Page 49 of The Big Easy & Other Lies
He smiled, and the tension between us eased. Jelly Bean pulled up as I shut my door. “I need to get something from Livvie,” I said. I darted over to grab my sketchbook from the backseat. Rhett eyed it. “Is it a pony?”
I smiled as Livvie and Trent walked up. “It’s some capstone stuff. You showed me yours, so...”
“Cool,” he said. “I’d love to see yours.”
Trent snickered at that. Before I had been neutral about him; now I shifted to dislike.
I turned and let myself through the iron gates that flanked the walkway to the house. Bran had the door open when we reached the bottom of the five steps leading up. Like many Louisiana homes, this house had been built on stilts to keep it from the greedy flood waters that visited New Orleans far too often. Unlike the stilt houses in the poor neighborhoods, the affluent merchants and Creole aristocracy who had settled the Garden District had hidden the brick stilts behind a wooden facade.
I led Rhett into the grand foyer and then the den. A large TV hung over the fireplace and a huge, squishy leather sectional faced it. Livvie headed straight for one of the corner seats and flipped on the TV to search for a music channel. Trent, looking unsure, sat down about a foot away from her. Chloe watched Livvie make herself at home with a puzzled expression on her face.
The thick air of people who were new to each other and hadn’t yet clicked hung over them. I avoided the bad juju vortex forming at the sofa and pointed to some comfy armchairs in the back bay window. “Want to sit there?”
Rhett looked relieved and we claimed the spot. I kept the sketchbook on my lap, my knuckles white as I clung to it. The only sound in the room was Livvie and Bran bickering over whether they were going to listen to hip hop or alternative. He played the “it’s my house” card and won. Soon a Ray LaMontagne song floated over the room.
“Old people music,” Livvie grumbled.
“I’m getting some dessert,” Bran said. “Don’t touch the remote while I’m gone. Come on, Chloe.” The room fell silent again except for the music. Trent inched toward Livvie, and his arm appeared on the sofa behind her head.
Realizing that my death grip was in danger of bending the cover of my sketchbook, I loosened my hold and drew a calming breath. Only Mrs. Broussard and Livvie had seen these sketches. This “letting people in” bull kind of sucked.
This afternoon in the design room, I’d had this notion that Rhett might understand the design process because of his songwriting. Maybe he could relate to the effort of capturing an idea and translating it into a medium for everyone else to experience too. But I was terrified to show him my work all the same.
I cleared my throat and set the sketchpad on the end table between us. “My capstone stuff.” He picked it up.
He opened the first page, the utility pants with the ruffled blouse, and stared at it for a long time without saying anything. He turned to the next design, a skirt made of lawn cotton with a hundred sheer, asymmetrical layers. It was romantic and soft, a vintage throwback, but the brown top looked like it had been shredded and retied to make a whole garment out of scraps. In my head I called it Broken Dreams. He thumbed through a few more, a jumpsuit, a pair of wide leg trousers with button details on the retro front flap, another dress. He studied each of them quietly. Halfway through, he looked up and caught my eye. “These are...”
“Different?” I asked, chewing on my lower lip. I stopped, knowing Livvie would fuss that it made them scaly.
“I was going to say seriously cool,” he said. “If kids dressed like this for school, it would be way more interesting.”
“I don’t exactly design for them.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I get that. It’s not who I compose for, either. I meant it would be cool to see people do something besides show up in polo shirts and blast the latest rap single.”
“Right,” I said. He had my sketches in his hands. So weird. I felt like I was trying to have a totally normal conversation with someone while naked. “Did you get it?” I asked. “What the clothes are saying?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s like every fancy thing is mixed with something that’s about to fall apart, except it’s cool-looking.” He seemed uncertain. “If you’re calling it urban renewal, are you saying that the janky stuff is being transformed into usable things?”
“That’s the nutshell,” I said, relieved that it had come across without any explanation.
“So you’re a creative genius. I think I’m intimidated by you now.”
“I don’t think I can do it,” I blurted.
He looked startled. “It’s awesome. Anyone who understands design will love it. Born-again Lacosters might not get it, but they kinda don’t count for something like this.”
“I don’t mean that. I don’t even want to think about how this is going to go over at school. I mean I’m tying it to art history, mainly architecture, and my tenth-grade ecology class. The whole reclaiming and repurposing thing. I don’t know if I can do three purely repurposed looks that fit the city-rising-from-decay theme, much less eight.”
Rhett looked thoughtful. “Where would you get the material?”
I shrugged. “Thrift shops, mainly. My aunt has a bunch of stuff, but I don’t think she’ll let me use it.”
“Does that fall under why it’s complicated at home?”
“Yeah,” I said. I didn’t want to explain so I moved on. “My advisor loves the concept. I think it would be cool to talk about how there’s a lot of good rising from the bad around here but also about how sometimes the prettiness is a facade for the broken-down systems underneath. Except I don’t like talking in front of people so I’m glad I can say it with design.” I stopped when I saw his smile. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I like hearing about how you think.” His finger grazed my lagniappe for the day, one of the earrings shaped like a miniature hand grenade. “I understand stuff like this better already.”
