Bead-Dazzled (15 page)

Emma wished she could spend her time on her Allegra designs. But she’d vowed, no matter how tempting when she was bored in class or had extra time in study hall, to keep Allegra far away from the snooping eyes at school.

“Seriously, Kayla?” Lexie dramatically crumbled the Sphinx sketch into a ball. “I could draw a better lion with my toes.”

“Why don’t you?”

They all stared at Marco, the boy more likely to be diagnosed with lead poisoning than to ever stand up to Queen Lexie. Lexie’s lips puckered in surprise. Clayton grunted his astonishment.

Silently, Emma cheered, although she usually ran from conflict. A raised voice caused her to bury her head in the safety of her sketchbook and the calm of beautiful clothes. But she appreciated his bravery.

Or stupidity.

“For your information,” Lexie pointed her index finger at Marco, “I’m doing everything here. I wrote the preliminary outline. I sketched the thumbnails for the presentation. All I’m asking is that you guys do decent, in-depth research, write an interesting report, and make this Sphinx thing. But if you keep handing me garbage—”

“Why do you get to decide what’s good?” Clayton asked.

Lexie had a long explanation, but Emma knew the short answer. She was Lexie Blackburn, best friend of Ivana Abbott. To her that was reason enough. It was enough for most of Downtown Day, too.

I hate group projects, Emma thought. Teachers always said they were good practice for the “real world.” Emma couldn’t imagine a real world situation where she’d be building a life-size Sphinx. And if she ever had to, she’d do it all by herself.

* * *

Emma hoisted her messenger bag, which she’d decorated with Klimt-like swirls from metallic fabric markers, over her shoulder and pulled open the heavy wooden door to the Triumph Theater.

With its threadbare carpet, dusty chandelier with several bulbs missing, and the poster offering deep-discounts taped onto the ticket window, the off-Broadway theater’s days of triumph were long gone. Charlie had been able to secure it for free from a friend of his mom’s. They had one hour on a Wednesday afternoon to check out models.

Free is good, Emma reminded herself, ignoring the smell of bleach that tried to cover the clinging odor of mold.

Her eyes widened when she opened the tarnished-brass door leading into the theater itself. Although neglected for decades, the theater hadn’t lost its splendor. Ornate gold-carved moldings surrounded the large stage. A heavy velvet curtain, once crimson now faded to a dull rose, was secured by braided gold cord. The ceiling was painted with angels and fluffy clouds against a pale blue sky.

Emma squinted up at the largest angel. Her white-feather wings extended in majestic flight. Pulling out her sketchbook, Emma designed a short feathered cape. A satin bow secured it around the neck. She imagined it paired with a simple tee and leather shorts.

“Em! Clock’s ticking!” Charlie called from down by the stage. He typed furiously on his laptop, inputting information. Emma took in the line of extremely tall girls, waiting for Charlie. Waiting for her, too. Francesca chatted with each would-be model, as if she were hosting a party. Her deep-throated laugh echoed in the empty theater.

This is happening, Emma realized. I’m having go-sees with models for a society fashion show featuring my clothes. How amazing!

She hurried down the aisle and sat next to Charlie.

“This is Natalia.” Charlie nodded toward a girl with extremely pale skin and tendrils of red ringlets. “She’s really into cooking, no,”—he glanced at his screen—“baking. She makes a mean raspberry tart. She’s from Poland, and she likes movies where people sing. Oh, she’s never modeled, but she’s totally up for it.”

“Hi,” Emma said to Natalia, who greeted her back. Then she looked at Charlie’s screen. “Where are the numbers?” she asked.

“Numbers?”

“Measurements,” Emma said. “Allegra needs body measurements.” Emma had to remember to act as if she were one of Allegra’s helpers. No one could know that she was really running this show. “Charlie, it’s about how the clothes fit. We’re not interviewing for the Miss America pageant.”

“I know that,” Charlie bristled. But judging from the notes he’d taken on the six girls, he hadn’t. He assembled a list of hobbies, nationalities, and odd quirks.

Emma reached into her bag and unrolled out a long tape measure. “I’m going to take some numbers,” she announced to the floor. She had trouble looking up at the girls’ faces. Each was more impossibly beautiful and confident than the next. “I need chest, waist, hip, thighs, arm length, and inseam.”

“Inseam?” Charlie asked.

“The length of the inside of her leg. If I sew a pair of pants and the inseam number is off, the crotch will sag or be too high. Both disasters.”

“Too much info.” Charlie said, shirking back. “I’m dealing with the big picture here.”

“Details count,” Emma said. Crawling in front of each girl, she wrapped the tape measure around their bodies and called out the numbers to Charlie.

While every girl was tall—and European, thanks to Francesca—their measurements were all over the place. Micheline had a long torso and short legs. Sylvia had narrow hips and a thick waist, while Carmen had a tiny waist and large hips. Emilia was lanky with knobby knees and elbows and huge breasts that overwhelmed her thin frame.

“Their numbers are all wrong,” Emma whispered to Francesca and Charlie as they huddled away from the would-be models.

“Wrong how? Charlie demanded. “What can be wrong? They all look awesome to me. I’m especially loving that fierce, choppy hair on Micheline.”

“They are awesome,” Emma agreed, noting Emilia’s high cheekbones and Sylvia’s waist-length dark hair. “But none of them have the same measurements as The Girls.”

“You have other girls?” Francesca asked.

“No, I have dress forms. Three of them. I call them The Girls,” Emma explained. “I found them orphaned on the street. Clothing companies and designers use dress forms that are made to the exact measurements of their fit models. My Girls each have certain measurements that I’ve always worked off of to pattern my clothes.”

“So switch it up. Improvise with other measurements,” Charlie said as if it were as simple as substituting honey for sugar in a recipe.

“It’s not so easy,” Emma said. She could alter the garment after it had been fitted to one of The Girls. She’d done that several times for Holly, who was close to Girl B’s measurements. But sewing and fitting without one of The Girls waiting there to try on the outfit at every stage was a big challenge. A risky challenge.

“Francesca, darling!” called Sylvie. “Where is this designer? Why must we wait with children? My boss at the foundation, she thinks I’m at a late lunch.”

“Children,” Charlie muttered, crossing his arms.

“
Si
.” Carmen checked her phone. “I have an art history class uptown in twenty minutes.”

“
Mi
dio
. Ms. Biscotti is trapped at a meeting with a very important buyer. You understand, no? She is busy. Terribly so. She sent interns to record information and now…” Francesca hesitated.

“We need to film them walking,” Emma filled in.

“Walking?” Francesca knitted her thick brows then raised them in recognition. “
Si
,
si
. Model walk. All line up.” She gestured toward the empty sliver of stage in front of the curtain. “Walk one way and then back.”

“Heels,” Emma whispered to Francesca. She wished these women didn’t intimidate her so much. She could never imagine herself looking so sophisticated and cool.

“Everyone, she has heels,
si?
” Francesca asked. “Walk in heels, please?”

The six girls climbed onto the stage and changed into heels. Purple python pumps. Strappy silver stilettos. Open-toe suede stacked heels. Pointy satin sling-backs. Each pair of shoes was as different as the girl wearing them.

Emma and Charlie settled in the front row, as Francesca lined up the wanna-be models. Charlie readied his phone to video. Each girl strutted across the stage. Some eyed the camera, others stared into the distance. Some smiled, some pouted. Some posed before pivoting, some never stopped moving. Some walked fast. Some walked slowly.

Emma chewed on her bottom lip as she watched. She had no idea how to tell who was walking or pivoting better. There had to be some secret formula, but everything she knew about modeling she’d learned from Tyra Banks on
America’s Next Top Model
.

She tried to imagine each girl in one of the many designs in her sketchbook. But nothing came to mind. Total blankness.

Francesca thanked her friends for coming and promised that Allegra’s office would get back soon with a decision. Emma watched them file out of theater, off to art galleries, jobs in sleek offices, or classes in sophisticated subjects. She was going home to draw polygons for Geometry and eat lasagna with her mom and little brother. Around them, she felt young and silly. They’d been perfectly nice to her, but that didn’t erase her uneasiness.

“Which girls you will choose?” Francesca asked.

“I did a chart”—Charlie pointed to his screen—“and I assigned points for different things and then I averaged their scores.”

“The winners?” Francesca leaned in for a better look. “Who wins?”

The word “winner” sent a strange jolt up Emma’s spine, and she turned on Charlie. “Who are you to judge them?”

“What do you mean? What’s wrong with my system?”

“Until last week, you never saw a fashion show. In fact, you’ve never seen a live one, only a bunch on video,” Emma reminded him. “What gives you the ability to judge those women?”

“Calm down. You want to be the one to choose?”

“No, I don’t want to choose. I know nothing about choosing models. None of us do.” She was going the opposite route from calm. Her heart quickened as she spoke.

“So what’s your big plan? We pick names out of some fancy hat you design?”

“No.” Emma tried to control her rising emotions. She turned to Francesca. “You have beautiful friends. Any one of them would be a fabulous model. But I don’t want any of them.”

“
Nessuno?
Nobody?” Francesca asked, unsure.

“Are you crazy?” Charlie stood and closed his laptop. “I just put together this go-see in a theater I got for free, so you could have models for free and you don’t want any of them?”

“What is wrong? They have problems?” Francesca asked.

“Nothing is wrong with them,” Emma tried to explain. “It’s me. I don’t have enough time to experiment with their measurements. As it is, I haven’t started sewing.”

“Excuses,” Charlie accused. He set off up the aisle. “If you haven’t made anything, then now is the perfect time to pick models.”

“Wait!” Emma raced after him and Francesca followed. “It’s not just that.”

“Admit it. You’re running scared on me.” He raised his arm to hail a taxi.

“I’m not doing anything to you,” Emma said, as a yellow cab pulled to the curb and three of them slid onto the stiff leather back seat. She seethed. Charlie had a way of making every situation about him.

Charlie gave the address of Laceland to the driver then turned to Emma. “Okay. I’m listening. Explain why none of those tall, thin, beautiful girls work.”