The Allegra Biscotti Collection Read online

  The Allegra Biscotti Collection

  Olivia Bennett

  She doesn't want her turn on the catwalk-she'd rather be behind the scenes creating fabulous outfits! So when a famous fashionista discovers Emma's designs and offers her the opportunity of a lifetime-a feature in Madison magazine (squeal!)-Emma sort of, well, panics. She has only one option: to create a secret identity.

  And so Allegra Biscotti is born.

  Allegra is worldly, sophisticated, and bold-everything Emma is not. But the pressure is on. And Emma quickly discovers juggling school, a new crush, friends, and a secret identity might not be as glamorous as she thought.

  Olivia Bennett

  The Allegra Biscotti Collection

  With special thanks

  to Sherri Rifkin

  “Fashion is not something that exists in dresses only. Fashion is in the sky, in the street; fashion has to do with ideas, the way we live, what is happening.”

  —Coco Chanel

  Prologue:

  The Game

  Definitely the faux-fur scarf. But not in teal…maybe an eggplant with silver flecks would work.

  She quickly sketched the scarf onto the heavy white paper. As her pencil danced across the page, the whole world faded away. At least for a minute or two. She glanced up, scanning the breathing-room-only subway car. Person to person, outfit to outfit, her eyes jumped around like a robotic scanning device in a science-fiction movie. Colors, patterns, fabrics, textures, and shapes leaped out at her. Turquoise set against a rich chocolate brown. A collar the same acid-green color and gnarly texture of Oscar the Grouch. A perfectly cut A-line skirt that hit just the right place, where the thigh curves in slightly. Black over hot-pink tights. She never stopped at the faces. It wasn’t about the faces. It was all about the clothes.

  Always had been.

  She couldn’t always remember people’s names, but she could describe the outfit they were wearing when she met them—down to the shape of the buttons—without having to think for a single second. Her mother loved to tell about the time when she was three or four and said, “I want the baby-sitter with the violet halter top, the skirt that looks like it was made out of jeans, and the triangle heels on her shoes.” She loved wedges even before she knew what they were.

  The sound of the doors snapping shut shook her from her daydreams. She only had two more stops to finish the Game. People jostled into the packed car, causing a man in a stained tan overcoat to roll his eyes with annoyance as he grasped the pole. She actually liked it when the subway car was crowded. The more people, the more outfits she could choose from for the Game.

  The object of the Game was deceptively simple: Choose separate items of clothing from different people on the subway to create a fashion “wow.” Colors could be changed, and silhouettes altered a bit. The resulting outfit had to be one that she would wear—well, that is if she were going someplace more fabulous than middle school.

  It was a game of skill and speed: She had to complete the challenge before the subway reached her stop. And at this time of the morning, the city’s resident fashionistas hadn’t even sipped their first lattes, much less stepped a stiletto onto the subway, which made scoring points that much harder.

  A burst of laughter drew her attention down the aisle. Three college-aged girls circled closely around the same silver pole, chatting loudly to one another as if they were at a party. The tallest of the three wore a military-like flack jacket.

  Perfect! If she changed the drab green to a sleeker steel blue, it would totally work. Her pencil flew into overdrive. As she sketched, she slimmed the cut to create a more feminine, less bulky shape. All she needed now was a bottom of some kind to add to her half-dressed female figure.

  The subway stopped, and the doors opened. People pushed out and more piled in, revealing a fresh batch of new fashion candidates. Suddenly, a college girl with a side ponytail leaped through the closing doors, just making it before they caught her in their unforgiving death grip. She wore the most fabulous pair of cherry-red patent leather boots.

  They must be vintage, Emma thought. She could tell by their shape—low, boxy heels and squared-off toes—and their quality. The patent leather looked real, not fake and plasticky. True, they weren’t pants, but she could still make the boots work.

  With seconds to spare, she added them to her sketch and then linked the jacket to the awesome boots with simple bold lines to stand in for basic black leggings.

  Finished!

  She gazed at her newest creation. The outfit’s bold charcoal lines contrasted with the stark white of the paper. Later, she’d pull out her colored pencils and Pantone markers to fill in the lines according to the color notes she’d made in the margins. She’d fiddle a little more to make the outfit even better. Maybe make the scarf longer or the jacket skinnier or even stretch it out into a short dress.

  The train jerked to a halt. Closing her sketchbook, this one bound in amethyst Chinese brocade, she tucked it safely into her bag.

  The Game was over.

  Time for school.

  Chapter 1

  The Power Of Clothes

  Emma Rose pushed open the school’s heavy red door in a fashion-induced haze, mentally creating, designing, and storing scraps of ideas the way she imagined mathematicians juggled numbers or chefs mixed ingredients. The Downtown Day School halls were in their usual state of pre-homeroom pandemonium.

  Following the tide of self-confident eighth graders and somehow still-clueless sixth graders, she quickly inventoried the outfits of the day. Baggy sweatshirts. Colorful tanks under hoodies. Jeans. More jeans. Even more jeans. The halls of Downtown Day would never be confused with the catwalks of a couture show. That was for sure.

  Emma turned the corner, and a whiff of watermelon suddenly hit her. She smiled. Holly was waiting by their lockers. The fruity gum scent was a dead giveaway.

  “Cool sweater,” Holly Richardson said, after popping an almost-fluorescent pink bubble.

  “Thanks.” Emma wore a black cotton cardigan, on which she had replaced the plain plastic buttons with shiny brass marching-band uniform buttons. She liked to have fun with fashion—to create mash-ups of vintage and thrift-store finds.

  She mixed in the occasional trendier bargain—but always gave those items her personal touch. When she went for a pair of ballet flats, she opted for Kelly green and clipped a pair of sparkly rhinestone earrings onto the toe to make them different. She even replaced the drawstring in her charcoal velour sweatpants with a shimmery chartreuse ribbon.

  Although she did it quietly, and often quite subtly, Emma wore something every day that hinted at her unique personal sense of style. She might twist colorful silk scarves into a belt or drape them around her neck in a heap. Or she might wear a boyish flannel shirt with the cuffs turned up to show off a purple satin lining she’d sewn in. Her worn-out boys’ Levi’s were a wardrobe staple—she loved the design she’d embroidered onto the back pockets with metallic thread. It made her happy when Holly noticed her little fashion statements.

  “But what’s with the ponytail?” Holly sized up Emma’s shoulder-length dark-brown hair in the way only a best friend would.

  Emma self-consciously tucked a strand back into her messy ponytail. “What do you mean?”

  Holly shrugged. “Nothing. It’s just that you wear it like that every day.”

  “So?” Emma was much more interested in figuring out what she was going to wear than wrestling with a blow dryer and humongous brush like Holly had suddenly started doing every morning.

  Holly popped another bubble. “All I’m saying is that it could probably look a lot cuter if you styled it out or something. I mean, with the awesom
e outfits you’re always putting together, it just doesn’t seem to go. That’s all.”

  Emma bit her lip. She knew Holly was trying to help, but these days beauty advice was hard to hear from her. Every time Emma saw Holly, she was surprised by her friend’s transformation. When the two girls first met—back in Miss Judy’s preschool—they had been exactly the same height, and they were line buddies for years because of that.

  But then last year Holly had shot up five inches without gaining an ounce, it seemed. Now, with her long, thick, honey-brown wavy hair, blue eyes, clear skin, and pretty smile, she looked like the kind of girl who would be spotted on the street by an agent and become a supermodel overnight. If they hadn’t been best friends since the days of finger painting and macaroni necklaces, Emma would’ve probably been too intimidated to talk to Holly now.

  Compared with Holly, Emma thought that she was boring-looking. Not gorgeous, not ugly, just in between. She did have bright green eyes, which she got from her dad, and what her grandmother called her “sweet smile,” but what set Emma apart were clothes. She understood their power. How they could transform a person. Even her. It didn’t matter how messy your ponytail looked, if you sported a flirty minidress or high suede boots.

  By contrast, Holly’s look was cool and classic. Holly’s mom was one of those people who believed in buying very, very good things that would last a very, very long time. Holly’s outfit was typical Holly: dark jeans, soft chocolate-brown flats, a thin lemon-colored sweater, and a stretchy wrap T-shirt underneath. As always, she looked as if she had stepped out of the pages of a preppy catalog. As much as Emma begged her, Holly never took fashion risks.

  “A bunch of us are going to hang out in the park after school.” Holly unwrapped a second piece of gum and popped it in her mouth. “Can you come with?”

  Emma could guess exactly who “a bunch of us” were. Ivana Abbott and the “Ivana-Bees”—as in “I Wanna Be Ivana”— Lexie Blackburn, Kayla Levine, and Shannon O’Malley.

  “Will Number One, Number Two, and Number Three be there, too?” she asked, hoping for a giggle from Holly. Until recently, she and Holly had referred to the Ivana-Bees by number because, even though they looked different, they acted exactly the same, laughing at everything Ivana said and doing whatever she wanted whenever she wanted.

  Instead, Holly looked slightly offended. “Come on, Em. Don’t pretend you don’t know their names. They’re really nice, you know. Just give them a chance.”

  “I still don’t know how you can be friends with Ivana,” Emma said. “She actually created a fan page for herself on Facebook, like she’s famous or something. I mean, give me a break.”

  Holly laughed. “Oh, come on. It’s kind of cool. Like those reviews she does of movies and CDs and all those amazing restaurants she goes to with her parents? They’re hilarious!”

  Emma used all her self-control to not roll her eyes. She couldn’t wait for the day when Ivana would become bored with Holly and move on—or even better, the other way around—so that it would be just Emma and Holly again. But that hadn’t happened yet. In fact, it looked like Holly was currently applying for the position of Number Four.

  “Just come with us. What’s the big deal?” Holly persisted.

  “I’m not sure if I can today,” Emma said as she opened her locker. Her tiny metal sanctuary. She had lined the inside of the door with a swatch of 1970s Marimekko fabric in a great green-and-white graphic print. Large square magnets covered in random fabric swatches held clippings from various fashion magazines. The framed picture of her style hero, the one and only Coco Chanel, hung in the center of her rotating fashion collage.

  Seeing Coco’s face every day reminded Emma that there was a whole world outside these walls, a world filled with stunningly beautiful dresses made of luxurious fabrics, intricately detailed jackets, expertly tailored pants and skirts, and, of course, killer shoes and bags.

  “Some guys are coming, including Jackson Creedon,” Holly singsonged, knowing that she had just majorly sweetened the deal.

  Emma was no math genius, but even she could calculate that Jackson being there added much more to the equation than Ivana took away. Emma turned to face her friend. “Are you serious?”

  “Would I lie about that? Hello! Have you met me?”

  Emma had been crushing on Jackson Creedon ever since he had stepped foot into school three weeks earlier. Maybe it was his intense blue eyes or the way his brown wavy hair, which was on the long side, kept flopping into his face or the fact that he was taller than the other boys and lean—strong but not all thick-necked and muscle-y.

  At the end of the first week, Holly had declared Emma officially infatuated. Emma could hardly deny it, even though she and Jackson had never exchanged a single word. Yet. But going to the park could change all that…maybe he would actually notice her.

  Emma groaned. “Sorry, Holls, but I really can’t go. I just remembered that I promised my dad I’d work for him after school.”

  Underneath her fringy bangs, Holly’s eyes narrowed, the way they always did when she was preparing to get her way. “You’re picking lace over Jackson Creedon? Can’t you just do it tomorrow?”

  “I wish.” Emma sighed. “But it has to be today because they’re getting in a big shipment that needs to be unpacked, and there aren’t enough people to help out.”

  Emma had started working for Noah—as Emma called her dad at Laceland, his wholesale lace business—during the summer. When school started, she had agreed to work in the afternoons to earn extra money for design materials without having to be stuck home baby-sitting her ten-year-old brother, William. But today, when her best friend and the hot new guy were hanging in the park, having an after-school job was a bummer.

  “Plus,” Emma added, “I kind of need the money.”

  “For what?” Holly demanded, gum snapping and cracking.

  “I’m working on the most amazing dress. The fabric cost a lot.”

  Holly nodded slowly, clearly unhappy that Emma was not going to the park.

  “Besides,” Emma said, “doesn’t Lexie have a thing for Jackson? Even if I could go, she’d never let me get anywhere near him.”

  Holly waved her hand. “Just because Lexie likes Jackson doesn’t mean he likes her back. He’s new to school. I bet if he got to know you, he’d like you much more than Lexie.”

  Emma allowed a small smile. She appreciated Holly’s pep talk, but they both knew that a guy would have to be blind not to be drawn to Lexie’s exotic looks. Long dark-brown, perfectly smooth, straight hair; almond skin; dark-brown eyes with a perfect veil of mascara-enhanced lashes. It was a killer combination.

  “Look, you’ll never know whether or not he’s going to like you unless you come.” Holly closed her locker. “AndI know how badly you want to know. So see you later, right?”

  “Right,” Emma found herself agreeing. Holly always had that effect on her.

  “I mean, could there be a better excuse to skip work than getting to hang out with Jackson?” Holly smiled.

  “Can’t think of any,” Emma said, as they made their way together upstairs toward first period. “Besides, how bad could it be to miss one measly afternoon at Laceland?”

  Later that afternoon, as Emma stepped into the elevator of the century-old building that was home to Laceland, her mind was thirty blocks south in Washington Square Park. As the day wore on, she had realized that as much as she would trade a pair of Alexander McQueen shoes—that is, if she magically owned a pair—for the chance to hang out with Jackson, she couldn’t break her promise to her dad. She was wired that way.

  Now that she was here, it was blindingly obvious that she had made a crucial mistake. Jackson is probably talking to Lexie this very minute, Emma thought, a pit of regret growing in her stomach. Sometimes she wished there was a manual for all this boy stuff. Lexie and Ivana seemed to have it. For all she knew, they had written it themselves.

  It was too late now.

  The old ele
vator wobbled up past a handful of other textile importers, a zipper maker, an umbrella company, a hanger supplier, and a hosiery wholesaler, and then jerked to a stop on the eleventh floor. Emma walked down the windowless, dingy gray hallway and entered the reception area of Laceland.

  The cavernous raw space with sixteen-foot ceilings had rows and rows of shelving, blocking out most of the light from the windows. Although the place was scrubbed once a week by a cleaning crew, a thin layer of dust blanketed Laceland from all the fabrics and trimmings that had passed through the warehouse over the past four decades, which was how long her dad’s family had owned the business. Emma always stifled the urge to sneeze whenever she arrived.

  “Honey! You’re here. Hall-e-lujah!” Marjorie Kornbluth stood up from behind the Formica-covered reception desk, reaching for her purse.

  “Excited to see me?” Emma teased.

  “Am I ever! The phone hasn’t stopped ringing all day,” Marjorie complained in her scratchy, low rasp. “I need a real cup of coffee, not the black muck your father makes.” She brushed past Emma in a cloud of eau de coffee and hair spray—her signature scent—and hurried into the waiting elevator, leaving Emma to take over her post.

  “Have fun!” Emma called after her.

  Even though that was usually the extent of their conversations, Emma adored Marjorie. She was a Laceland institution. She might actually have been working there longer than Emma’s parents had been married. Marjorie was one of those ladies who seemed to be stuck in another era— when false eyelashes, sparkly shadow, and pink frosted lipstick were all the rage.

  Every day, no matter what time of year, Marjorie wore only simple, black shift dresses. Her short bobbed hair was dyed platinum blond and had been that way forever. The only thing that had ever changed about her was the appearance of the tiniest lines on her pale, pale skin, increasing ever so noticeably over the years to hint at her true age, which Emma guessed to be close to seventy.