Designer Drama Page 2

  JC pushed the pile of scraps aside and took out his laptop. “Mick, if you want to be inspired by Paris, then you need to see it.” He passed her the computer and clicked on a folder. A slideshow of photos appeared.

  “Voilà!” JC said. “Paris by day, Paris by night!”

  Mickey looked closely at the screen. “Paris by JC! These are your vacation photos!”

  “Oh, here I am with Madonna standing under the Arc de Triomphe,” he said, remembering. “And here I am with Madonna at the Louvre Museum.”

  “No offense to you or your dog, but this is not doing anything to get my creativity flowing,” Mickey insisted.

  JC slammed his laptop shut. “Fine. You need to embrace the French culture. This instant.”

  “Here? In New York City?” Mickey asked. “How am I supposed to do that? Order in french fries?”

  JC pulled her toward the door. “First stop, the Met Museum to see the works of some of the great French impressionist painters. Then we’ll grab some escargot at my mom’s favorite little French bistro.”

  “Wait!” Mickey protested. “Isn’t that snails? You want me to eat snails?”

  “I want you to understand what the French joie de vivre is all about,” JC insisted. “It will really help inspire your designs. Can’t you see a hat shaped like a snail shell?”

  “But I thought I’d make a dress that drapes like the Eiffel Tower,” Mickey said. She was disappointed that JC was already trying to change her design ideas, just like the time he tried to change her into “Kenzie Wills,” a faux Finnish fashion socialite. It hadn’t worked. In fact, it had only made Jade hate her more.

  “You can do whatever your heart desires,” JC assured her. “But you asked me to help you create something authentically French. You can’t do that unless you do your homework.”

  He pulled a small green box out of his bag and opened it. Inside were the prettiest pink and purple macarons Mickey had ever seen.

  “Have one,” he said, waving them under her nose.

  “They smell like…like…flowers.”

  “Roses to be exact. And the purple one is violet.”

  “The French eat flowers?” Mickey asked, taking a nibble. The cookie was light and sweet with just a hint of rose flavor. She gobbled the rest in one bite.

  “The French are about the senses: sights, smells, tastes, textures,” JC rattled off.

  “Uh-huh,” Mickey said with her mouth full. She had helped herself to seconds and thirds. “This is really good.”

  He opened the door. “Are you coming?” he asked. “I know an amazing little French chocolate shop that gives out free samples.”

  Mickey grabbed her denim jacket. “Lead the way!”

  • • •

  Once they had eaten several chocolate truffles and stopped to wash them down with a bottle of bubbly French spring water, JC led Mickey to the steps of the Met Museum. The museum was a block long, perched on the edge of Central Park and filled with every kind of art imaginable. As Mickey bounded up the steps and entered the main hall, she had no idea where to go or start. Entire wings were dedicated to different artists, periods, and techniques.

  “Ooh, can we start in the Egyptian wing?” she asked, tugging on JC’s sleeve.

  “Another day,” JC said. “We’re headed to the French impressionists.” He pulled Mickey along after him. “I’ve been coming here since I was a little kid—so I know where everything is.”

  Mickey nodded. That was good because she could barely figure out the map the lady at the information booth had handed her.

  “I have my favorite paintings,” he continued, “but I don’t want to influence you. You pick your own.” He led her to a section labeled “Art and Modernism.”

  Mickey wandered around the galleries, trying to absorb it all. There were so many artists’ works to take in: Renoir, Manet, Monet, Cézanne, Degas. A plaque on the wall explained that in 1874, a group of artists called the Anonymous Society of Painters, Sculptors, and Printmakers organized an exhibition that launched the entire impressionist movement.

  “So they kind of all marched to their own drummer?” Mickey asked, taking it all in. “Cool!” The plaque also pointed out that impressionist paintings were considered shocking and radical to eyes accustomed to more sober colors.

  “I bet I would have gotten along great with these guys,” she added.

  “I love this one—for obvious reasons,” JC said, pointing to a Renoir of a young woman dressed in pale blue with a tiny, white dog at her feet. “Now that’s a perfectly painted pup.”

  But something else caught Mickey’s eye across the room—something magical.

  “What in the world?” she asked, getting closer to a painting of groups of people in a park. When she was almost nose to nose with the painting, all the images of the people, the trees, and the grass became millions of tiny, different-colored dots.

  “How do they do that?” Mickey wondered out loud.

  A man with a blue beret, a pointy gray beard, and a black eye patch overheard and answered her. “It’s a technique called pointillism,” he said. “Seurat was the master, no?”

  “No… I mean yes!” Mickey said. She noticed that the man had a slight French accent. “I love all the colors and how they blend so seamlessly together into a bigger picture.”

  “You have a good eye for art,” the man said. “I do too. You see?” He pointed to his one good eye and laughed. Then he noticed her outfit. Beneath her jacket, she was still wearing her cancan skirt and mismatched boots. “And for fashion as well?”

  “I try.” Mickey blushed. “Are you an artist?”

  “A teacher.” He extended his hand to shake. “I’m Tony.”

  “I’m Mickey.” She motioned toward JC who was still admiring the Cézanne. “My friend brought me here to learn about French art.”

  “Well,” Tony continued. “Your friend is very wise. This is one of the greatest collections of French impressionism in the world.”

  JC came back to stand beside Mickey and glared at Tony. “And you are?”

  “This is JC,” Mickey said, introducing her friend. “And this is Tony. He knows so much about pointing-ism.”

  “Pointillism.” Tony chuckled. “The painting technique Seurat uses.”

  “Yeah, well, good for him.” JC sniffed. He took Mickey by the arm and pulled her toward the gallery exit.

  When they were outside on the steps to the museum, Mickey finally had time to catch her breath. “Really, JC? That was so rude!”

  “Rude? You promised your aunt Olive you wouldn’t talk to strangers. I turn my back for five seconds, and I find you having a whole conversation with Bluebeard the pirate!”

  Mickey chuckled. “You are so overly dramatic,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “He was just some nice gentleman who liked French art.”

  “He looked suspicious to me,” JC said. “Like an international art thief. Or a spy!”

  “He said he was a teacher. And he did teach me about pointillism. Now I have a great idea for my sketches.”

  JC smiled. “Why am I not surprised?”

  When Mickey got to class Monday morning, she couldn’t wait to show Mr. Kaye what she and JC had worked on over the weekend. She had so many sketches that her binder was bursting with them.

  “Settle down, settle down,” Mr. Kaye said as he entered the studio. “I have a splitting headache.”

  “Uh-oh,” Gabriel whispered to her. “This isn’t going to be pretty. He’s in a bad m-o-o-d.”

  “I can spell,” Mr. Kaye said. “And I have extremely sharp hearing.”

  Mickey gulped. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to show him all of her ideas. But it was too late not to.

  “Mickey, you’re up first. What do you have to present to the class?”

  Jade stifled a yawn. “Can we make
it quick? The real designers here are waiting to show their work.”

  Mickey stood up and pulled her favorite sketch out of her binder. “This is inspired by a painting called A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of Le Grande Jatte. Sunday is my favorite day of the week because Aunt Olive and I go bird-watching in the park. So you can see the feathers on the shoulders and the green dotted fabric…”

  Jade wrinkled her nose. “What’s with all the polka dots? It looks like your dress has a rash! Poison ivy from the park, maybe?” She elbowed Jake to laugh at her joke.

  “Good one, sis!” he chimed in.

  “It’s a painting technique based on the one used by the French artist Georges Seurat. I’m going to use fabric paints to create a custom textile.”

  Mr. Kaye nodded. “Interesting concept. And I’m glad you mentioned textiles. Tomorrow, I’m taking you all on a field trip to Plush Fabric in the Fashion District.”

  “Ooh,” Mars said. “Plush is the fabric store.”

  “It is,” Mr. Kaye replied. “There are thousands upon thousands of textiles to choose from.”

  Mickey’s hand shot up. “But I kinda wanted to make my own fabric. Would that be okay?”

  Jade snickered. “Of course you do. You probably want to use some old sheets you found in the scrap bin—or the garbage. Good luck with that. I’ll be buying silk and cashmere.”

  “You’ll be buying or using whatever you want—as long as it doesn’t total more than fifty dollars,” Mr. Kaye insisted. “Those are the rules of the International Student Runway competition.”

  “Fifty?” Jade gasped. “That won’t even cover my zippers and thread!”

  Mr. Kaye rubbed his temples. “Then I suggest you get creative. What are you thinking for your design?”

  Jade held up her sketch, and Mickey’s mouth dropped. “It’s inspired by the architecture of Paris,” Jade explained. “The A-line skirt represents the shape of the Eiffel Tower. And the corset back is inspired by the steel crossbeams.”

  “What? That’s what I was doing!” Mickey protested. She pulled out several other sketches from her binder.

  “Well, I thought of it first,” Jade insisted.

  “You did not!” Mickey fired back. “You must have seen my sketches or heard me talking to JC and copied.”

  Jade laughed. “Me? Copy? As if! I’ve been to Paris dozens of times, and I know the architecture inside and out.”

  Mr. Kaye held up his hand. “Ladies, ladies! Enough bickering. Brilliant minds sometimes think alike. One of you will simply have to rethink your collection, or you’ll both be out of the running.”

  • • •

  Mickey texted JC to meet her after Apparel Arts. She could barely contain her anger.

  “It’s so unfair!” she shouted the minute she spotted him making his way toward her locker. “Jade stole my whole Paris architecture idea.”

  “Do you want my opinion?” JC asked.

  Mickey rolled her eyes. “Am I gonna like it?”

  “Your idea was, well, not all that original, Mick. I mean, everyone will probably design collections based on the Eiffel Tower. It’s almost a cliché.”

  Mickey paused to consider. “Ya think?”

  “I think we can do better. What about that sketch you love? The green dots?”

  “I know, I do love the pointillism dress,” she said. “But Jade said it looked like a rash. I can’t do a whole collection covered in dots.”

  “And since when do we care what other people think?” JC reminded her.

  “I know, but it is a bit much—even for me,” Mickey said. “And it would take forever to paint enough fabric for three looks. We only have a week.”

  “Okay,” JC said, taking his sketchbook out of his bag. “So maybe you do one dress inspired by Seurat and one jacket inspired by Renoir.” He showed her a drawing he’d made in the museum of a coat covered in broad, loose brushstrokes. On the back was an image of the white dog from the painting. “I can draw dogs in my sleep.”

  “Stunning!” Mickey said, grabbing the sketch out of his hands. “And brilliant.”

  JC blushed. “Why, yes, I am.” A yap came from inside his bag. “And Madonna seconds that.”

  Mickey giggled. “I meant the design. So we just need a third look inspired by a French artist, and we’re good to go.”

  “You should thank Jade,” JC added. “She just pushed you to come up with an even better idea.”

  Mickey crossed her fingers. “Let’s hope it’s good enough to beat Team Jade.”

  Mickey had never been to Plush Fabric. So when Mr. Kaye ushered them through the doors, her jaw dropped. She felt like she was in Disney World! She had never seen so many bolts of beautiful material and could barely contain her excitement.

  “You’ll find it’s organized by section,” Mr. Kaye explained. “Cottons and silks downstairs; wools and jersey upstairs.”

  “Velvet?” South asked. “Where do I find velvet?” A polite saleswoman wearing a pair of scissors on a string around her neck directed South to the back of the first floor.

  “We need some vegan leather,” Mars reminded Gabriel. “Chocolate brown.” A salesman showed them the section upstairs.

  Mickey wandered up and down the aisles, snipping off swatches of assorted colors so she could compare them. Jade snuck up behind her. In fact, she’d been following Mickey around the entire time, just waiting to pounce.

  “Are we making a patchwork quilt?” Jade asked, snatching a square of blue cotton out of Mickey’s basket. “What’s with all this mess? And ick! Is this polyester?”

  Before Mickey could respond, Jake jumped between her and Jade. “You have to see this silver metallic taffeta I found,” he told his sister. “It’s perfect!”

  Jade’s eyes narrowed. She was having fun taunting Mickey—and Jake had ruined it. “Really? Haven’t I told you never to interrupt me when I’m in the middle of something?”

  “But it’s gorgeous—and really expensive!” Jake replied. He’d said the magic word.

  “Expensive? How expensive?” Jade asked excitedly. “I love expensive!” She forgot all about Mickey and wandered off with her brother.

  Mickey looked down at her basket, filled with multicolored scraps. She had no idea what to do for her third look—a romper? A pantsuit? A moto jacket? And what color should she choose? Maybe Jade was right. It did look like a big mess.

  “You look perplexed,” said a voice behind her.

  Mickey expected to see a salesman—but it was Tony from the museum!

  “Hey!” she said, smiling.

  “We meet again,” he replied, bowing ever so slightly. “May I offer some assistance?”

  “Actually, you could,” Mickey said. “I’m designing a mini collection based on three French painters: Seurat, Renoir, and I have no idea.”

  “Never heard of Monsieur ‘I have no idea,’” Tony teased.

  “I need a third one,” Mickey clarified. “But I don’t know enough about French art to be inspired.”

  “I see,” Tony said. “Tell me about yourself—as a fashion designer.”

  Mickey wrinkled her nose and thought hard. “Well, I don’t try to design like anyone else,” she said. “I guess you would say my looks are a little out of the box?”

  Tony took his phone out of his pocket and pulled up a photo of a boldly painted still life. The blue teapot and yellow and orange fruit practically jumped out of their canvas. “Like this, perhaps?”

  Mickey studied the painting. “The colors are so bright and powerful,” she said.

  “Oui. Gauguin was thought to be very avant-garde in his time.”

  Mickey nodded. “So people didn’t get him?”

  “Get him?” Tony looked confused. “Ah, oui! They didn’t understand or appreciate his art—not for quite some time. While everyone was doing sof
t, muted colors, he chose to paint in brights. His paintings had great symbolism and inspired many painters who followed.”

  Mickey studied the painting. “I like him. He’s inspiring me.” She waved at Mr. Kaye who was across the floor. “Where are the fluorescent fabrics?”

  Mr. Kaye’s eyes grew wide. She wasn’t sure what she had said to upset him, but he came charging toward her with steam coming out of his ears. Then she realized he wasn’t heading for her at all. He was about to grab Tony!

  “Gaston Roget!” he shouted.

  “Chester Kaye,” Tony replied.

  Mickey stared. What was he talking about? Tony had been so nice—and helpful! Then she remembered the name JC had found on the FIFI website—the name of the Apparel Arts teacher and Mr. Kaye’s big competitor. She looked at Tony and realized that without the eye patch, beard, and graying hair, her museum buddy did look slightly familiar.

  “Why are you bothering one of my students?” Mr. Kaye continued yelling at him.

  “I was merely helping,” Tony replied.

  “Helping? Helping her to lose the International Student Runway competition is more likely,” Mr. Kaye fired back.

  He turned to Mickey. “Mackenzie. Leave us—at once!”

  Mickey gulped. She had never seen Mr. Kaye this angry. She backed off and ducked behind a few bolts of fabric where she could hear everything and see the two of them face each other, nose to nose.

  “Such a lovely treat seeing you again, mon ami!” Tony smiled slyly.

  “Don’t you ‘mon ami’ me,” Mr. Kaye replied. “You’re no friend.”

  “Ah, but you forget. We were the best of friends once. A long, long time ago.”

  “Ancient history!” Mr. Kaye snapped. “You are nothing but a slimy, underhanded, conniving…”

  “Tsk-tsk.” Tony waved his pointer finger in Mr. Kaye’s face. “It’s not polite to call people names.”

  “And it’s not polite to steal people’s jobs,” Mr. Kaye said. “You knew I wanted the position at FIFI.”

  “And you found yourself a job here instead—in Brooklyn.”

  Mr. Kaye’s face was now bright red. “Because you stole my job.”