet-length sleeves and graffiti-like multicolored embroidery on the back. “This one or that one?”
“That one!” he said more enthusiastically this time, tapping the sketch of the cropped jacket with his fingers.
“All right…” Emma shuffled sketchbooks again and held up two more. “How about this”—swingy, wide-legged raw silk trousers in a cobalt blue—“or this?”—black satin skinny pants with zippers and studs and a baby-pink silk ribbon belt.
“This one!” He pointed at the wide-legged trousers, bouncing up and down on the bed.
Hey, this is actually good, Emma thought. He was helping narrow down some of her options.
“Now let’s go back to the beginning,” she said, reaching for the first sketches she showed him. “Why did you choose the strapless minidress over the leopard-print one?”
He blinked at her a few times.
“You don’t have to use any fancy fashion terms,” she explained. “Just tell me what you like about this dress in your own words. The color? The shape? A certain detail?”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to have a reason.” He shrugged and smirked. “I just kept going back and forth between what was in your left hand and what was in your right.”
“Out!” Emma screamed. She couldn’t believe he lured her into his little game. “Get out of here.”
Will danced a victory dance, a cross between a winning-touchdown celebration and the jig of the Lucky Charms guy. “Already gone.” He flashed a satisfied smile as he left the room.
Emma flopped back against her pillows, spreading her arms wide. She imagined herself in a charming design studio in Paris—black-and-white toile wallpaper and hot-pink velvet sofas—a place where fashionable ideas flowed. Not in a messy apartment with an annoying brother. But that wasn’t going to happen. At least not tonight.
I need ideas that are striking, she thought, things that will put Allegra Biscotti on the fashion map. Her designs had to live up to what Paige said in her blog about Allegra’s designs being “fresh,” “playful,” and “imaginative.”
It was weird. She’d never thought that she was designing the way Paige Young had said. She just designed what she wanted from things she saw that inspired her, made her curious, or—like when she played the Game—made her want to redo something her way. Sometimes she just fell in love with a fabric or a color—or a button made of dozens of tiny pink and red rhinestones. It was never a conscious thing. Her designs just sort of happened.
She hated feeling like this, so unsure, so nervous.
She raised her head. I never feel like that when I’m making things for myself, she realized. I need to concentrate on what I think, what I like, what makes me happy.
She was determined to come up with something—something that would be fun to create.