Page 90 of The Big Easy & Other Lies
She broke off and stared down at it, catching on much faster than I had.
“It’s the Audubon,” I confirmed.
She ran her arthritic fingers back and forth across the tube. “You sure?”
I nodded. “I’ll research the antique dealers and auction houses around here, see who’s reputable. We’ll figure out who to use.”
She glared up at me. “Wenothin’,” she said. “Get me a phone book. I’ll figure it out myself, call around tomorrow.”
Anger flared. I walked out without a word. I should have listened to Bran. Within a day of selling it, we’d probably be drowning in half price seat warmers. A stack of phone books, ten high and five wide, sat against the back sitting room wall. I grabbed one from the top without checking the date. I’d added to this pile, a book every six months, until I was ten and they quit coming. Chances were, the newer ones were on top.
I set it beside Delphine on her chair. “Here,” I said, not even trying to sound pleasant. And I retreated to my room without another word. If she couldn’t offer me a thank you for bringing her the owl, then I didn’t owe her a goodnight. I spent the rest of the evening picking apart seams in my mother’s prom dress, trying to make magic happen. I would need fairy dust and a miracle to pull off Rococo Punk.
And now that Delphine had her Audubon, I would scour the mill remnants and take what I needed without asking until I found the right fabrics to make my vision come together. She might be willing to waste the owl print and blow her chance to get her circumstances back under control, but there was no way I would make the same mistake.
* * *
Footloosehas another music montage. The preacher finally backs down and says the kids can have their high school dance. Then there are dirt bikes and glitter stars and this mad rush to get the basement of the flour mill decorated for their party.
The next two weeks looked exactly like that, but substitute “sew clothes” for “hang glitter stars.” The stakes climbed as high for me as they did for Kevin Bacon when he performed some dramatic gymnastics to signal his seriousness about the future of school dances. Except I had college riding on the line. As in my actual future.
So I sewed. Like a fiend. Every day I had someone at my house. Chloe, piecing together the ombre damask that came out looking psychotic and perfect. I’d done a happy dance when I realized that if I used the slopers I already had for my different Livvie projects, I could turn the whole thing out much faster. Every time Livvie dropped me off, I made her come in and try it on so I could adjust the draping. Slowly the tiers morphed into the dress I had sketched. It looked beyond good, and only Livvie would have had the edgy sass to pull it off.
Chloe had agreed to model for me too, but she drew the line at the seed packet mini. That meant she got the cutaway skirt over plaid leggings. She was shorter than me, barely five-four, but it was easy to cut down to fit her. Every time she slipped the jacket on, her posture toughened, like she was ready to go out and commit some punk rock mayhem.
That left me with the mini. While I drew out the pattern, I tried not to think about wearing it in front of a packed theater. It came down to what looked right in the vignette; I’d have to gut it out.
Rhett stopped in every couple of days to check out the progress. Bran often came with him to look for stuff to sell online after they nodded at the fabric strewn across my card table like they understood what was going on. Beyond that, Rhett texted me with song quotes several times a night and sent me Photoshopped pictures of Angelique in all kinds of crime photos: mug shots, on-scene arrest photos. Those were my favorites. They got me through the late-night sewing sessions when my homework load was heavy. On those nights, I imagined the music in my imaginary movie montage reaching an intense crescendo, booming out of the theater speakers in case anyone didn’t get that THIS WAS SERIOUS.
And then, like the four minutes it took Kevin Bacon’s song to end and his high school’s victory dance to begin, I blinked and it was time. I hit the “off” button on my alarm clock on the Thursday to end all Thursdays and got up to face the day that could determine my future. Two weeks of cursing, stitch-ripping, cutting, and re-sewing would be reduced to a two-minute catwalk in about twelve hours.
All morning, I fought nausea. At one point, Angelique passed me in the hall and smiled. “You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to tonight,” she said. “Are you ready?”
Man, I wanted to slap her. “I think I came up with something pretty original. I don’t know how it’s going to play to the crowd.”
“This is going to be the best show ever,” she said. “I know we have a history, but I truly hope I get your feedback on my looks tonight.”
I offered her a tight smile in return, too nerve-wracked to figure out how to retort with a clever veiled threat.
By last bell, I was a shaky mess in the parking lot. I stood next to Princess Jelly Bean with my friends, trying to internalize the pep talk Livvie was giving me, but only the steady presence of Rhett’s light touch against the back of my neck helped. With a gentle squeeze, he let go and opened my car door.
“You’re amazing,” he said. “SoHo will beg you to enroll. They’ll throw tuition money at you, and I’m going to wear out the train tracks between Boston and New York coming to see you.”
“Okay,” I said, on an unsteady breath. “Okay.” I shut up, afraid the next thing out of my mouth would be vomit.
“Here,” he said, handing me a flash drive. I squinted to make out the scrawled title on the label.
“Rococo Punk?”
“Yeah. I know you already have that Rancid song ready to go, but this is another option. Listen to it on the way over.” He hugged me and guided me into the car. “Keep telling yourself it’s going to be amazing because it’s true. See you tonight.”
I waved at him, and Livvie started the car. I plugged the flash drive into the phone then connected my aux cord to Livvie’s stereo. As soon as I heard the opening notes, I found my first real smile of the day. I didn’t recognize the tune, but it was a weird, cool, classical-sounding piece, only it was all piano, no symphony. The notes poured out fast and crazy and perfect. I had no idea where he’d found it, but Rhett had managed to deliver the aesthetic of Rococo Punk in a three-minute song.
By the time I collected my pieces from home and made it to the theater, hope had joined the riot of emotion in my stomach. I prayed that it didn’t mean I’d hurt more if I fell.
Chapter 32
“Are you ready?” I asked Chloe, who looked both striking and terrified beneath the heavy punk rock makeup Livvie had applied.
