“Don’t worry!” Marjorie shouted over the hum of the sewing machine’s motor and the rapid-fire clack-clack-clack of the needle going up and down and in and out of the fabric. “I’m a professional. In my old life, I used to be a seamstress in the alterations department at Bergdorf Goodman.”
“Are you kidding me?” Emma stared in amazement as Marjorie whizzed over the seam, expertly going around the edge of the pocket piece at what seemed to Emma like hair-raising speed. “Why haven’t you ever told me?”
“Because you never asked,” Marjorie replied. “I did have a life before Laceland, you know.”
When Marjorie finished, she let up on the foot pedal, raised the needle and the presser foot, and pulled the vest out to the left. Then she took Emma’s scissors and snipped the two threads.
“Let’s see what we have here,” Marjorie said, examining her own seam, as well as Emma’s work on the rest of the piece. “Not bad here, honey. Nice even seams. Pockets can be tricky, so don’t beat yourself up.”
Emma leaped forward and grabbed the vest from Marjorie’s hands. “This is amazing! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“Sure thing. If you’d like, I can sew the other one so you can see how I’m doing it…without mutilating my fingers in the process.” She nodded down at Emma’s Band-Aid covered hands. “I can even help you with those jacket sleeves.”
“How did you know I was having trouble with those?” Emma asked.
Marjorie pointed with a bony finger at the worktable where the body of the jacket and the still unconnected sleeves sat in a heap.
“They’re the worst if you’re not used to them. Used to trip me up all the time, too. Besides, from the looks of it, I’d say there isn’t much room on your fingers for more Band-Aids.”
Emma wanted to hug Marjorie. But Marjorie didn’t strike her as the embracing type. Instead Emma handed her the pieces of the fourth vest pocket.
“I think I’m going to be a vampire,” Kayla announced the next day by Holly’s locker. “My mom said she could have one of the makeup artists from her company do my face for the party—you know, white skin, charcoal around the eyes, long fake lashes, and blood-red lips. How cool would that be?”
“What are you going to wear?” Lexie asked.
“Who cares?” Kayla replied. “My makeup will be killer— literally!” she giggled. “Ivana, did you decide on your costume yet?”
“A Hollywood starlet,” Ivana said smugly. “Very retro, you know…early sixties Marilyn Monroe glamour. I’m borrowing my mother’s low-cut black gown, and I bought some superlong white leather gloves. I’ve already booked a blowout.”
Emma tried not to eavesdrop, but that was technically impossible with her locker next to Holly’s and the ’Bees overflowing into what little space she had. She was shocked to realize that Halloween was this Saturday. She’d been so focused on her deadline. And she was kind of surprised that she hadn’t heard about Kayla’s Halloween party.
True, she had been ditching lunch in the cafeteria to spend it in the library in a desperate attempt to keep up with her homework, but she realized she must have totally tuned out life at Downtown Day to miss something so obviously huge on the school’s social barometer.
“What about you, Holls?” Ivana asked.
“I don’t know yet. Maybe an angel or a devil or something like that. I was going to go shopping after school at the costume store near my apartment, if anyone wants to come.”
Lexie and Shannon said they’d join since they were still undecided. The bell rang, sending Ivana and her entourage sauntering to class. Holly hung back.
“You’re coming to the party, right?”
“Maybe.” Emma gathered her things, closed her locker, and headed down the almost empty hall. Holly was two steps behind her.
“Emma, you should totally come to the party,” Holly urged. “I bet with all the cool things in your closet you could put together an outrageous costume.”
“I didn’t think I was invited. Besides, it doesn’t seem like Ivana and the ’Bees want me there.”
“Of course, you’re invited! Everyone’s invited!” Holly protested.
Emma stopped and turned to face Holly. “Really? I know I’ve been busy and all, but I don’t remember getting an invitation— or even hearing anything about it before a few minutes ago.”
The encouraging smile faded from Holly’s face. “Well, um, technically? You weren’t invited like separately or anything because everyone assumed you’d be coming. None of us got invitations either. Plus I can bring whoever I want because I’m practically co-hosting the party. And according to me, you’re invited. Technically.”
Emma was confused. But she had a feeling that was exactly the reaction Holly was going for as a way to cover up the technical lack of invitation. “Well then, thanks, I guess.”
The smile instantly returned to Holly’s face. “So does that mean you’ll come? You wouldn’t want to miss another chance to hang out with Jackson now that you guys have actually spoken, would you?”
At the sound of his name, Emma remembered the feel of his shirt against her cheek during the assembly the week before. Holly didn’t even know that Jackson had walked by Emma’s locker the other day and actually said hi to her—in front of a couple of his soccer buddies.
“I’ll try,” Emma hedged, knowing that she would need a miracle—beyond the already huge one of discovering Marjorie could sew and was teaching her how to deal with the more complicated seams—to give her enough extra time to figure out a costume and be able to spend a whole night at a party, away from her sewing.
Holly’s eyebrows knitted together. “That’s it? You’ll ‘try’? I just don’t get it, Em. You know, I’ve really put myself out there with Ivana, telling her how cool and awesome you are, but you do nothing to show her any of that. You don’t even try. You act like you’re all superior or something. It puts people off, Emma.”
Emma stiffened. Was she really acting that way? Or was Holly bending the truth? I’m acting like I’m superior to Ivana? Oh, please. How was that even possible? Who’s the one with the fan page for herself? Emma was dying to ask. Not me!
“Look,” Emma started, trying not to let her voice shake, “if you want to hang out with Ivana and all of them, just go ahead and do it. I didn’t mean to get in your way.”
“But I want to hang out with you, too,” Holly said. “Don’t you want to spend time with me?” She shifted on her feet. Her expression hardened ever so slightly but just enough for Emma to notice. “Look, if our friendship means something, you’ll come to the party. Besides, Em, it’s going to be fun. Remember fun?”
Feeling guilty, although for what she wasn’t exactly sure, Emma relented. “Okay, okay. I’ll go. For you.”
“Good,” Holly said, her face softening again.
“Happy now?”
“Yes. I am.” And for the first time in weeks, Emma could see the old Holly—the real Holly—in her eyes.
For the rest of the day, Emma found it impossible to concentrate in her classes. Her body was so tired from staying up late, hand-sewing the detailed trimmings, that she felt almost weightless. Her foot tap-tap-tapped under the desk, anxious to press the pedal on the sewing machine and get back to work.
Emma opened to a fresh page in her sketchbook, as the rest of her world history classmates chatted before Ms. Lyons arrived, and made a list of the things she still needed to do before Monday. Delivery Day.
Construct dress and sew in zipper
Sew jacket lining (collar, cuffs, box pleat)
Attach vest lining with interior slit pockets
Sew dress lining (slit, belt)Add buttons to vest and jacket
“Wearing costumes isn’t my thing,” Clayton Vanderbeck said, and Emma tuned back in. “Maybe I’ll go to Kayla’s party dressed as me.”
“That would be a scary disguise,” teased Meghan Mahon, who definitely had a thing for Clayton. She giggled. “Or you could be a soccer player.”
“Yeah, that would totally work since you’re already pretending to be one on the field!” one of the other guys said. Everyone laughed, and the guy began ribbing Clayton about how he messed up a game the day before. Emma tuned back out. She sketched the vest button placement on the corner of the homework sheet she’d actually managed to complete the previous night.
“Hey, you going?”
Jackson Creedon. He was looking right at Emma with those eyes. Those amazing blue eyes. And talking to her.
“Oh, yeah, totally,” she said.
“Cool.”
“Are you?” she ventured, not wanting their second conversation to end—ever.
“Yeah.”
“Class!” Ms. Lyons called out as she entered the room. “Let’s get started.”
Emma felt as if she were really filled with helium, hovering high above the classroom. Not only did Jackson specifically ask if she was going to Kayla’s party, but also, and maybe more importantly, he thought it was “cool” that she was!
She couldn’t wait to tell him about how she’d read—well, looked at—Night below the Surface. We’ll have so much more to talk about than the last time, Emma thought happily. She pictured them standing on the terrace at Kayla’s apartment, maybe a moon rising over the city as the party went on inside. She’d be wearing that adorable fringed flapper dress she’d picked up at the vintage store last year—and that had been living in the back of her closet—and maybe fishnet stockings and her high-heeled, velvet peep-toe pumps.
First they’d talk about Night below the Surface, and then he’d ask a zillion great questions about her collection. He’d listen to her answers really hard, maybe biting his lip as he told her how much more interesting she was than any other girl in school. He would have such a hard time ending their fascinating conversation that he would offer to take her home…
She looked down at her list. In between “Sew jacket lining” and “Attach vest lining,” she added, “Accessorize flapper costume for Kayla’s party.”
Emma clicked her phone shut. Charlie had called—again. Checking on her progress. She knew he felt frustrated. He wanted to do something, but really what was there for him to do? Only she could design and make the clothes.
She had just finished another successful afternoon sewing marathon at Laceland, thanks to Marjorie. Everything was slowly coming together. A full day of sewing tomorrow, Saturday, and she’d be close to done. Marjorie had agreed to meet her there to unlock the door, keep her company, and as they both knew, jump in and save Emma when she hit a snag.
While Emma waited for the elevator in the lobby of her apartment building, she thought about the pieces tucked in her bag that needed hand-sewing and that she would work on later tonight. She hoped she’d brought the right color thread. Her dad had taken the subway home with her but detoured at the corner to pick up the dry cleaning. As she fumbled around in her bag for her keys, which she could never find, her phone rang. No doubt it was Charlie. Again.
Resting the phone on her shoulder, she continued hunting. “Charlie, get a life!”
“Um…excuse me? Emily?” a perky female voice asked. Definitely not Charlie.
“Not Emily. Emma,” Emma said, stepping onto the elevator, hand still searching through the random buttons, pencils, and papers scattered in her bag.
“Oh. Sorry. I wanted Emily.”
Emma finally felt her fingers graze the charm on her key ring. It was a thimble from an old Monopoly game. As a kid, she always picked the thimble. “I think you have the wrong number.”
Emma stuffed her cell back into her bag, unlocked both locks on her front door, and walked into her apartment. She was hoping that her mom was out somewhere with William. Maybe today was his day with his tutor or when his computer-graphics club met. She could use a few minutes to decompress.
No such luck. Her mother walked out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her mouth was set in a hard grimace. Never a good sign.
“Hey, Mom.” Emma hung her brown trench over a pile of off-season coats layered on the coatrack. “I’m starving. What’s for dinner?”
Her mother’s frown deepened. “We need to talk. I need to know what’s been going on with you.”
“What do you mean?” Emma’s stomach tightened.
“Come on, Em. I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.” Her mother paused, waiting for her daughter to fill in the blank.
Was the blank Allegra Biscotti? Emma fumbled for a response. Was she walking into a trap?
Her mother crossed her arms and continued. “Your grades, Emma? I checked them online today. You got a D on your geometry quiz. And a C-minus on your biology test. And there was a note about you turning in your essay on War of the Worlds three days late.”
“I had a hard time keeping the SSS postulate and the ASA postulate straight,” Emma explained. That wasn’t even a lie. She really was confused by the whole proving congruent triangles thing—mostly because she hadn’t been doing the homework. But she kept that part to herself.
Emma’s father pushed open the front door and stopped. The mother-daughter tension hit him like a force field. He looked back and forth between them. “What’d I miss?”
As her mother filled him in, his smile faded. “Emma. This isn’t good.”
She shifted from foot to foot, staring at the worn wooden floor. Her parents had her cornered in the hallway. There was nowhere to go. “Geometry and biology have gotten really hard, and I—”
Her mother cut her off. “Please. I don’t think this has anything to do with the material being over your head, especially this early in the year. It’s obvious you’re not studying. It’s always been a simple equation. When you study, you do well.”
Her mother sighed, as if pained. “From what your dad tells me, it isn’t because he’s been working you too hard at the warehouse, even though you’ve been spending every free second there lately.”
“I’ve been…I’m working on some designs in my studio that I’m really into and…” Emma searched for a possible excuse.
William wandered in, his eyes glued to his portable video-game player. No doubt he’d heard the sounds of a serious conversation and came to investigate. And to make sure they weren’t talking about him.
“I thought you were studying back there, at least part of the time,” her father said. “That’s why I tried not to give you too much other work to do.”
“I am, I was…I mean, I’m also…” Emma stopped. Maybe it was time to tell the truth. It wasn’t so bad, really. It was actually quite good. I’m designing clothes for a fashion magazine, she thought. It’s not like I’m some messed-up kid.
“You’re also what?” her mother asked with a mix of frustration and annoyance. Not a good combination. “What are you doing that you think is so much more important than your schoolwork? This I’d love to hear.”
“She’s been sewing!” William announced triumphantly.
“Sewing? Emma, are you kidding me? You know school comes first.”
“I do. I’m studying—”
“Oh, yeah, right. I bet you’ve been staying up super-late every night because you’ve been studying so much,” William piped in.
“Get out, William!” Emma snapped. “It’s none of your business.”
“Don’t yell at your brother,” her mother warned, all her negative energy fixed on Emma.
“Me? He’s the one who butted in—” Emma couldn’t believe how unfair her mother was being.
Her father shushed William and shook his head, shooting him that meaningful parent stare that said, Stay out of this one.
“Okay, let’s just calm down here for a minute,” he said in an even voice. Her dad was always the calm one. “It’s obvious to me that something’s got to give. You need to boost your grades. Okay, that shouldn’t be a big issue for you. But until you do that, no more hanging out at Laceland—”
“No way!” Emma shot back, outrage shaping her words. “You can’t do that!” Not now. He couldn’t be saying that now.
“You’re treading on thin ice with that attitude,” her mother warned, her voice steely.
“I don’t have an attitude,” Emma retorted. Her body trembled, the blood rushing to her head. Why couldn’t her mother just back down and listen? She hadn’t even gotten to tell them yet. “You just don’t understand. I need to work on these clothes I’m making—”
“Enough. It’s enough, Emma. No sewing until the grades improve. End of story.” Her mother turned back toward the kitchen.
Emma forced herself to take a deep breath and start over before she really blew it. “I’ll fix it. I promise I’ll bring my grades up.”
“And the Western civ exam?” her mother asked.
“That, too. I have a full week before the test, right? I’ll be ready.”
“Good, you’ll start tomorrow. All day at home studying. I can even help you.”
“But…but I have plans tomorrow.” Emma wished she didn’t sound as if she were whining. But she was. She had to spend Saturday at Laceland.
“Cancel them.” Her mother wasn’t going to budge—that was obvious.
“Dad?” Emma gulped, looking helplessly at him.
“Sorry, Em. You’re home studying—all day. Your mom and I, we’re a team, you know.”
“So I’ve heard,” Emma grumbled. She stomped to her bedroom, but not before shooting William an icy stare.
I am not giving up, she promised herself, as she lay on her bed. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes, but she pushed them away with the back of her hand and squeezed her lids tightly shut.
Coco would not cry, she knew.
Neither would Allegra Biscotti.
Coco would push on, defying despair and disbelievers in order to create that famous little black dress.
Allegra Biscotti, too, would do whatever it took to finish the pieces.
And so will I, she decided.