Page 7 of The Big Easy & Other Lies
I had no words. Aidan Helm was the creative director for the fashion studies program at SoHo, and a celebrity in his own right. He consulted for the designers onCatwalk Couture,my favorite TV show. If he came...
“Your B game might be enough to catch his attention,” Mrs. Broussard said. “But your A game will knock him out.”
I tried to swim through the swirl of confusion in my brain. “How do you know he’ll come?”
“Catwalk Couturewants Smoki to guest judge an episode. They’re desperate to get on her good side. I can’t announce it to the class until he confirms, but he’ll come. Smoki is sure of it.”
Tracing the engraved words on the invitation, I tried to process what this meant. Mrs. Broussard reached out and placed a hand on mine.
“You have to put up your best work. It will get you into SoHo design, and the Heart of LaSalle ladies will jump to award a scholarship for a deserving senior who is poised to pursue her dreams. I know Cecilia. She’s taken a special interest in you since you’ve done so well here at LaSalle.”
That wasn’t why, but no way would I explain the real reason. I took a deep breath, panic fluttering in my chest at the idea of putting my designs out there for everyone. I’d seen three years of senior fashion showcases and they were always well-received, but they were all cut from the same cloth, so to speak. They were ready-to-wear lines, with outfits that were sometimes edgy but still mainstream and relatable to a student body that embraced Hollister. That’s why I knew my Color Splash stuff would work.
It wasn’t that I cared about other kids hating my private collection. It was pretty avant-garde and not for everyone, I got that. That’s what real design was. It was either deconstructing something into parts so people thought about it differently, or reassembling eclectic influences into something so new that it challenged the status quo. At least, that’s what the design that spoke to me did.
Now, for the first time, I had to consider drawing the notice of my school on an epic scale. For a girl whose only bold personal statement was to sometimes wear orange shoes, breathing life into my private sketchbook would let people dig further into my mind than I wanted them to go.
But...
If Aidan Helm liked what he saw, it could put the future I’d been working for right in my reach: admission to SoHo Design.
“You have to do it, Cam. You have to go big.” Mrs. Broussard picked up my hand and tugged me until I faced her fully on my stool. “This is what people mean when they talk about dreams coming true. Youhaveto do it.”
She was right. I really did.
* * *
“Angelique sucks, but you still have to do it.” Livvie slipped her small red Kia into reverse and gunned it with total disregard for safety mirrors, turn signals, and pedestrians.
“It’s not worth the money,” I said, repeating my new conclusion.
“It’s also not worth losing your job over,” Livvie shot back, fumbling to pull up a text on her cell phone. I snatched it out of her hand and scrolled through it for her.
“Watch where you’re going,” I read aloud and then turned to glare at our friend Bran in the backseat for sending it. “How is distracting her with a text gonna make her drive better?” I demanded.
He grinned, his smile bright and unrepentant against his tawny brown skin.
“You really want me to dawdle in LaSalle student parking?” Livvie asked. “I’ve had my fill of this place for the week.” To prove it, she peeled out. I glimpsed the supervisor hollering at her in the rearview mirror. Livvie didn’t see that, of course. To her, rearview mirrors were strictly for reapplying lip gloss. Like she needed it. Livvie rolled out of bed looking like Scarlett O’Hara reincarnated: dark hair, creamy magnolia skin, perfectly rosy lips. She pulled into traffic and then pursued the rest of her argument. “Miss Annie isn’t going to like it if you say no for no good reason.”
I sighed. Two years ago, Livvie had hooked me up with my serving job for Miss Annie who ran Parties by Picou with an iron fist. I’d heard her fire two different waiters with the same terse speech. “Come back when you learn how to act right.” One of them never came back. The other, Branford Trahan, had crept back a month later and begged forgiveness for his chronic tardiness.
That same Branford Trahan now hollered a fervent “Amen!” from the backseat to Livvie’s warning.
Livvie smiled. “New rule for Princess Jelly Bean: you only get to ride in her if you agree with everything I say. I like it.”
“Too bad we have to put up with your music all the way home,” Bran said. “What if I disagree with your crappy tastes?”
“New rule number two for Jelly Bean,” Livvie said. “No picking on us. You must only speak words of sugar and light.” I met her fingers in the wiggle we’d used since sixth grade.
Bran rolled his eyes. “Isn’t it enough that you automatically get cool cred by having an athletic superstar in your car every day? Only my testosterone saves this chick hoopty from being a total joke.”
Livvie petted her furry pink steering wheel cover and slammed on the brakes without warning. “You may exit,” she said, popping the locks.
Bran rolled his eyes, no stranger to this routine. “How could I deprive myself of you every day?” he asked. “I beg your forgiveness.Your Highness,” he added before Livvie could prompt him.
She pressed on the accelerator again and Bran flopped back with a grin on his face. He slouched and tried to settle his lanky frame in the small backseat, his long legs barely fitting the space.
“No more changing the subject, Cam,” Livvie said. “You have to work the LeBlanc party this weekend.”
