Emma Rose pushed open the school’s heavy red door in a fashion-induced haze, mentally creating, designing, and storing scraps of ideas the way she imagined mathematicians juggled numbers or chefs mixed ingredients. The Downtown Day School halls were in their usual state of pre-homeroom pandemonium.
Following the tide of self-confident eighth graders and somehow still-clueless sixth graders, she quickly inventoried the outfits of the day. Baggy sweatshirts. Colorful tanks under hoodies. Jeans. More jeans. Even more jeans. The halls of Downtown Day would never be confused with the catwalks of a couture show. That was for sure.
Emma turned the corner, and a whiff of watermelon suddenly hit her. She smiled. Holly was waiting by their lockers. The fruity gum scent was a dead giveaway.
“Cool sweater,” Holly Richardson said, after popping an almost-fluorescent pink bubble.
“Thanks.” Emma wore a black cotton cardigan, on which she had replaced the plain plastic buttons with shiny brass marching-band uniform buttons. She liked to have fun with fashion—to create mash-ups of vintage and thrift-store finds.
She mixed in the occasional trendier bargain—but always gave those items her personal touch. When she went for a pair of ballet flats, she opted for Kelly green and clipped a pair of sparkly rhinestone earrings onto the toe to make them different. She even replaced the drawstring in her charcoal velour sweatpants with a shimmery chartreuse ribbon.
Although she did it quietly, and often quite subtly, Emma wore something every day that hinted at her unique personal sense of style. She might twist colorful silk scarves into a belt or drape them around her neck in a heap. Or she might wear a boyish flannel shirt with the cuffs turned up to show off a purple satin lining she’d sewn in. Her worn-out boys’ Levi’s were a wardrobe staple—she loved the design she’d embroidered onto the back pockets with metallic thread. It made her happy when Holly noticed her little fashion statements.
“But what’s with the ponytail?” Holly sized up Emma’s shoulder-length dark-brown hair in the way only a best friend would.
Emma self-consciously tucked a strand back into her messy ponytail. “What do you mean?”
Holly shrugged. “Nothing. It’s just that you wear it like that every day.”
“So?” Emma was much more interested in figuring out what she was going to wear than wrestling with a blow dryer and humongous brush like Holly had suddenly started doing every morning.
Holly popped another bubble. “All I’m saying is that it could probably look a lot cuter if you styled it out or something. I mean, with the awesome outfits you’re always putting together, it just doesn’t seem to go. That’s all.”
Emma bit her lip. She knew Holly was trying to help, but these days beauty advice was hard to hear from her. Every time Emma saw Holly, she was surprised by her friend’s transformation. When the two girls first met—back in Miss Judy’s preschool—they had been exactly the same height, and they were line buddies for years because of that.
But then last year Holly had shot up five inches without gaining an ounce, it seemed. Now, with her long, thick, honey-brown wavy hair, blue eyes, clear skin, and pretty smile, she looked like the kind of girl who would be spotted on the street by an agent and become a supermodel overnight. If they hadn’t been best friends since the days of finger painting and macaroni necklaces, Emma would’ve probably been too intimidated to talk to Holly now.
Compared with Holly, Emma thought that she was boring-looking. Not gorgeous, not ugly, just in between. She did have bright green eyes, which she got from her dad, and what her grandmother called her “sweet smile,” but what set Emma apart were clothes. She understood their power. How they could transform a person. Even her. It didn’t matter how messy your ponytail looked, if you sported a flirty minidress or high suede boots.
By contrast, Holly’s look was cool and classic. Holly’s mom was one of those people who believed in buying very, very good things that would last a very, very long time. Holly’s outfit was typical Holly: dark jeans, soft chocolate-brown flats, a thin lemon-colored sweater, and a stretchy wrap T-shirt underneath. As always, she looked as if she had stepped out of the pages of a preppy catalog. As much as Emma begged her, Holly never took fashion risks.
“A bunch of us are going to hang out in the park after school.” Holly unwrapped a second piece of gum and popped it in her mouth. “Can you come with?”
Emma could guess exactly who “a bunch of us” were. Ivana Abbott and the “Ivana-Bees”—as in “I Wanna Be Ivana”— Lexie Blackburn, Kayla Levine, and Shannon O’Malley.
“Will Number One, Number Two, and Number Three be there, too?” she asked, hoping for a giggle from Holly. Until recently, she and Holly had referred to the Ivana-Bees by number because, even though they looked different, they acted exactly the same, laughing at everything Ivana said and doing whatever she wanted whenever she wanted.
Instead, Holly looked slightly offended. “Come on, Em. Don’t pretend you don’t know their names. They’re really nice, you know. Just give them a chance.”
“I still don’t know how you can be friends with Ivana,” Emma said. “She actually created a fan page for herself on Facebook, like she’s famous or something. I mean, give me a break.”
Holly laughed. “Oh, come on. It’s kind of cool. Like those reviews she does of movies and CDs and all those amazing restaurants she goes to with her parents? They’re hilarious!”
Emma used all her self-control to not roll her eyes. She couldn’t wait for the day when Ivana would become bored with Holly and move on—or even better, the other way around—so that it would be just Emma and Holly again. But that hadn’t happened yet. In fact, it looked like Holly was currently applying for the position of Number Four.
“Just come with us. What’s the big deal?” Holly persisted.
“I’m not sure if I can today,” Emma said as she opened her locker. Her tiny metal sanctuary. She had lined the inside of the door with a swatch of 1970s Marimekko fabric in a great green-and-white graphic print. Large square magnets covered in random fabric swatches held clippings from various fashion magazines. The framed picture of her style hero, the one and only Coco Chanel, hung in the center of her rotating fashion collage.
Seeing Coco’s face every day reminded Emma that there was a whole world outside these walls, a world filled with stunningly beautiful dresses made of luxurious fabrics, intricately detailed jackets, expertly tailored pants and skirts, and, of course, killer shoes and bags.
“Some guys are coming, including Jackson Creedon,” Holly singsonged, knowing that she had just majorly sweetened the deal.
Emma was no math genius, but even she could calculate that Jackson being there added much more to the equation than Ivana took away. Emma turned to face her friend. “Are you serious?”
“Would I lie about that? Hello! Have you met me?”
Emma had been crushing on Jackson Creedon ever since he had stepped foot into school three weeks earlier. Maybe it was his intense blue eyes or the way his brown wavy hair, which was on the long side, kept flopping into his face or the fact that he was taller than the other boys and lean—strong but not all thick-necked and muscle-y.
At the end of the first week, Holly had declared Emma officially infatuated. Emma could hardly deny it, even though she and Jackson had never exchanged a single word. Yet. But going to the park could change all that…maybe he would actually notice her.
Emma groaned. “Sorry, Holls, but I really can’t go. I just remembered that I promised my dad I’d work for him after school.”
Underneath her fringy bangs, Holly’s eyes narrowed, the way they always did when she was preparing to get her way. “You’re picking lace over Jackson Creedon? Can’t you just do it tomorrow?”
“I wish.” Emma sighed. “But it has to be today because they’re getting in a big shipment that needs to be unpacked, and there aren’t enough people to help out.”
Emma had started working for Noah—as Emma called her dad at Laceland, his wholesale lace business—during the summer. When school started, she had agreed to work in the afternoons to earn extra money for design materials without having to be stuck home baby-sitting her ten-year-old brother, William. But today, when her best friend and the hot new guy were hanging in the park, having an after-school job was a bummer.
“Plus,” Emma added, “I kind of need the money.”
“For what?” Holly demanded, gum snapping and cracking.
“I’m working on the most amazing dress. The fabric cost a lot.”
Holly nodded slowly, clearly unhappy that Emma was not going to the park.
“Besides,” Emma said, “doesn’t Lexie have a thing for Jackson? Even if I could go, she’d never let me get anywhere near him.”
Holly waved her hand. “Just because Lexie likes Jackson doesn’t mean he likes her back. He’s new to school. I bet if he got to know you, he’d like you much more than Lexie.”
Emma allowed a small smile. She appreciated Holly’s pep talk, but they both knew that a guy would have to be blind not to be drawn to Lexie’s exotic looks. Long dark-brown, perfectly smooth, straight hair; almond skin; dark-brown eyes with a perfect veil of mascara-enhanced lashes. It was a killer combination.
“Look, you’ll never know whether or not he’s going to like you unless you come.” Holly closed her locker. “AndI know how badly you want to know. So see you later, right?”
“Right,” Emma found herself agreeing. Holly always had that effect on her.
“I mean, could there be a better excuse to skip work than getting to hang out with Jackson?” Holly smiled.
“Can’t think of any,” Emma said, as they made their way together upstairs toward first period. “Besides, how bad could it be to miss one measly afternoon at Laceland?”
Later that afternoon, as Emma stepped into the elevator of the century-old building that was home to Laceland, her mind was thirty blocks south in Washington Square Park. As the day wore on, she had realized that as much as she would trade a pair of Alexander McQueen shoes—that is, if she magically owned a pair—for the chance to hang out with Jackson, she couldn’t break her promise to her dad. She was wired that way.
Now that she was here, it was blindingly obvious that she had made a crucial mistake. Jackson is probably talking to Lexie this very minute, Emma thought, a pit of regret growing in her stomach. Sometimes she wished there was a manual for all this boy stuff. Lexie and Ivana seemed to have it. For all she knew, they had written it themselves.
It was too late now.
The old elevator wobbled up past a handful of other textile importers, a zipper maker, an umbrella company, a hanger supplier, and a hosiery wholesaler, and then jerked to a stop on the eleventh floor. Emma walked down the windowless, dingy gray hallway and entered the reception area of Laceland.
The cavernous raw space with sixteen-foot ceilings had rows and rows of shelving, blocking out most of the light from the windows. Although the place was scrubbed once a week by a cleaning crew, a thin layer of dust blanketed Laceland from all the fabrics and trimmings that had passed through the warehouse over the past four decades, which was how long her dad’s family had owned the business. Emma always stifled the urge to sneeze whenever she arrived.
“Honey! You’re here. Hall-e-lujah!” Marjorie Kornbluth stood up from behind the Formica-covered reception desk, reaching for her purse.
“Excited to see me?” Emma teased.
“Am I ever! The phone hasn’t stopped ringing all day,” Marjorie complained in her scratchy, low rasp. “I need a real cup of coffee, not the black muck your father makes.” She brushed past Emma in a cloud of eau de coffee and hair spray—her signature scent—and hurried into the waiting elevator, leaving Emma to take over her post.
“Have fun!” Emma called after her.
Even though that was usually the extent of their conversations, Emma adored Marjorie. She was a Laceland institution. She might actually have been working there longer than Emma’s parents had been married. Marjorie was one of those ladies who seemed to be stuck in another era— when false eyelashes, sparkly shadow, and pink frosted lipstick were all the rage.
Every day, no matter what time of year, Marjorie wore only simple, black shift dresses. Her short bobbed hair was dyed platinum blond and had been that way forever. The only thing that had ever changed about her was the appearance of the tiniest lines on her pale, pale skin, increasing ever so noticeably over the years to hint at her true age, which Emma guessed to be close to seventy.
Emma flopped down on the chair, which was still warm from Marjorie’s body heat. She waited for the phone to start ringing, but not a single call came in. She was already bored. She could start her homework or…she could text Holly. Just to say hi. And to ask how things were going. Things like Jackson maybe.
“Why is nothing right? Why?” Isaac Muñoz leaned over the side counter of the desk, waving several sheets of paper. “I need the originals of these purchase orders. Nothing is matching up. Nothing! The Chantilly lace is in the Shetland lace box.
“Where’s Marjorie?” Isaac demanded when he finally noticed Emma, not Marjorie, sitting behind the desk. He was wearing tight jeans and an even tighter white tee.
“In search of decent-tasting caffeine,” Emma explained calmly. Emma was used to Isaac’s hysterics. The warehouse manager only operated at one speed: overdrive. Ever since her dad had laid off staff and Isaac had had to do two or three other jobs on top of his original duties, he had been even more tightly wound than usual. But Isaac somehow managed to keep Laceland chugging along— almost single-handedly—so everyone just sort of dealt with his freak-outs.
“Well, I need help. Now. You’re drafted. Let’s go, Rose Junior.”
Emma pressed a button to forward the office phone directly to voice mail and followed Isaac back toward the freight elevator.
“Isaac!” Emma gasped. “There must be a million boxes of lace here!”
“Unloading boxes is good for your health,” Isaac said. “Makes you strong.” He rested his portable speaker on the windowsill and pressed play. The deep voice of a guy rapping in both Spanish and English against a funky electronic back-beat filled the air.
With long, smooth movements, Isaac ran his X-Acto knife along the tape seams on the first box—lengthwise and then crosswise—and then moved on to the next one.
“Grab the packing lists, and check to make sure everything we ordered is inside,” he instructed.
Emma redid the elastic on her ponytail and pulled the sheet of paper from the box. “First up, amigo, organza lace.”
Two hours and twenty-five boxes of lace later, Emma wound her way toward the back of the warehouse and around some tall filing cabinets her dad had used to create a wall. She slipped into her favorite place. Her design studio.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t exactly as fancy as the word “studio” made it sound, but it was totally her space, and she loved it. A thrill ran up her spine every time she walked in. She turned on the huge industrial light above her high, extra-wide metal worktable, illuminating a half-dozen vintage cookie tins full of her tiny treasures—fabric flower pins, crushed velvet ribbons, metallic sequins, and buttons in every color of the rainbow in all different shapes she’d been collecting since she was a little girl—along with her beloved Faber Castell colored-pencil set and a small stack of new unlined sketch pads bound in colorful fabrics that she picked up all over the city, from quirky little shops in Chinatown to art-supply stores.
Her eight-foot-high inspiration wall towered above the other side of the table. It was a much bigger version of the inside of her locker at school. The wall was plastered with magazine clippings—outrageously out-there editorial fashion spreads; printouts of her favorite pieces from the fashion shows in New York, Paris, Milan, and London that she had seen online; swatches of fabrics; sketches of designs she planned to make; and on-the-go snapshots of street fashion.
Off to the side sat her most prized possession—an old Singer sewing machine. For Emma’s fourteenth birthday last spring, Grandma Grace, who had taught Emma everything she knew about sewing, surprised Emma by giving her granddaughter her beloved machine. It was still in its original console, which Emma loved because it meant the base of the sewing machine was flush with the table it sat in, giving her a flat surface to sew on. The Singer was so much better than the eBay bargain machine she’d been using for years. Emma promised to take good care of it and use it often.
She perched on the rickety wood stool and looked next to the table at the three dress forms she had been lucky enough to salvage on 37th Street over the past few months. It would’ve taken her years to save up to buy just one new dress form since they cost five hundred dollars or more.
Right now, all three were modeling dresses Emma had made with the juiciest accordion silk fabric she’d stumbled onto at a tiny Indian import shop on 36th Street. The colors had been so intense they practically screamed at her from the window, even though they were just draped in a heap over a folding chair. She bought bolts of deep, ripe raspberry; a rich pineapple yellow; and a tangy mango orange.
For the dresses, she had kept the lines simple with flirty, uneven skirts that dipped and rose in different places. A halter top for the raspberry, a racer-back tank for the orange one. And she’d done a simple boat-neck tank for the yellow. She’d made wonderful, whimsical sashes out of the silk fabric scraps, woven together and tied in a casual way that made them look like flower petals.
Emma stood and circled the dresses, eyeing them from various angles. She loved the way even the horrible fluorescent overhead light shimmered on the fabric. The halter and racer-back tops were great. But the boat neck felt a bit too tailored for the fabric. Emma picked up a tiny remnant of the orange accordion silk and twisted it into a flower. She held it around the neckline and then pinched the right shoulder of the dress, making it just a bit asymmetrical. She pinned the flower onto the gathered shoulder and stood back to examine the new line of it and the little spray of orange against the yellow.
She tried to imagine how the dress would look when worn by someone—someone on a date, someone celebrating a happy occasion, someone confident and worldly. How would the dress look moving? Dancing? Twirling?
When Emma finally hung a finished piece on the rolling rack against the back wall, it was no longer simply an item of clothing. It was the beginning of a story that would unfold when someone put it on for the very first time. A story that would change and grow each time the piece was worn. Oh the secrets, she thought, that clothes could tell!
“That’s potent,” a guy’s voice said from behind her.
Such a Charlie Calhoun word—potent. Emma turned and caught her friend eyeing her latest creation with almost as much attention as she gave her own work. “Do you really like it?”
“Do I ever say anything I don’t mean?” Charlie didn’t wait for an answer. “I like the shape and the material. Those colors look really cool together. I like how the yellow one is uneven. Makes it edgier.”
Emma couldn’t help but smile. She knew Charlie was always totally honest with her—for better or worse. He never played down his opinions, which she appreciated even when the Truth According to Charlie may not have been exactly what she wanted to hear or when she wanted to hear it.
At Amber Vigeant’s twelfth birthday party, Charlie had told Emma—right in front of cute Mike Sheehan—that Emma had something gross hanging out of her nose. Beyond mortifying. And yes, Mike’s laughter, as she ran to find a tissue, rang in her ears for weeks, but Emma reasoned it was better than spending the night talking to Mike with boogers on display.
Not all kids at Downtown Day shared her view about Charlie’s truth-telling. A lot of people thought Charlie was rude. But Holly and Emma liked that he was so bold. They usually found it funny.
“What are you doing here?” Emma asked, as if she didn’t already know.
“I don’t feel like going home yet.” Charlie was her only friend who ever visited her at Laceland. He actually liked it there, more than being at home with his kind of crazy mom who gave acting lessons in their tiny apartment when she wasn’t auditioning for parts in Broadway shows. Holly kept promising to come by but never did. Emma was beginning to realize a lace warehouse didn’t hold the same allure as shopping or seeing a movie with Ivana. Or being in the park with cute boys.
Charlie pushed his blue-tinted sunglasses up onto his white-blond hair. He showed up in a new pair of shades every day—each one cooler than the last. He reached for the bolt of blackwatch plaid fabric on the table. “Making kilts next?”
Emma shrugged. “Doubtful, but you never know. It was on the bargain rack at Allure Fabrics. You wouldn’t wear a kilt if I made you one, would you?”
Charlie wiggled his blond eyebrows. “I might. I do have awesome legs.”
She laughed. “I bet you do.”
“Emma.” Her dad peered around the file-cabinet blockade and nodded in Charlie’s direction. He was as used to Charlie being around the warehouse as Emma was. “Charlie, I need to pull Emma away. She’s got to earn some of that money I’m paying her.”
“You can’t be serious,” Emma protested. “I have definitely earned every penny today! I just spent two hours unpacking boxes with Isaac. And I have the lace lint all over me to prove it!”
“True,” her father agreed, leaning his elbow on top of one of the filing cabinets. It was kind of funny that her dad sold delicate lace—people were always shocked by that when they first met him. He was so tall and broad that he looked like he belonged on a football field.
“But, Cookie,” Noah said, using the nickname he had called Emma since before she could hold a pencil in her hand, “you’ll like this. Customers.” His green eyes twinkled.
“Really? People? We never get people,” Emma joked, though she had to admit her curiosity was definitely piqued. For the most part, no one needed to come to Laceland. Her dad had sales reps who traveled to manufacturing companies, selling them the lace they used to trim thousands of identical dresses and tablecloths and whatnots.
“I’ll hang here,” Charlie offered, his iPod headphones already in his ears.
Emma followed Noah down the hall. “Who’s the customer?”
“You’ll have to see for yourself. You’re in for quite a surprise.”