Page 4 of The Big Easy & Other Lies
Someday I’d pick upWomen’s Wear Dailyto read a review of my work where the writer would ramble about the “tension” between “expectation and subversion.” That sounded suitably pretentious. Subversion could be my design aesthetic. Never give them what they expect.
I leaned back, still regarding the sketch. Right now, I only wanted to make a skirt good enough to show in the fall preview without attracting too much attention. That was Rule #1 in my Imaginary Guide to Coping With Everything. I’d save my best work until I traded New Orleans for New York.
I laid out my pattern paper and drafted the skirt, drifting into vague plans for my capstone designs as I worked. Seniors developed our own projects, but it wasn’t easy. We had to show a balance between at least two of our core academic subjects, plus reflect either our education in the arts or other electives.
So, yeah. Kind of a huge deal.
I’d known since freshman year that I’d design a fashion line. I worked up a set of sketches this summer, but I loved them so much that I knew I couldn’t subject them to the scrutiny of LaSalle. People here were pretty nice, but they liked their fashion traditional. I did whimsy.
Color Splash is my Plan B, something good enough to get me a passing commendation from the capstone judges instead of confusing them with avant-garde ideas. So far, I’d drafted half of a ready-to-wear sportswear collection in boldly colored cottons. I didn’t love it, but I knew it would resonate with the capstone panel.
Ten minutes before the end of class, a perfectly pitched laugh telegraphed the arrival of Angelique LeBlanc. I tensed, wondering which version of her would show up today. The constant guessing wore me out. She was only Jekyll and Hyde with me, so it wasn’t like I could watch other people and learn how to deal with her. I never knew when I might set her off by breathing wrong. Or existing. But then again, I guess she didn’t really blame anyone else for trying to steal her boyfriend in tenth grade, either.
I didn’t steal him. Or even try to. But she blamed me anyway. Lucky me.
Angelique walked through the door holding a young girl by the hand. She looked about eight or nine, the end of her braids bristling with shiny pink barrettes. Relief flooded me at the sight of the visitor. It would be Saint Angelique today, then.
Angelique’s guest noticed me staring at her and her smile peeked out. Why had Angelique brought this sweet little thing to seminar? I smiled at her before I turned to my pattern, well into a groove by the time Mrs. Broussard called the class to order.
“Heads up!” The volume in the classroom dropped. “I know we usually do free design projects on Friday, and you’ll still get your independent work time, but I have an announcement.” Mrs. Broussard waited until total quiet fell over the room before she continued. “We willnotbe participating in the fall capstone preview.”
The room erupted. The preview was a sneak peek of the early stages of our projects to get people excited for the final project showcase in late spring. The preview was the highlight of the academic semester at LaSalle, mainly because of our Applied Design projects which ranged from evening gowns to robots and super cool furniture.
“Hush!” Mrs. Broussard called over the protests, gesturing for everyone to settle down. The grumbling didn’t subside, but it quieted enough for her to continue. “We’re doing something different. And better.” That stopped the noise. “We’re hosting a separate design showcase and fundraiser to benefit Big Brothers and Big Sisters of New Orleans. Angelique?”
Angelique came up, still holding the little girl by the hand. “Everybody, I want y’all to meet Kendra.” She bent down to meet Kendra’s eyes. “Kendra, can you say hey to everyone?”
Kendra’s smile peeked out again and she waved. “Hey,” she said, her voice soft.
Angelique straightened and smiled at the class. “I’ve volunteered as a Big Sister for almost two years, and Kendra and I have been together that whole time. She has such a kind heart, and she writes amazing stories. Tell them about your newest one, sweetie,” she said, her tone encouraging.
Kendra squirmed and shook her head no.
“They’ll love it as much as I did, I promise,” Angelique said. “It’s okay. Tell them about it.” She kept her voice soft, and after another hesitation, Kendra cleared her throat.
“I wrote about Priscilla the Pink Princess Armadillo.” She shot a glance at Angelique, who smiled and nodded. “She has fairy wings, and she grants wishes. Any kind.”
Angelique’s best friend, Tara, giggled, and Angelique glared at her before squeezing Kendra’s hand. “You see? Tara didn’t even read it, and she already loves how funny it sounds.”
Kendra smiled. “Thank you,” she said, and her voice sounded more sure.
“This program is the best volunteer experience I’ve ever had,” Angelique said. That’s why we’re going to make sure it gets the support it needs.”
Mrs. Broussard stepped up again, and Angelique and Kendra took their seats. Angelique handed Kendra a sketchpad and some color pencils to draw with. It was so weird to watch her. She obviously wasn’t made of evil. But like with Delphine, I seemed to bring it out of her.Whyyyyy?Angelique kept her arm around Kendra while Mrs. Broussard continued.
“Thank you, Angelique. For the rest of you, I want you to keep in mind that you need to produce your best work for this showcase. It’s going to be a fashion show, and you’ll each be responsible for three looks.”
The chatter broke out again, an excited swell of sound.
“I know darling Miss Kendra is enough to convince you of the importance of doing your best,” Mrs. Broussard continued over the noise, “but in case you’re looking for even more motivation, prepare to have your minds blown. Whatever your project is now, think on a bigger scale. Get out your sketches if you haven’t already. As y’all may have heard, a certain A-list actress and her equally A-list husband have bought a home in the neighborhood.”
“Smoki Branson!” called out Tara. “I love her!”
I’m not a celebrity watcher, but I’d followed the invasion of Smoki Branson and her husband, Jax Collard, closely. He was the Saints’ new starting quarterback this year. I didn’t care much about football, but Smoki Branson interested me. She designed her own Oscar gown last year and wowed all the fashion critics. She didn’t win the Best Actress award that night, but she’d launched a second career in fashion. As much as I hated to give credit to Hollywood celebutantes-turned-designers, Smoki Branson was the real deal. Her first collection showed heat and refinement and life. I sort of loved it.
“Yes, Tara,” Mrs. Broussard said, smiling. “It’s Smoki Branson. She’s got connections here at LaSalle—”
At this, Tara and Amber, Angelique’s other best friend, whispered intently to Angelique. Her mother, Cecilia Leblanc, wastheconnection of all connections. Rumor had it that Mrs. LeBlanc knew everyone in Orleans Parish by first, middle, and last nameandknew about your next sneeze before you did.
