Page 91 of The Big Easy & Other Lies
“Not even,” she said. “How can you be so calm?”
“Because I can’t be anything else right now,” I said. “It’s do or die time.” It was Aidan Helm’s pet phrase fromCatwalk Couture.I had never understood it more fully than in this moment.
I was third in the lineup out of eight design students. Chloe was last, and she swore that she wasn’t worried about sending her collection down. Three of her youngest cousins were modeling for her, and Liam Parks had agreed to wrangle them until she could make it over after walking the runway for me.
“Have you seen Angelique yet?” she whispered.
“A few times, but she’s in a different dressing room.” She and Amber were set up in the largest dressing room backstage, and I had what I suspected used to be a supply closet. At first when the other kids doing fashion exhibits had stopped by to peek in at my stuff, I had demurred by saying they were too wrinkly for anyone to see yet. Then Livvie showed up and ran interference for the rest of the afternoon. I’d spent the first two hours steaming and ironing everything to perfection, and then an hour after that trying to get the styling right. Livvie had nailed it with the footwear, and we’d agreed on the right makeup look after watching a documentary about the glam rock group The New York Dolls.
All kinds of things from Delphine’s hoard had made it into the accessories. I wore chandelier earrings made from drywall screws and bits of Christmas tinsel. They were ornate and perfect with the skirt I had fashioned out of the flower seed packets. My mini had a jolting graphic quality as the yellow flower pictures, hundreds of them affixed to a muslin underskirt, alternated to create the effect of tiers of diagonal stripes.
Chloe had gone next level with her hair. Clusters of pull tabs from Delphine’s Coke can “collection” threaded through her braids for a post-industrial touch that offset the feminine feel of her layered cutaway skirt. She promised she didn’t care that it would clash wildly when she walked the runway with her sweet kidswear vignette.
But Livvie...her look was the stunner. It would stay behind that door until the last possible second so Angelique couldn’t catch on. As it was, Chloe and I both wore robes over our outfits to throw her off the scent.
“Remind me,” I said. “Where is Angelique in the lineup?”
“Second,” Chloe said. “I bet she’s front and center so everyone will see her looking outraged when ‘her’ designs come down in your vignette. I can’t believe she thought this would work.”
“I really think she’s counting on Mrs. Broussard’s need to stay in Heart of LaSalle’s good graces to keep her safe,” I said. That was where almost all of the Applied Design funding came from. After watching Mrs. Broussard scurry around in Mrs. LeBlanc’s wake all evening, I could understand why Angelique had taken that gamble. Mrs. Broussard worked very, very hard to please the judge’s wife.
As if my thoughts had summoned her, Mrs. Broussard poked her head into the hallway. “Five minutes, y’all. Amber, are you ready to go?”
Amber, standing at the far end of the hall, nodded and three of her friends followed her to the wings. They would kick off the fashion show, the first of the night’s events. Afterward, everyone would filter out to the lobby to study the more functional design projects on display there, like a hand-built student desk and a collection of kitchen storage tools. People could chat with all the students, us included. Most of the fashion kids had chosen not to model their own clothes because they wanted to be free to watch the show and get to the guests of honor first. Amber, Tara, and Angelique had coaxed most of the cheer squad into modeling their designs.
The only student modeling besides me was Chloe. The other six, Angelique included, hurried out to the audience. When they were out of sight, I opened our dressing room door to let Livvie out. “It’s time,” I said. “We’re almost up.”
Chloe and I tossed our robes inside, and Livvie stepped out. She looked incredible in the damask gown. I had reworked the skirt from my mom’s dress into a bodice of woven straps in a sweetheart neckline. Livvie’s skin glowed against the blue. The skirt swept from the waist in asymmetrical layers, the top ones the same light blue as the bodice, then graduating to cornflower, and finally a rich indigo at the bottom. The modern finish to an old-fashioned pattern lent the black damask print an edgy drama when spread out over such a massive skirt. Around her neck she wore a necklace of vintage buttons in black and every shade of blue I could find, cobbled together with safety pins. It looked insanely cool.
She stepped into the hall and grinned. “This is the beatdown I’ve been wanting to give that hellspawn for three years,” she said. “Let’s go.”
We slipped into the stage right wing, just as Mrs. Broussard, her face a mask of stress, turned to glare at us. “What took you so long?” she hissed, and then she caught sight of my outfit and her eyes widened. When she saw Livvie, a huge grin broke out on her face. “You did it,” she said. “Rococo Punk. You’re going to blow Aidan Helm’s mind.”
“He’s really out there?”
She shifted and pulled me closer to the curtain, pointing out to the front row center where he sat to the left of Smoki Branson. Directly behind her, I spotted Rhett seated next to Angelique. I smiled. He knew where the real show would be.
Mrs. Broussard glanced down at her watch. “Thirty seconds,” she said. “Hustle to the back.”
I glimpsed Amber’s last model in her country club couture turning at the end of the catwalk to make her way back. As she stepped off into the wings, the opening notes of the music Rhett gave me exploded. Chloe lurched for the stage looking nervous, but I grabbed her. “Wait a few seconds. Let the music set the mood.” A couple of measures played, signaling that the audience should expect a total change of pace, and then I let go and gave her a soft push. “Rock it,” I said. “Please.”
With a deep breath, she stepped out onto the runway and sashayed like she’d cut her teeth onAmerica’s Next Top Modelmarathons. I strained to see Angelique’s expression, but I could only pick out the outline of her head. When Chloe reached the end of the runway to enthusiastic applause, I stepped out. The volume jumped a notch and I held my chin high, hoping my knees didn’t shake. Then Iworkedit, putting every hope and dream I had for admission to SoHo into projecting the punk rock attitude to match my outfit. At the end of the runway, I stopped to strike a belligerent pose, my hand on my hip in slouchy, counterculture defiance. I darted a look at Rhett and saw the huge grin splitting his face. Next to him, Angelique sat frozen, as if the faintest tap would shatter her. As I turned to make my way back, I caught a small smile on Aidan Helm’s face.
Halfway back, Livvie took the stage and paused for a moment. Behind me, the audience erupted. She didn’t crack a smile, only held her pose and stared at them impassively before storming the runway in the fierce catwalk she’d practiced in her platform boots.
As soon as I reached the wings, I ran to Mrs. Broussard and peered over her shoulder through the curtain. Delight shone from Smoki Branson’s face, and half the audience had climbed to their feet as Livvie did her thing.
“Incredible,” Mrs. Broussard whispered. “She looks amazing.” She squeezed my arm before shooing the next student into place. Chloe and I slipped out to the hallway, and as soon as Livvie joined us, she swept us both into a huge hug.
“You blew it up!” she screamed.
Mrs. Broussard stuck her head out and glared. We rushed toward the dressing room, giggling. The door to Amber and Angelique’s dressing room opened, and the first Urban Renewal design stepped out, the polished version of Broken Dreams. The cheerleader wearing it smiled at me, unaware that she was about to walk the runway in a stolen look. The next two followed on her heels. Once they lined up by the stage door, Chloe nudged me. “Urban Renewal is the second-best set of designs I’ve ever seen. But Rococo Punk is the best.”
I hugged her, and we watched as the other vignettes organized themselves along the wall. Liam shepherded out Chloe’s young cousins and she joined them in line to fuss over them and make last minute adjustments to their adorable outfits. When Mrs. Broussard stuck her head out again a few minutes later, she scanned the line and stopped at Angelique’s work. Her eyes flew to mine. I shrugged before slipping back to the end of the line behind Amber’s models for the encore walk of all of the designs.
When we filed past Mrs. Broussard, she mouthed, “See me later.” Then a driving techno beat blasted over the PA system, and suddenly we surged toward the runway, squished in the tight backstage quarters. As soon as Chloe’s yellow high heel hit the walk, the auditorium exploded again. By the time the three of us stopped for our pose at the end, everyone was on their feet including Smoki Branson and...Aidan Helm!
“Brava!” he called, and I could not fight the very unpunk rock grin that escaped me.
