Material Girls (2 page)

I swallowed and stepped out of the elevator. After working under Julia for nearly two years, I knew that to “walk and talk” was usually not a good sign. And to make matters worse, Julia was in four-inch platform heels today. The higher the heels, the slower the walk.

I prayed my stovepipes looked okay with the tunic.

“You've always delivered for us, Marla,” she began, as she strode deliberately along the corridor to the garment-judging room. “You spent, what, only six months as a sifter before you were promoted to selector? Highly unusual, but Torro-LeBlanc believed in your talent.”

It was actually five months, but I didn't correct her.

“And I'll never forget that frayed shawl you convinced the court to approve for the bohemian trend in the late fall line,” Julia continued. “It remained a hot item for almost three months. You had an
eye
for the hot sellers.”

I knew what shawl she was talking about. It had been so soft, its colors warm and rich like blurred chalk in the rain. I had taken a chance on it, and I'd been right. I didn't have the heart to throw mine away when its trendiness expired. I could see it in my head, balled up in the back of my closet at home. Karen didn't even know it was there.

“But for some time I've been wondering about your eye,” Julia said. “What's happening with you? Garment lengths, sweater cuts, accessories . . . these days, the court goes one way and you go the other. I'm noticing a lot of dissenting opinions. Or you're the only one sticking your neck out for something.”

Was I? Last week, I had fought for a maroon opera cloak embellished with gold embroidery. The rest of the court had called it feeble and overruled my defense, but I had loved its romantic feel. The week before that, I'd been alone in defending a hemp bag that earned gagging noises from two other judges, including the almighty Henry. Okay, that one I might have been wrong about.

Sure enough, Julia confirmed my suspicions. “That cloak you voted to approve the other day. Let's be honest—it was absolutely hideous!”

I knew she wanted me to agree with her. “I guess you're right,” I said slowly. “I thought it would align with the musketeer trend, though.” The cloak came into sharper focus in my head. I remembered thinking it was charming, thinking the court had made a huge mistake not approving it. Was I really the one mistaken?

Julia looked at me for a moment and shook her head. “
I
don't want to stop believing in you,” she said, turning to face me as we reached the garment–judging room door. “I have always told the sixth floor you remind me of a young
me
, during my days on the Superior Court.” Her expression grew wistful, as it always did when she spoke of the past. “We made frosted eyeglasses the midwinter must-have before any other design house. It was a golden time.” I resisted rolling my eyes. We heard about the eyeglasses approximately once a season.

“
I
have been the one convincing management that they should still believe in you too,” Julia went on. “But you should know, Marla, that there are those who think you've peaked. After all, you're almost seventeen. There has been talk of moving you down to the basement . . .”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. “But I'm only—I'm not—that's not fair!” I stammered. I instantly thought of Winnie. “Winnie Summers was a judge until she was nineteen!”

“Winnie was an exception.” Julia sighed. “You knew you wouldn't be on the court forever.”

“But the basement? I thought I'd be an event planner or a shoot consultant when I got older. Or a catalog editor.” I shuffled through Torro stats in my head. “Holcomb Flax became an editor. Shelley Mardirossian did runway prep.”

That was the deal. Judges didn't end up in the basement. Especially judges like me. I remembered going down there on my first day of work, when my floor director gave the new sifters a tour. Hordes of drafters sat cramped together around tables in the dim light, sketching design after design, often going months without seeing one of their ideas endorsed for production. Most dressed badly because they worked on commission and couldn't afford to keep up with trends—but worse still, they were all so pathetically
old.

Tears brimmed in my eyes, and I blinked them back. “Please, Julia. You can't do this to me. Torro is my life,” I said.

Julia's voice grew silkier. “Now, honey, I know that you'll show them all. Get in there and remind everyone why you're on the fifth floor.” She smiled, revealing a mouthful of perfectly even, polished white teeth. “I'm glad we had this talk.”

I turned the knob and entered the brightly lit garment-judging room, followed by Julia. I was the last judge to arrive, and I could feel the others looking at the two of us curiously. As I sidled to my seat along the semicircular oak bench, I wondered if they knew what Julia had spoken to me about. Gossip traveled fast at Torro-LeBlanc.

My hands trembling, I removed my Tabula from my briefcase, set it on the bench, and turned it on. I opened a fresh template with the heading
Early Spring Garment Review: Notes by Judge Marla Klein
.
I glanced to my left where Sabrina sat. She mouthed the words
Nice pants
and gave me a small smile. Maybe I was overreacting.

“Very well, judges, let's begin,” Julia announced. “Our first piece of the day is a knee-length double-breasted trench coat by drafter Kevin Chen.”

As soon as the drafter wheeled his dress form into the judging room, I knew this garment would never be approved. No one was wearing knee-length coats these days, and gabardine hadn't been in for several seasons. Looking around at everyone's expressions of disgust, I could tell they all agreed. The coat itself wasn't bad-looking, but I wondered how it had made it all the way to the fifth floor.

Kevin stood next to the dummy, rubbing his hands together. “Hello, everyone,” he began. “It's great to see you again. It's been a while.” I felt Julia's eyes on me and didn't dare smile at him. He plunged on. “So here I have a piece that could compete with the Rudolfo armed-forces collection. I was going for sort of a classic officer thing.” He waved his arms at us. “Imagine the front lines of battle, dirty-faced troops all around. An imposing figure cuts through the mist wearing . . . this.” He pulled on the coat's sleeve. “It's got that commanding feel, that mystique. Everyone's going to want one.”

I cringed. His pitch was sounding feebler by the minute.

“I know that the trench hasn't been in for two seasons,” Kevin continued, “but I thought that if Torro-LeBlanc brought it back before the other houses, we'd have a competitive edge. Plus, gabardine is water-resistant. Perfect for spring!”

Listening to Kevin, I realized how his design had made it upstairs. The sifters and selectors had been afraid that if they let the coat go and trenches came back this season, they'd be in trouble.

On the far left of the semicircle of judges, Olivia spoke first. Even though she was a recent appointment to the fifth floor, she wasn't shy about expressing her opinions. “I don't think there's
any
chance of trench coats coming back
any
time soon,” she said. “I don't know what you were thinking. And the cut, and the buttons—it's all wrong.”

“I completely agree,” said Henry. He was one of the two boys on the court and the only judge who predated me. “No one is buying knee-length anything these days. How can you look at that feeble mess and expect it would sell? I'd laugh if I saw someone wearing it.”

“I think that's enough,” Julia broke in. “Would any of the judges care to defend Kevin's design?”

No one spoke.

“Thank you, Kevin. Better luck next time,” Julia clucked as she ushered the drafter outside. I felt bad for him, but he probably knew the rejection was coming. “Judges, don't forget to enter your formal notes,” Julia instructed.

I typed:
Trench coat: Classic design but drafter completely misread current trends.
No one could take issue with that, could they?

The next drafter to enter was a woman named Tess Peterson. Tess was the one who had spawned the bear-fur trend with a fur purse she had designed. I saw her smile at Julia's sweater as she walked to the center of the room carrying her prototype.

“Hi again, everyone,” Tess said, her voice betraying the nerves that simmered beneath her confident smile. “As you all know, I love working with fur, and I've been thinking about boots for this spring. Last season, the prime rage was the knee-high flat boot covered in unworsted lamb's wool. So for
this
season, I'd like to propose something that builds on that style. Here is a full-coverage high-heeled boot done in . . .” She paused for effect. “Alpaca fur!”

I heard immediate murmurs of approval from some of the judges. Tess held up the boot and turned it around slowly for us to see. She flexed it at the knee joint to demonstrate the smoothness of the bending mechanism.

Looking around at the grins of admiration, I wondered what the others could possibly be thinking. Alpaca boots for early spring? Seriously?

Utterly ridiculous,
I typed.
Are we trying to look like yeti? And what are the things going to smell like when it rains?

But I hesitated to speak. I listened to the judges flood Tess with praise for her design. Could Julia be right? Was I losing my touch? I sat in silence, my fingers tugging and twisting my tunic hem, as the boot was officially approved for production. My right hand stabbed at my Tabula screen to delete my comment. I retyped:
Alpaca boots: Build well on late-winter trend.

I took a sip of the latte dregs and tried to clear my head. I had been
chosen
to be on the fifth floor from all the other Taps on the Junior Courts. I
deserved
to be there. Didn't I? I turned to Sabrina. “I really hope those hit big this season, Brie,” I said, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

Sabrina, who was beaming over the boot, launched into a monologue about the different Torro-LeBlanc miniskirts that would coordinate perfectly. She ticked them off on her fingers. Feeling queasy, I forced myself to nod in agreement.

Tess thanked us profusely and left.

Fortunately, for the rest of the day I found myself in agreement with the other judges on the looks that passed before the court. We spent our final hour sorting the approved garments into various lines and noting where there were holes so we could tell the sifters and selectors what to keep an eye out for.

After work, I got off at my stop but didn't go home immediately. I decided to take a walk in the park near my apartment. I went there whenever work got crazy—it helped clear my head. I loved this park. It was filled with palm and eucalyptus trees. Mothers pushed their kids on the swings, as Karen had pushed me when I was little.

I put down my briefcase and took a seat on a swing. The breeze, sweetened by the honeyed scent of the flowers, refreshed me. As I began to pump forward and backward, the Unum in my pocket buzzed. It was a message from Braxton, but I tucked it away without responding. I could call him later.

I thought about my choice. I did have a choice, after all. Going forward, I could wait for someone else on the court to speak first. I knew this would be what my mother would tell me to do. Once it was clear which way the scales were tipping on any given garment, I could join the majority. Or I could keep arguing for the pieces I felt were special and risk losing my seat. I hadn't gotten as far as I had at Torro-LeBlanc by keeping my opinions to myself. I loved fashion. Maybe my judgment was off now and then, but my bosses had always told me I had good instincts for choosing things people would want to wear.

But maybe it was time to shut up for a while.

Next to me, a little girl squealed as her mother pushed her higher and higher. She looked so carefree it made me feel heavy.

“Your clothes are lovely,” the mother said to me as I hopped off the swing. “Do you work for one of the Big Five?”

“Torro-LeBlanc,” I answered. Normally I was so proud of the fact, but today I didn't elaborate. I gathered my briefcase, returned home, and tossed quick hellos at my mother, who was scrubbing mussels in the kitchen, and at my father, who was stretched out on the couch, playing a video game on his Tabula. After locking the door to my room, I dug my expired shawl out of the back of my closet and rubbed the soft knit between my fingers. I had convinced a reluctant court to approve it once, and it had stayed trendy for ten weeks. No matter what Julia said, I
did
have an eye for fashion.

“Hold on, girls,” yelled Fatima.
Ivy turned to see her publicist sink into a cushioned bench near the Torro-LeBlanc store's entrance and cross her legs. “Prime shoot. I'm sure they got some good ones. I'll check Maven Girl and the other hotspots in a bit.” She began scrolling across the screen of her Unum. “Jarvis sent me your schedule for the next couple of weeks. Here we go. Listen up!” she called out, pausing to confirm that everyone was paying attention. Ivy herself was curious. Except for major events like her tour, she never had more than a vague sense of what was coming. “There's the album-release party,” began Fatima, “three promo gigs
,
the
Entertainment Daily
Correspondents' Dinner, the Belladonna runway show, and four club nights, one ending in a disorderly-conduct arrest.”

“Again?” groaned Ivy.

“Sorry, girl, gotta keep you ‘Wilde,'” said Fatima with a wink. “Oh, and you'll need looks for a few more shopping photo ops, too.” She smiled and tipped her black military cap at the girls. “So go nuts.”

“Don't worry,” said Madison. “I've already mentally bought half the store.” The other nymphs grinned in agreement.

As usual, Ivy went first, pointing to the clothing she wanted to try on: “That top with the plastic stripy things. Those jeans in purple.” Attendants grabbed her requests and stacked them over their arms. The personal shoppers held out other garments for her to consider. Her bleariness from the early morning vanished. To shop like this, to be able to choose whatever she wanted, was definitely one of the best parts of being Ivy Wilde. She held a beige safari shirtdress in front of her body and turned to her entourage for input. Hilarie gave her a nod. Ivy was grateful that her nymphs were usually pretty honest. They would tell her when they thought a color or a cut was unflattering but would never try to talk her out of something she absolutely loved. She'd heard stories about other nymphs sabotaging their celebrities by giving them bad advice in order to outshine them during a shoot.