Page 5 of The Big Easy & Other Lies
“—and Smoki wants to work with Heart of LaSalle to do some community outreach. Angelique helped us find Big Brothers and Big Sisters to support, and y’all are going to raise some serious cash for their program with this fashion show. Smoki Branson will judge it.”
The room exploded, and Mrs. Broussard clapped her hands for attention. “There’s more!”
I was already reeling. I didn’t know how many more bombshells I could absorb. This waswild.
“The board came to me with an idea for a New Orleans fashion week, a mini-version of the New York event, but we’d do it in the spring. They’ll invite designers from all over the South to do spotlight shows, but they want to do a special showcase for three of our Applied Design students. I know eight of you are doing fashion-related projects. Those of you not working specifically on fashion design will be part of a special exhibit in the tent that night.”
Another rumble sounded at the word “tent.”
“Oh, yes.Tent,” she said. “Exactly like New York Fashion Week. That means tents in Audubon Park.”
“Who gets to show on the runway?” Amber asked.
Mrs. Branson smiled. “The designers of the top three mini-collections from the fall runway show as judged by Stormi Branson and the Heart of LaSalle board will be invited to New Orleans Fashion Week in the spring.”
I sat, stunned. Questions flew around me. Noticing my blank look, Mrs. Broussard called on me next. “Cam? Do you have a concern?”
“Our Fashion Week will be in April?”
“Yes.”
My heart sank. She furrowed her brow, like she didn’t like what she read in my face, but several more people had questions for her. I listened with half an ear but flipped to my Color Splash designs and examined them critically.
Clean A-line skirts in thick horizontal stripes played off figure-hugging wrap tops and a denim jacket with sharp angles and highly worked pin tucks. The looks pushed a degree or two past safe, with enough freshness in them to feel ahead of trend but enough familiarity to tempt people to wear them. It wasn’t the collection of my dreams—that stayed hidden in my private portfolio—but it should earn a strong commendation from the capstone panel.
“Cam?” Mrs. Broussard stood beside me now, looking determined. “Why don’t you look more excited?”
I shrugged. “Showing in the tents won’t help me get into SoHo Design.” It was the fashion school of my dreams.
“How can you say that? Smoki Branson and all her design groupies will be there to see it. You could make some fantastic contacts.”
“Fashion Week happens too late to help my application.”
“Smoki can pull a lot of strings. Impress her, and she may be able to get you in at SoHo.”
I wasn’t convinced. What could they do for a high school senior still trying to figure out her aesthetic? Pat me on the head?
“You have rare talent,” she said. “I haven’t seen the likes of it in eleven years of running this program. A lot of gifted athletes and musicians come through this school, but we’ve never had anyone as good as you come through Applied Design, andno oneknows because you won’t show them what you can do. That means knocking people out with the fall showcase to get into Fashion Week. I’ve been telling Cecilia LeBlanc about your talent for over a year; if you’d let her see what you’re truly capable of, I think she’d be the key to funding part of your tuition at SoHo.”
“I have to get in first.” Over Mrs. Broussard’s shoulder, I saw Angelique approaching. “Can I talk to you about it later?” I asked, not wanting Angelique to hear Mrs. Broussard’s praise. Ever since Mrs. LeBlanc walked in on the showdown between Angelique and me after the Cash Guidry incident, Angelique was extra difficult any time her mother came near me.
“Don’t go anywhere when the bell rings,” Mrs. Broussard said, before turning to Angelique.
“Can we model our own looks?” Angelique asked. Mrs. Broussard nodded and moved off with Angelique to answer more questions.
I pulled my cell phone out and texted Livvie.I’ll be late today. She wouldn’t get the text until track practice ended, but she wouldn’t mind waiting to give me a ride.
I turned to my pattern, determined to push my private designs out of my head and focus on the skirt in front of me. I used the last half of my seminar time to make some progress on it. I nearly had it done when I reached for my hip curve ruler to double check my measurements, but a shadow fell across my worktable, and I dropped my hand. Angelique. Dr. Bickham should do a physics lecture on why I could tell from the charge in the air that it was her before I even looked.
She needed her own entrance soundtrack, like Darth Vader, maybe. I didn’t want to deal with her, but I looked up and waited.
“Did you take my marking pencils?” She tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “I thought you might have grabbed them by accident when you were getting your stuff.”
In our Modern Literature class, Mr. Perez always talked about how Hemingway was a master of subtext—the difference between what people say and what they actually mean—but Mr. Perez was selling Angelique short. “Grabbed them by accident” was her subtle way of saying “once a thief, always a thief.”
I stifled the urge to smack her with my ruler. I wanted to say, “I didn’t steal your stupid boyfriend. Have you met him? Why would I want to?” Instead I allowed myself only one question. “You know what I hate?”
“What?” she asked.
