On Saturday morning, Emma awoke, still determined but without a plan.
She had called Charlie right after the big fight, and he was thinking of a way out. Literally. But so far he had nothing good. His newest plan had him meeting Marjorie at Laceland and smuggling her heavy sewing machine and the partially finished clothes to the apartment. It wasn’t the most devious or ingenious idea, but all Emma knew was, no matter what, she had to get to her sewing machine.
She walked into the kitchen, deciding to ignore what happened last night. Today, she’d be the sweet, studious daughter. It was easier that way.
“Morning, Mom.” Emma broke off a piece of one of the blueberry muffins on the table. Her mom was actually a good baker. Emma wondered if baking wasn’t a schoolteacher thing for her mom, too, with following a recipe maybe just like reading another novel. Except with baking, Emma decided, the story ended much better—with cookies or muffins.
Her mother took a sip of her giant mug of coffee, the weekend section of the newspaper unfolded in front of her. “You’re up early for a Saturday. Going to hit the books?”
Emma knew that wasn’t a question. “Yeah,” she responded, filling a glass with orange juice. “Where’s Dad?”
“He had to take William to his tutoring session across town. Then I’m going to meet up with them to do some errands. You’ll have the whole apartment to yourself for studying. No interruptions. Or distractions.” She eyed Emma over the top of her glasses.
“Okay, great.” Emma grabbed the rest of the muffin. She began to calculate the possibilities. If her parents were going to be out all day, she could go to Laceland. They wouldn’t even have to know she was gone. Emma hesitated. On the sneaky scale, this was pretty high. But she also couldn’t risk losing a whole day of sewing—especially when she was so close to finishing.
Back in her room, she called Charlie. He liked the plan, of course. She felt guilty. Of course.
“If I get caught, I can’t even imagine the enormous trouble I’ll be in,” she told Charlie.
“Em, you’ve done too much. You’re too far in. There’s no choice, really. You have to finish. So you have to sneak out.”
Charlie always made everything sound so connect-the-dots easy.
“There’ll be consequences,” she warned.
“Look, you worry too much about what’s going to happen. You need to live in now.”
“True,” Emma reasoned. “And my collection will be done on Monday. Then everything will go back to normal.”
“And your parents will never know,” Charlie concluded.
“Charlie.” Emma paused, trying desperately not to get swept up in the wave of self-doubt that was trying so hard to flood her brain this week. “What if Paige hates my new stuff? What then?”
“Then no more Allegra Biscotti. You make honor roll and take that Western civ class. And you still live happily ever after.”
“I’d be happier if she liked them.”
“Then get out of that apartment.”
Two hours later, she met Marjorie and Charlie at Laceland.
“What’s in the mystery case?” Emma asked. Marjorie stood in the middle of Emma’s studio in what must be her weekend outfit—black knit pants and a black ribbed turtleneck—with a large black rectangular case by her side.
“My sewing machine.”
Emma’s eyes widened. Of all the people in her life to become her fashion angel, Emma never would have picked Marjorie. “Oh, wow, Marjorie. That’s the most amazing thing. You didn’t have to, you know.”
“I know, believe me. But I’m here anyway, so I might as well really help. I didn’t travel fifty blocks downtown just to open a door. Let’s get to work.”
Side by side, they sewed silently back in Emma’s studio. Emma constructed each piece, meticulously double-checking each nearly invisible intersecting seam. After every seam or dart was added, she carefully tried the garment on the dress form, making minute alterations for a perfect fit.
She wished she had a fit model—a living, moving person—instead of a fabric dress-form replica, but her own body was far from the willowy model type. And Marjorie’s was even farther. There were no other options, so she’d just have to cross her fingers that the garments would drape and move properly when worn by a real person.
Marjorie worked the iron, carefully pressing each section of fabric so it wouldn’t wrinkle or pucker. She also handled the finishing work—adjusting hemlines, removing the basting seams, and then adding the permanent ones.
Charlie was in charge of tunes and food. He was on a run now to a nearby deli for sandwiches, drinks, and real coffee for Marjorie.
“What’s next?” Marjorie asked Emma.
“I’ve finished most of the dress, but I’m having some trouble getting the slit right without pulling this fabric. It’s so delicate…but I had to have it.”
“Here, hand it over.” Marjorie reached for the pinned pieces of fabric. She spent a few minutes reviewing Emma’s detailed sketches and patterns before gently placing the pieces in her own sewing machine.
Emma glanced around her studio. There was still a lot left to do—attaching closures, adding cuffs, making the belt, and of course, sewing in the finished linings on all three pieces—and she felt odd, just watching Marjorie perfect the slit for her.
“This isn’t cheating, is it? By having you help me sew?” Emma asked.
Marjorie took her foot off the pedal, and the whirring motor slowing stopped. “Of course not, honey. I’m just the worker bee here. You don’t think Ralph Lauren does all his own sewing, do you?”
Suddenly, they heard the creaking of floorboards.
Marjorie raised her eyebrows at Emma. Emma shrugged, unsure of the noise.
Then they heard the footsteps. The unmistakable rhythm of footsteps approaching the back of the warehouse. Approaching them.
Emma’s eyes grew wide. “It doesn’t sound like Charlie,” she whispered. That was, not unless he brought the deli staff back with him. There was definitely more than one person.
The footsteps moved forward, the sound of shoes hitting the floorboards echoing off the high ceilings.
Marjorie grabbed the fabric shears, gripping them tightly in her delicate hands.
Emma peered toward the darkened hall, but she couldn’t see anything in the dim light. Her breath caught in her throat. She reached into her bag, quickly wrapping her fingers around her cell phone.
Flipping it open, she began to dial. 9…the keypad tone rang out loudly in the eerie silence, causing her to cringe. 1… the footsteps stopped.
“Who’s there?” a deep voice called.
Emma stopped dialing. She knew that voice.
In the light of the opening to Emma’s work space, her father appeared. Her mother and William stood behind him.
“Emma!” her father cried, alarmed. Then his eyes darted to Marjorie, gripping the scissors like a dagger. “Marjorie?”
“What…what’re you guys doing here?” Emma blurted out, a jumble of relief and panic.
“What are you doing here?” her mother demanded, the furrow lines in her forehead deepening with every word. “You’re supposed to be at home studying.”
“I didn’t think you’d be here,” Emma said lamely. She was too overwhelmed to create even more lies.
“That’s obvious,” her dad said in a measured tone. Emma could see he was just as angry as her mom. It didn’t happen often but when it did…it wasn’t good. “I had something to do here. In my office. But I think right now you’re the one with explaining to do.”
Marjorie stood up to leave. “I think I’ll just go, uh, do something else.”
Emma saw a look pass between Marjorie and Noah as she slid by the Roses on her way out of the work space. She had no idea what that look meant, but she was too nervous to worry about that right now.
“What’s going on here?” her dad demanded. “This isn’t like you, sneaking around behind our backs like this.”
Her dad, her mom, and even William stared at her, waiting. For once, William wasn’t smirking. He actually looked kind of scared.
There was no way she couldn’t tell them now. She knew that. She took a deep breath and began to explain—everything.
“Dad, do you remember Paige Young?” she began.
As Emma continued, Noah and Joan exchanged many concerned glances, but to Emma’s surprise, sometimes they smiled ever so slightly when she described the high points— Paige putting Allegra in her blog, Madison picking up the post, the interview on the Madison website, and then, of course, the request for Allegra’s pieces to be photographed for the actual pages of the most influential magazine in the fashion industry.
When she finished, Emma felt like she had just run a hundred miles. Or spent the last two weeks working night and day on three brand-new garments while attending high school.
Her dad leaned forward and pressed his palms flat against her worktable. “Why didn’t you tell us? That’s what I don’t understand.”
Emma looked up at the ceiling. She hated that the twinkle was gone from her father’s eyes. What was worse was that Emma knew that she was responsible for that.
“The whole thing just seemed to happen so fast,” she explained. “I’d do one thing and think that was it. But then Paige would ask for something else, and then something else…and the lie kept getting bigger and bigger somehow. I didn’t know how to stop without ruining everything.”
Her mother cleared her throat. That wasn’t a good sign, Emma knew, so she braced herself.
“You know that I don’t deal with lying, whatsoever, under any circumstance,” her mother began, “especially lying to your parents.”
“I agree. The lying thing is a really big deal,” her dad said, looking directly into Emma’s eyes. “I can maybe see how this spun out of control, but lying is not cool with us—at all. We need to be able to trust you.”
“I get it,” Emma said. And the funny thing was that she really did. “I’m so sorry. I really am. You can trust me.”
“I hope so.” Her mother paused, debating what to say next.
Emma couldn’t chance it. She knew a punishment was heading her way—that was Prada-black-dress obvious. She had to step up, to show them that Allegra Biscotti was more than some random name she’d made up. That Allegra was a designer with talent. That Allegra was her. “Can I show you what I’m making?”
“I would hope so,” her mom said. “Especially after all the effort you’ve made not to show us.”
“Can I see, too?” William asked.
Emma had almost forgotten Will was there. He had been so quiet the whole time. “Definitely. Come over here.”
Emma explained the inspiration, pointing to the pages from Night below the Surface and then the sketches she created for her own designs. She held up the lining fabrics, so her mother could see how they would eventually work with the dress, the jacket, and the vest. She showed them the garments in progress displayed on the three dress forms.
“Emma! They’re stunning,” Her mother gave her arm an enthusiastic squeeze. “They’re like pieces of art! I honestly can’t get over what you’ve accomplished in such a short time. I’m amazed! Truly.”
Emma suddenly felt uncomfortable, unsure how to react to her mother’s warm praise. She wasn’t used to getting it on anything other than her grades. And even then, it wasn’t especially the gushing kind because Emma was just doing what her mother already expected of her.
“I had some help,” she said.
Her mother shook her head strongly. “Don’t give away the credit. Emma, these were your visions. And not only did you dream up these amazing things, you brought them to life. You are the source. Creative vision is a rare and wonderful thing.”
Emma was relieved that her mother was finally seeing what she had been trying to explain to her for so long.
“Now I’m a little stuck with what we should do about this whole situation.” Her mom and dad exchanged looks, as if speaking a secret silent language. Then they walked outside the filing-cabinet walls and into the hallway for a private discussion. Emma couldn’t guess what the verdict would be.
“Um…hi?” Charlie tentatively entered the studio with a large brown bag of turkey sandwiches in his hand. A glance at her conferring parents, Emma’s stricken face, and the fact that Marjorie had taken off told him all he needed to know. “I hate it when I miss the previews,” he whispered. “And something tells me the movie already started.”
Finally Emma’s parents returned, a consensus reached. “We’ll let you finish and deliver to Paige Young what you promised,” her dad said, “provided you do your homework tomorrow and go to school on Monday. But then on Tuesday, things have to go back to normal. No more sneaking around, going behind our backs, and ditching your schoolwork. And no lying.”
“Totally,” Emma said.
“And as punishment, no nights out with friends for the next month. School and then working for me in the afternoon and then home for homework—and that’s it.”
Emma didn’t care if she never left her house again for the next year, if it meant she could finish her pieces.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She leaped toward her parents, grabbing them both in a hug. “Now I just hope I make the deadline. Even with Marjorie’s help, I don’t know if I can get everything done by Monday.”
“You’ll get it done, Cookie. No one knows their way around a sewing machine like Marjorie. And no one is a better designer than you, or should I say, Allegra.” Her dad’s eye twinkle was back.
“Why don’t I go out to the front and get Marjorie?” her mother said. “Seems like you two have a long day ahead of you.”
Her dad returned to Laceland at six o’clock that night. “Hey, Cookie. I saw Marjorie in the lobby. She looked wiped out. She said Charlie took off, too.”
“Yeah, he needed to get home,” Emma mumbled through several straight pins sticking out of the corner of her mouth. “We got through a lot, but I still have more to do. Thanks for coming back.”
“No problem. Your mom and I didn’t have any big plans for tonight. And I have some things I need to organize around here for tomorrow anyway. I’ll order up some pizza for us.”
Three hours and two large slices of veggie pizza later, Emma finally had constructed all the linings. She felt as if she’d hiked to the summit of a mountain. She needed to stretch her leg, which she worried might permanently vibrate from so many hours pressed to the sewing-machine pedal.
As she walked through the warehouse, she heard her dad grunting and groaning. Then something slammed to the floor.
She raced around the corner. “Dad? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he answered, rubbing his lower back. “Just moving some of these boxes. Or trying to.”
“Do you need help?” she asked.
“Nah, I got it. You keep working on your stuff. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to go.”
“Okay.” She took the long way back to her work space, making the most of her stretch break. Back at her sewing machine, just as she was about to press down on the pedal again, she heard a buzz and looked up. It was her phone, buried deep inside her bag on the worktable.
She pulled it out. Two missed calls and four text messages—all from Holly. That’s strange, Emma thought. I guess I didn’t hear the phone with the machine running.
Wanted 2 make sure u have Kayla’s address. I’ll b there early so come whenevs! Can’t wait 2 c ur costume! U wont believe mine! xoH
R u coming? Everyone’s here already & totally in costume, including JC, but dont want 2 ruin the surprise. Come soon! xoH
Em! Why rn’t u picking up ur cell? Where r u?
Fine. Don’t come. C if I care.
Emma sunk her head into her hands. She had forgotten all about Kayla’s Halloween party…and Jackson!
She looked down at the clock on her phone. 9:17 p.m. There’s still time, Emma thought, whipping around in her chair. I can still figure out a costume and get over to Kayla’s. She began to stand and then stopped.
She wasn’t going to any party tonight. She was grounded. And she certainly wasn’t crazy enough to prance over to her dad and ask him to change his mind.
She fingered the long strip of sequined material she’d cut out for the belt. She turned it back and forth, amazed by the patterns of light that played off its shimmery surface. At every angle, the color changed.
She didn’t feel like leaving right now anyway, she realized. Even though the possibility of getting together with Jackson made her lungs forget how to take in air. What she wanted to do, most of all, was sew. She was so close to seeing the dreams from her sketch pad become real. There was no putting the brakes on now. Especially not for a Halloween party.
Holls: So sorry! U wldnt believe what happened 2day—
Emma groaned and deleted the message. This wasn’t the kind of thing you texted. It made her sound like she didn’t care. After everything that had happened between them, Holly would think her not showing meant she didn’t want to be friends.
She needed to talk to Holly face-to-face. She tucked her phone away. It would be better to beg Holly for forgiveness tomorrow. As for Jackson, well, she could only pray to the God of Coco that this hadn’t been her one and only chance.
But Sunday morning Holly wouldn’t answer her cell or respond to Emma’s emails. Emma kept count. Three calls directly to voice mail, four unanswered texts, and two emails sent into the netherworld. Holly obviously wanted nothing to do with her.
Emma had gotten up early that morning to tackle the mountain of homework. Her mother kept walking into the living room with the excuse of needing this book off the shelf or that folder from the desk, so Emma had no choice but to plow through. By lunchtime, she was almost caught up—or at least closer than she had been in two weeks. She tried Holly again. Silence. Total freeze-out.
Then, after lunch, disaster struck.
Emma and her father rode up to Laceland in the empty elevator. The ancient building was eerily silent on a Sunday. Emma’s fingers itched to feel the hum of the machine under them again. She was so close now. Almost done. She practically sprinted to the front door, hopping from one foot to the other as she waited for her father to unlock it.
“It’s open,” he said. “Leo—you know, the building maintenance guy—is here with his team to do some repair work. But they shouldn’t be in your way at all.”
Emma pushed through the door and raced straight back to her work space. She froze, blinking several times. And screamed.