Page 129 of Wanting What's Wrong

Volume Four

STEP-BALLER

One

MIna

Finding theexactcolor of Malachite green in a hidden seam zipper was like riding that perfect wave.

That was amiraclein the little fabric store here in Harbor Shores. When I stepped out into the summer sunshine, with the sound of the seagulls overhead and the scent of the lake breeze in the air, all was right with the world.

Then I skipped right into Cindy Hilton and her entourage.

Buzz. Killed. My perfect mood evaporates like a drop of water on a scorching pan.

Why the zipper matters, I’m not sure, since there’s no way I can get to New York for the design competition next week. But apparently I’m functioning under the delusion there’s some magic solution that will drop out of thin air and make my dreams come true.

Since I was five, I’ve been making clothes. It started with a simple, tied together terrycloth robe made from an oldwashcloth for my teddy bear Theo. By the time I was seven, I was whipping together some high-end runway level creations for my Barbies. The creative obsession rooted deep and I’ve been lost in fantasies of New York Fashion Week ever since.

My personal style is a far cry from my design aesthetic. I’m more preppy Tomboy with a splash of Minnie Mouse, but it’s how I’m comfortable and every girl deserves a little comfort wherever she can find it.

Creating beautiful clothes has been my dream since those first ratty robes, so when I heard about this contest for up and coming, 18-21 year olds, put on by Marie Claire magazine I couldn’t help myself. With the help of my best friend at Chatsbury, Rosaria Sweeting, whose father is a general or something in the Bahamian military making her practicallyroyalty. She helped me put together a mini collection, gave me the courage for the video entry showing my clothes and my personality, but I never, ever thought I’d earn a spot.

Except,I did.

Now, I have no way to get to the contest and no way my mom or Allen would let me go anyway. They have me on a fast track to being a corporate attorney. I’m going to pre-law at University of Michigan,Go Blue,my stepfather’s alma mater, in the fall.

They silently tolerate my stacks of fabric and my little ‘hobby’ sewing room back at our house in Oakland Heights. My parents arefine, don’t get me wrong. I love them and they love me. Allen is hardheaded; he’s tried to toughen me up over the years but my creamy, marshmallow center, in more ways than one, has remained squishy despite his best efforts. As an ex-NFL quarterback himself, I understand that mindset just goes with the territory.

The only thing about the law that suits me, is that I’m anobsessiverule follower. The idea of breaking a rule or, God forbid,getting arrested,sends me intopalpitations.I’ve neverturned in an assignment late. The lowest grade I’ve ever gotten on a report card is an A minus, inhealth sciencesfor heck-sake. Which, I still believe to this day is because the teacher, Mr. Gottfried, had a vendetta against our family because Allen’s team kicked the pants off his home state team in some Super Bowl a zillion years ago.

Who.

Cares.

I got good grades, yes, but I’m not the smartest egg in the carton. It’s more that the idea of disappointinganyoneand not doing my best, best,bestis feels unforgivable. So I worked my fingers raw and studied harder than humanly possible to be sure my report cards were impeccable.

“Wilhelmina?” Cindy chirps, always using the whole of my name like she’s my grandmother. “I heard your familysoldtheir place. Didn’t think we’d see you this summer. OrJackson. HowisJackson, by the way? I saw him interviewed on Sport Center yesterday. Is he around?” Her blazing white smile makes me wish I’d opted for my Hello Kitty sunglasses as she scans the area for my stepbrother.

EveryonelovesJackson. Sure, I get it. He is the all-American guy with the edge of a sexy bad boy in a combo so potent, so good looking, if you manage to tear your eyes away, he’s somehow still there. Taunting you from behind your lids like you’ve looked at the sun a second too long.

He’s also a bit of an ass, like his father, to everyone that is not family, which, somehow, makes him more attractive.

“No, he’s not here,” I manage, watching her enthusiasm deflate and hating myself for just existing in her presence—then hating myself more for hating myself. Ugg, it’s such a vicious cycle.

I grip the top of the paper bag in my left hand while tugging on the lace trim of my blouse and shifting my weight from one foot to the next like a six-year-old.

I summon my courage, I need to stop being socowering. That’s what Jackson always says. He says I am as good as anyone else and I don’t need to live small.

But, what he doesn’t quite understand is, inside, Ifeelsmall. He’s the only one that makes that feel okay.

Just thinking about him, my cheeks turn warm and that funny, gripping tension blooms in my belly.

A wash of dark self-loathing covers me. The mad crush I have on my own stepbrother is enough to send me straight to the gates of hell. Talk about rule breaking.

He’s my brother, for heck-sake. We’ve basically grown up together but the last few years these feelings have taken on a persona all their own and I can’t seem to stomp them out like I used to.

I clear my throat, consciously straightening my spine and answer Cindy, “My dad just bought another house. On the south side of the lake.” I glance down the street where Dutton, my driver, is watching me closely as he leans against the black Lincoln with a dent in the fender and a missing hubcap. He’s my only friend outside of Rosaria from school. He’s been my driver for four years now. I would have askedhimto drive me to New York, but he’s leaving later today for his brother’s wedding.

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