Bead-Dazzled Page 4

  “Yes, you can.” Charlie sat beside her. “Just like you’re going to recycle or upcycle or whatever it’s called with the fabric, I’ll trade stuff and make deals for the music and the models for the show. I’m all over this. This is what I do.”

  Emma smiled. When they first met back in fourth grade at recess, Charlie was selling colorful, scented erasers he bought in bulk in Chinatown for five times what they were worth. He used the money after school at the nearby candy store. He’d then trade the candy he’d bought for the answers to that night’s homework. She’d spent a huge chunk of her allowance on erasers that year.

  “What I do is fashion,” Emma said. “The fashion is more important than budgets or planning a runway show, unless you want the models to walk down naked. Right now, I’ve got nothing.”

  “That would get people talking about Allegra Biscotti, if you went all Emperor’s New Clothes,” Charlie joked.

  “That would be the worst!” If nothing else, she could guarantee her models would be wearing clothes. “I’ve got the green-thing figured out now, but I need a theme that’s special enough to prove that Allegra belongs at this benefit.”

  It was still so unreal. A week ago she was wishing for it and now she was listed on the benefit’s website. Suddenly her studio space felt smaller than ever. The empty dress forms stood forlorn without fabric. Her sewing machine waited silently, willing her to begin. The huge inspiration wall filled with clippings, swatches, and sketches seemed to taunt her: you have all these ideas yet none fit together.

  Her mouth grew painfully dry. Dust danced about the light fixtures, and stale air clogged her throat. Charlie and Holly leaned forward, waiting, as if a fabulous, fully formed idea would leap out in a thought bubble over her head.

  “I need to get out,” she announced abruptly. “I need fresh air.”

  “I’ll come—” Holly offered.

  “No.” Emma cut her off. She grabbed her sketchbook and pencil. “Sorry, I just got to clear my head. Not think of anything but the clothes for a bit.”

  She’d done this before. Walks around the city always brought inspiration. The shape of the skyscrapers, the blurring colors of the traffic, the exotic trinkets in the store windows.

  “Ivana put together an online study group for Bio,” Holly said quickly, her words running together. “I’m going pack up my laptop then go home to join in. Okay?”

  “Good luck,” Emma said. Normally, Holly hanging out with Ivana, even online, would bother her. Today her mind was too wrapped in design ideas. She glanced at Charlie. “You?”

  “Staying put.” He fitted his headphones over his ears and opened a notebook. Then he closed his eyes and nodded in beat with his music.

  Emma hurried out past Marjorie, who was on the phone again, and into the elevator. Two women in intricate silk saris stood murmuring in a corner. Emma couldn’t help but notice the detailed work of their traditional Indian garments. The shorter woman’s was made of a deep purple raw silk with embroidered turquoise details and a smattering of sequins. Even in the dull florescent lighting of the elevator, the fabric shimmered. The taller woman’s sari was a deep burnt orange with pomegranate edging. The silver sequins that delicately trimmed the neckline of the fabric reminded Emma of the edible silver balls her Mom’s favorite bakery on the West Side used to decorate the pink-iced cakes. The saris gave the otherwise dank industrial elevator a festive vibe.

  Emma really wanted to touch the fabric. Feel its weight and softness. See how it was able to fall so delicately over the women’s curvy bodies. But that would be way too weird. She flipped her sketchbook open to an empty page and began to draw the saris. She kept her fingers busy sketching.

  The elevator stopped and the women walked out, their heads still pressed together in conversation. Emma wished they would stay. Her sketch wasn’t done. She watched them retreat down a darkened hallway, the soft swish of the exotic fabric muffled by angry voices.

  “This is your fault! Do you see? Do you see all this fabric?”

  At the mention of fabric, Emma shifted her focus to the scene playing out before her. The elevator doors had opened, like curtains, on a massive argument. A tall, thin man with tawny skin and wire-rimmed glasses stood in front of an office door directly across from the elevator. A large vein in his forehead throbbed as he yelled at a heavy-set bald man.

  Emma’s eyes fell on bolts of raw silk and cotton lying at the men’s feet.

  “Ruined! Ruined! Ruined!” the thin man ranted. “Do you realize the quality of this material that is now garbage?”

  Even from four feet away, Emma saw it was the good stuff. The elevator doors began to close. Impulsively, she slipped out between them and into the hallway.

  The men took no notice.

  “The flood. It no my fault,” the older, bald man countered in halting English. “I sorry. It is bad pipe that make flood.”

  “Water in my showroom. Do you get the magnitude of the damage?” The thin man wouldn’t let up. “You are the building superintendent. It is your job to make sure the pipes don’t burst.”

  The superintendent shook his head vigorously. “I no control the pipes. Pipes are old. It is cold.” He shrugged. “Happens.”

  “Somebody needs to reimburse me. This fabric has water stains. It’s lost to me.” The thin man kicked the nearest bolt with the tip of his brown lace-up shoe.

  Emma tried to pretend that she was intently reading something in her sketchbook and wasn’t eavesdropping. She secretly eyed the fabric. Some bolts were pure-white thick cotton. Others were a creamy ivory silk. The lighting was dark in the hallway, but she could see the water stains creeping along one edge of the rolls.

  “I fix the leak now. Go get my tools.” The bald superintendent hurriedly turned away from the angry fabric importer. “You call building manager. Leak his fault.”

  Emma felt herself nod. Her dad always complained about Mr. Kriptka, the building manager. He called him The Ghost. He never returned calls, never came by, and never spent money to improve the tired, old building.

  The fabric importer sighed, realizing that he would now have to battle with the invisible Mr. Kriptka. “Hurry back!” he called then noticed Emma staring at him. “May I help you?”

  Emma read the small, metal sign affixed to the door behind him. Sultan Silks. Her dad often teamed up with them to sell materials to wedding dress manufacturers—her dad’s lace and this man’s silk.

  “I heard…I mean, I was getting off the elevator and I heard…your fabric got ruined?” Emma started tentatively.

  “Yeah. Luckily, the pipe burst at the far end of the showroom. I would’ve been sunk if it had flooded the storeroom.” He eyed her suspiciously. There weren’t many teenage girls wandering the halls of Garment District suppliers. “You are?”

  “My dad is Noah Rose. He owns Laceland. Upstairs on eleven.” Emma pointed toward the ceiling as if that would better explain who she was. “I’m Emma.”

  The man nodded and his face relaxed a bit.

  She stepped closer to the bolts of silk and squatted to get a better look. “The water is only on one side.”

  “One side. Two sides. All over. It doesn’t matter.” He waved his hands in the air. “No one wants ruined merchandise. I have to toss it all away.”

  Emma’s mind spun. She could cut away the stained sections. With some stealthy scissor action, there was plenty to craft dresses, gowns, tops, and even a jumpsuit. An entire collection!

  “Can I have it?” she asked. “I mean, that is, if you’re really going to throw it away?”

  “I can’t imagine what you’re going to do with damaged silk and cotton”—he opened the door behind them—“but it’s all yours. You just need to get it out of the hall before the end of the day or the cleaning crew will have their way with it. I must go deal with the mess and the insurance company.”

  “Thank you. Thank you!” Emma cried. She couldn’t believe her luck. The fashion gods were totally smiling down on her. Firs
t, getting to be a part of the benefit and now this gorgeous fabric literally waiting at her feet for free!

  She tugged at a bolt and nearly toppled backward under its weight. She needed help.

  U there? she texted Charlie.

  Always, he replied immediately.

  Help needed. Go to 3rd floor.

  ???? Charlie responded.

  Ask Isaac 4 hand cart. Bring to 3rd flr. Emma texted. Then she added, Please.

  Charlie had a lot of questions when he arrived, rolling hand cart in tow, and saw the damaged fabric. Emma didn’t have answers. All she knew was that somehow, some way, she was going to use this water-stained white and ivory material.

  Together they hefted two bolts onto the cart and transported them back to her studio.

  “Look what I brought you,” she whispered to the three headless dress forms. “Naked no more.”

  She often spoke to The Girls, as she called the forms. Depending on the fabric she draped upon them, they changed features and personalities. Some days they were university students in Paris. Some days they were actresses walking the red carpet. Some days they were artists at their first gallery showing. Whoever they were, The Girls were always happiest when Emma draped and pinned fabric on them. They liked it when the studio was busy.

  So did Emma.

  “I’m going to come up with a collection idea that you’ll love,” she whispered. “I promise.”

  She, Charlie, and her dad packed up and left Laceland together. Charlie walked west toward the Hell’s Kitchen walk-up he shared with his mother. Emma and her dad caught the 34th Street bus, heading east then transferred to the Second Avenue bus heading uptown. As the bus inched through the gridlock traffic, Emma filled Dad in on Goin’ Green and her plans. Getting off at 52nd Street, they huddled together under one large umbrella and walked the two blocks east toward their apartment building. Dad was on his phone—something to do with a tear in a shipment of lace.

  Emma watched the rain splatter on the sidewalk. Puddles caught the light from the streetlamps and shimmered as the rain danced on their surface. The cars’ red taillights and the yellow of the taxis combined to form a wet rainbow. In the winter darkness, the city sparkled from the wetness.

  Out over the East River and into the distance, the white lights lining the bridge to Queens twinkled in the mist, looking like a diamond necklace from Tiffany’s. Or like glass beads trimming a collar of a long, black evening dress. Bright headlights cut through the darkness, and the pink neon of the store signs flashed. Emma thought of the sparkly pink sari. The raindrops clung the edge of the umbrella like dripping jewels.

  A little sparkle, no—a lot of sparkle.

  She let her imagination run wild. Beaded shoulder straps. Beaded belts. Beaded necklines that gave the illusion that the wearer had on the most amazing necklace.

  That’s how she’d anchor her collection.

  She’d make it sparkle.

  Allegra Biscotti would shine at the benefit.

  CHAPTER 4

  DRESS LIKE AN EGYPTIAN

  “I need you to know your stuff. This a review of last night’s reading,” Ms. Ling informed the class. She finished drawing a Venn diagram on the whiteboard—four interlocking circles for the four ancient river valley civilizations. “The compare-and-contrast test is later this week.”

  Everyone copied the words Ms. Ling wrote, taking meticulous notes, but Emma’s mind drifted far from the Indus and the Nile. The graphic pattern of the overlapping Venn circles intrigued her—much more than the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. Her pen strayed to the margins of her notebook.

  What if she made the circles different sizes?

  What if one was large and the others were small?

  She imagined repeating the pattern on a tunic. Interlocking rings of the same color. She’d embroider one circle with glass beads that caught the light.

  Shimmer. She was all about shimmer now.

  She still hadn’t told Charlie or Holly her great idea. Later, when they met up at Laceland, she’d lay out all the plans she’d stayed up late into the night crafting. Just the thought of her sparkly designs made her shiver with excitement.

  “Moving on.” Ms. Ling’s clipped voice popped Emma’s fashion bubble. She hurried to scribble the whiteboard information around the series of circles now flooding her page. Maybe when she finished the show she’d stencil a plain T-shirt with the pattern.

  “We will be doing an in-depth project on the river valley civilizations. A group project.” Ms. Ling leaned toward the computer screen on her desk. “One group per civilization.”

  The buzzing began. Whispers and gestures to friends. Promises to work together. Emma frantically searched out a friendly face who was also smart. Maybe Pooja or Audrey?

  Ms. Ling cleared her throat. “I have already made the groups.”

  Emma grimaced. The only thing worse than a group project was one where the teacher masterminded the groups. She held her breath as Ms. Ling read them with a forced enthusiasm.

  Emma exhaled when she landed in the ancient Egypt group. That was good news. She liked the pyramid and mummification thing much better than the Fertile Crescent. The bad news: Lexie was in her group.

  Lexie kept her dark eyes focused forward, never bothering to glance or nod at Emma, as their names were called, one than the other. No acknowledgement that they were in this together. Then again, Emma reasoned, Lexie barely ever talked to her without Holly around. A group project wasn’t going to change that.

  The class filed down the hall to the Media Center to begin their research. Today Western Civ was a double period at the end of the day. Their schedules moved like that. One day English was first, the next day it was directly before lunch, and the next it was the final period. Holly always complained that she was forever confused about where to go when. Emma found it a relief. She hated doing the same thing the same way every day.

  “Ancient Egypt over here!” Lexie called. Books on each civilization were stacked Jenga-style in the center of each table.

  Emma slid into one of the chairs. Chloe Kang folded herself into the seat to her left. Chloe was tall, lanky, and extremely awkward. She constantly bumped into things. She wore a black trapeze sweater and stretchy black pants. She was a hard worker, which Emma reasoned was good for a group project, but Chloe was extremely shy. Like a new-to-the-city shoe lover at a Manolo Blahnik sample sale, Chloe would be trampled by Lexie.

  “Hey, how’s your mummy?” Clayton Vanderbeek joked loudly as he pulled out a chair.

  No one laughed.

  “You can’t de-Nile that I’m funny,” Clayton leaned his thick forearms on the table. “We could do a mummy project. You know, where they pull the organs out the nose with a special hook. Or, of corpse, I can rap! Get it? Rap. Wrap. Like a mummy.”

  “Really, Clayton, I thought you needed a brain to get into this class.” Lexie sneered. “That is, one that works.”

  Clayton rubbed his hand over his the blond fuzz of his buzz cut. “Do not underestimate my smarts, Blackburn. I can say the alphabet backward, can you? Z, Y, X, W…”

  Clayton was a mystery to Emma. He was an over-sized goofball, always clowning around. He was the kid with the whoopee cushion and fake spiders. For some reason, Holly liked his silly humor. She had a major crush on Clayton. He was also Jackson’s good friend. They played together on the soccer team. Emma had always written him off as a dumb guy looking for attention, but Lexie was right. If he was in this class, it meant that he’d scored really well on the placement test. Emma had been pressured to take the test by her mom, who as an English teacher at Downtown Day. She was good friends with Ms. Ling and thought Emma would get a lot out of studying ancient civilizations. Who had forced Clayton to take the test, she wondered? Had Clayton been playing at being stupid all these years? Could there really be more to him?

  “…N, M, L…” Clayton continued though no one cared.

  Maybe not, Emma thought.

  The final two chairs at the
ir table were taken by Kayla Levine, who pushed hers so close to Lexie’s she was nearly sitting in her friend’s lap, and Marco Alvarez, the twitchy boy, who made sure he was as far from Lexie as possible. Not that it mattered. Lexie didn’t give the boy even a sideways glance. As low as Emma was on Lexie’s popularity barometer, Marco was even lower.

  Emma reached for the book on the top of the tower. The cover caught her attention. A pastel illustration of Cleopatra in all her glory. Her striking face with its prominent nose and high cheekbones was framed by shiny, jet-black hair and full bangs. Her brooding eyes, ornately outlined in smoky hues, stared past Emma, transfixed by something in the distance. A headpiece of pure gold inlaid with amethysts rested upon her straight hair, and golden discs hung from her ears.

  “We need a plan,” Lexie started. “Ms. Ling said we have to prepare a multi-media presentation on our civilization—”.

  “Ancient Egypt,” Marco interjected.

  “Obviously.” Lexie raised her dark eyebrows at Kayla.

  Kayla giggled, her red glossed lips parting to reveal the glint of silver braces.

  Marco cringed and brought his pencil near his mouth. One more icy glare from Queen Lexie and Emma was sure he’d gnaw all the way through it.

  “We need one main topic,” Lexie continued, suddenly the self-appointed group leader, “and then we can weave in all the historical information, timelines, and contributions to modern society into that framework.”

  “Totally,” Kayla agreed, always eager to back up Lexie. “What about the pyramids?”

  “We could combine the pyramids and the wonder of their construction with burial tombs,” Chloe added. She’d already started taking notes. Unlike Emma’s, Chloe’s pages were clear of any distractions. Just her notes in tiny handwriting. No drawings. No scribbles.

  “Predictable.” Lexie waved Chloe’s suggestion away, as if she were swatting a fly. “We can’t do burial tombs and mummies.”

  “I love my mummy,” Clayton squeaked in a high-pitched baby voice.