Material Girls (17 page)

“What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to show you that I haven't changed.”

He studied her. “All right,” he said. He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Well, take care of yourself, I guess.”

“Yeah, you too,” she said. “Stay young.”

“Oh, and Eva?” he said quickly. “No matter what they tell you . . . you always have a choice.”

She listened to his footsteps grow fainter as he walked away.

The next morning,
around our basement table, Felix, Dido, and I shared the events at the Torro-LeBlanc runway show with Randall and Kevin. Everyone had a long face by the time we were through.

“Poor Vivienne,” said Randall.

“It was horrible. Awful,” said Dido, tearing up. “I tried to call her last night but she didn't pick up.”

“I got a message from her,” said Felix. “She's going to be fine. She misses us, but she's going on a little vacation to clear her head, so she doesn't want any contact.”

Felix wasn't exactly telling the whole truth. Vivienne had sent her message to Kevin and me too. Her words had been mysterious.
Going underground for a while. Don't call. I'm fine. More than one way to skin a cat. F&K, share makeover with M soon. M, keep working on turning court. I'm counting on you guys. Will be in touch.

What did she mean she was “going underground”? I thought of her in a tunnel with dirt and slugs—okay, I knew she didn't mean it literally, but I had trouble picturing where else she might be.

And a
makeover?
I wondered what that was about. I hadn't yet had the chance to ask Felix or Kevin.

“And instead of getting the boot, Marla comes out of the thing with a commission,” Felix added.

Yesterday, standing outside the theater after the runway show, I'd told Felix and Dido about the encounter with Ivy Wilde. I'd also tried to give Felix Ivy's number, but he'd refused to enter it into his Unum. He claimed he had no interest in calling her. I wasn't sure I believed him. I asked him why not, but he said only that they hadn't known each other very well.

“Ivy acted like you guys did,” Dido countered. I was glad I didn't have to say it. I watched his reaction carefully.

“She's an idiot,” Felix told us. “A pawn. Look at her.”

But . . . she wasn't an idiot. Or she hadn't been when I'd talked to her. I tried to tell him how fed up she was with being a pawn. It was the whole reason she wanted a new look. But before I'd finished, a tall CSS agent came out of the building to retrieve Felix, claiming he was needed back at the show for paperwork.

“Just him?” Dido had asked. I had wondered too—it seemed weird that the two of us weren't called back. Dido and I had taken the train home together, and Felix hadn't mentioned anything about it at work this morning.

I shook away my questions and returned to the subject of Ivy Wilde's outfit. “I was thinking that I could ask Vaughn to help with construction—the patternmaker who did my leopard dress,” I whispered to the others. “Do you think he'd make the garment with me? Maybe we could stay late—I don't really see how I can get away with doing it during the day.”

Kevin nodded. “He's great. I bet he'd do it, too. We've worked together a bunch—let me ask him.” He grabbed a blank sheet of paper from the table's center. “Do you want me to do some dress sketches, Marla? I've got some ideas.”

“I want to work on it too,” said Dido.

I hesitated. My briefcase was full of sketches. I had a pretty good idea of how I would turn Ivy Wilde from a sex kitten into a symbol of environmental awareness. It was some of the best work I'd done—and the most fun.

On my walk home from the train station yesterday, I'd stopped to visit the park near my apartment. It was dusk; the faded ink splotches on my hands looked like shadows. In addition to the regular winter plants, some red bougainvillea vines were just starting to bloom. As my shoes pressed into the soft grass, I thought about how the park was here thanks to the city's preservation efforts. People who cared about the environment had given me a place to play as a little girl. It mattered.

I'd stuffed fallen leaves and petals into my handbag and tacked them all over my bedroom wall at home for inspiration. Having locked the door in case Karen decided to come snooping when she got back from her cooking club, I pulled my expired shawl out of the closet once again. I wrapped it around my shoulders and began sketching.

Randall leaned over the drafting table. “Ivy Wilde asked
Marla
to do it. Marla, the look should be yours. We'll be your sounding board”—he smiled—“your own Superior Court, if you will. But too many cooks spoil the soup. Make it your own sketch, your own design.” I could have hugged him. The guy was old, but he was the best kind of fossil. He totally got it.

Kevin agreed with only a touch of his usual sourness. Dido looked disappointed, but she gave me a nod.

A few minutes before the workday ended, Kevin and I left to find Vaughn. On the way to the elevator, Kevin dropped a stack of paper in the green recycling bin. I stooped and picked up the top sheet. “What is this?”

He looked at what I was holding and grabbed it out of my hands. I grabbed it back and stared at it. “Kevin—this is incredible.”

It was a picture of a girl underwater. Back arched, she was hurling a trident upward into two eels, while a giant octopus nipped at her ankles. The style was sort of cartoonish, but it didn't look silly. It looked graphic and powerful.

“Is that . . . Junie Woo?”

Kevin looked as if he'd been caught. “I was just thinking about her new flick. Designing a poster. I do them sometimes when I'm bored. Don't tell Winnie.”

“You need to send this to Denominator.” I thought for a second about sending it to Braxton. I hadn't heard a word from him since we'd broken up. The poster would be a nice excuse to check in, to show him how well I was doing, to maybe drop the news that I was now designing for Ivy Wilde . . . I hated myself for even having the thought. No. I didn't want to reach out to him now, or ever.

Kevin smiled sheepishly. He took the paper from me and laid it in the bin face-down. “Like Denominator would take art from a Torro drafter. It's okay. I just do them for myself.”

The poster was far better than any garment sketch I'd seen him do recently. “At least don't throw it away . . .”

“I've got a full-color one I'm working on at home,” he said, steering me into the elevator. “Come on.”

In Garment Construction, we found Vaughn at a sewing machine, finishing a hem. Around him, patternmakers were packing up for the day. Trying to speak as quietly as I could, I shared with him what Ivy had asked me to do.

At first, Vaughn was reluctant. “I could lose my job,” he said, while his machine clacked.

“Vivienne's been let go,” Kevin said, “but she's not giving up on her idea. We think she's going to start recruiting. If this goes well, we'll have a connection to Ivy Wilde. That kind of star power ought to help us.”

I was surprised. Vaughn apparently knew as much about Vivienne's subversive ideas as I did—if not more. He didn't exactly strike me as the rebellious type.

Vaughn paused for a long time, so long that I started to wonder if he was ignoring us. “Okay,” he said at last. “But if it doesn't go well, I had nothing to do with it. Even if it does, don't use my name. Clear?”

I nodded eagerly, and we made plans to meet the following afternoon at five thirty.

The next day, I ran my final sketches by the drafters and, with their feedback, settled on the best idea. At 5:25, I grabbed my empty Sugarwater bottle from lunch and took the elevator to the mostly deserted second floor.

Together, Vaughn and I rummaged in the scraps bin and pulled out discarded fabric pieces in green and brown. When we heaped them in a pile on the table, I cringed. The whole thing looked too much like mud. We added some scraps of bright red and shimmering gold and silver. The effect was better. It had texture and depth now, like a mermaid's tail. Vaughn pinned a small circle of scraps on the dress form, tacking them to a lining cut in the pattern of a floor-length flowing skirt. We both agreed the randomness worked.

I discussed my vision for the lapel pin with Vaughn.

“That's original,” he said. “Melted plastic.” He turned the Sugarwater bottle around in his hand. “You know, I'm going to ask another patternmaker for help on it tomorrow. She's into green clothing design, and she's a pro at accessories. I won't tell her what it's for.”

He strode toward an alcove in the right corner. “I'd better get a few more bottles, though, in case this one dies in the kiln. We've got some in the lounge,” he called over his shoulder. I thought of the drafters' basement coffee bar. A whole lounge—the patternmakers were lucky.

When he returned, we cut the bottles into pieces the size of potato chips. Then we talked about the top. He said we could create the kind of fabric I was describing, though we would have to use the paper-processing plant a few blocks away. We agreed to meet there tomorrow after work. He would bring the pressed flowers. I would bring the newsprint.

That evening, after a few wrong turns, Karen and I finally located the
La Reina Times
headquarters. It was on the outskirts of town, near scrabbly desert hills. It had taken telling Karen that Ivy Wilde had commissioned an outfit from me for her to stop pestering me to quit Torro-LeBlanc. She even baked a sour cream coffee cake to celebrate. “This is your chance to get back on top, you know,” she'd declared, almost giggling as she swept around the kitchen, measuring and mixing. “I
knew
this drafting business couldn't last.” As there was a bowl of batter to snack on, I decided not to argue.

We entered the newspaper office to inquire about purchasing back issues. The
Times
was the one place in the city that still put out a print edition and kept fifty years of archives in an attached warehouse. The receptionist greeted us with a friendly smile.

To my irritation, my mother spoke first. “My daughter works for Torro-LeBlanc,” she announced. “She needs some back issues from your archives. We can't go into details, but she's here on official design business.”

Official design business. How feeble did that sound? I thought back to a time when my mother always said things like this to strangers—and how much I used to love it. “Could we visit the warehouse, please?” I asked.

The receptionist's face lit up. “Torro-LeBlanc? Oh my gosh, they were my first choice in the Tap. I didn't make it—obviously. I'm stuck here instead.” She laughed nervously. “I
love
their clothes. Is it just amazing to work there?” She reached into her purse, which was hanging on the back of her chair, and withdrew a pair of black-feathered gloves. I recognized them as the same ones Olivia had been wearing in the elevator the day I'd started in the basement. “I saved up and bought these gloves,” the receptionist said. “They tickle my fingers when I type, so I don't wear them much here, but I love the way they look.” She pulled one on and modeled her hand for Karen and me. “Did you make them?”

I hesitated. “Not exactly. I did approve them for production, though.”

“Oh my gosh, are you on one of the
courts?
”

I was saved from having to answer when a stern-looking man with glasses approached the reception desk. “What's going on here, Teri?” he asked.

“This girl is a Tap from Torro-LeBlanc, and she needs back issues for official business,” the receptionist responded breathlessly.

The sternness didn't leave the man's face, but his tone became respectful. He nodded to me. “Excuse me. As you wish. Teri will be happy to show you the way.”

The receptionist slipped on the second glove, then led us through the newsroom. Each reporter sat at a workstation with a mess of papers piled around a Tabula screen. Some dictated into microphones. Others typed into keypads. I saw a crumpled ball of paper sail through the air. The Adequate who tossed it and his ducking target both laughed.

“Poor things,” Karen whispered.

I frowned. The Adequates seemed busy, maybe, but focused and happy. Everybody always talked about how Taps led glamorous lives in the creative industries and the Adequates were stuck doing dull work. I wasn't friends with any Adequates now, and from all accounts they were the first to admit how miserable they were. These people, though, didn't seem unhappy to me.

“Do you like working here?” I asked the receptionist quietly.

“Oh no,” she said. “I mean, the hours are good and the people are pretty nice.” She lowered her voice. “My boss can be a little tough, but he also gave me a couple extra vacation days this year.” Her face twisted into a sad smirk. “But whatever. I work for the
Times.
I would
kill
to do what you do.”

“Of course you would,” Karen interjected.

I bit my lip. “Torro can be a tough place to work, too.” My mother flashed me a look.

Once we reached the warehouse, the receptionist introduced us to the archivist, a stooped, white-haired man who looked nearly a hundred years old. A fossil of fossils. His name was Basil. He blinked his watery eyes at us in surprise and coughed. I wondered how much of the dust covering the shelves of newspapers nestled itself in his throat each day.

“How can I be of assistance?” Basil asked, as the receptionist excused herself.

I pulled out my Unum. “I have the dates of some issues I'd like to locate. Basically, I'm looking for headlines of environmental news. Like the day we enacted”—I read off my screen—“the climate-change bill, single-stream recycling in La Reina, the mass production of electric cars, stuff like that.”

“Delightful!” Basil rubbed his hands together. “Are you a science student?”