Fashion Academy Page 2
“I want to be a designer,” Mickey replied. “FAB is where you go to be a designer.”
“Couldn’t you just go to middle school in Philly here with me and still be a designer?” Annabelle pleaded. “We’ve been friends since first grade. It’ll be totally weird without you.”
Mickey knew Annabelle depended on her—not just for answers on their science homework and advice on what to wear—but for emotional support as well.
“I don’t have any clue what I want to be when I grow up,” her friend admitted. “How come you always know things?”
Mickey shrugged. “You’ll figure it out. You’re really good at dancing. Maybe you’ll be a Rockette!”
Annabelle rolled her eyes. “Puh-lease. As if my parents would ever let me be a dancer! My mom’s a lawyer and my dad’s a radiologist. They’re sending me to law school or medical school, like it or not.”
Mickey knew that was probably true. Unlike her mom, who always encouraged her to follow her passion, Annabelle’s parents put a lot of pressure on her to get straight As in school, take piano lessons, speak Latin…
“You’re totally gonna forget I exist.” Her friend interrupted her thoughts.
“No way!” Mickey replied. “How could I forget the person who broke my toe with her bike in first grade?”
Annabelle laughed. “That was an accident. Your toe got in the way of my wheel.”
Mickey held up her flip-flop. “See? My pinkie toe is still crooked. All I have to do to remember you is look at it.”
“Well, just in case you need reminding…” Annabelle handed her a small box with a ribbon on top.
“What’s this?” Mickey asked. “It’s not a going-away present, is it? ’Cause I’m not going away! I’ll be home so much on the weekends and holidays you’ll get sick of seeing me.”
“Just open it,” Annabelle said.
Mickey took off the lid and saw there was a small silver thimble charm on a chain.
“I couldn’t find a sewing machine charm,” Annabelle said softly. “This was the best I could do. I kinda think it says ‘fashion designer,’ don’t you?”
Mickey threw her arms around her friend and hugged her tight. “It’s the best present ever!” She took it out of the box and secured it around her neck. “I’ll never take it off.”
“Eww. Not even on Field Day? Because you get so disgustingly sweaty,” Annabelle teased her.
“Okay, maybe on Field Day. But that’s the only time.”
They finished their cones and said a quick good-bye.
“I’ll call you and let you know all about FAB,” Mickey promised.
“I’ll call you when I need help with my biology homework,” Annabelle replied. “And you are so coming home to help me dissect a frog.”
As she walked back down the street to her apartment, Mickey wanted desperately to look back and wave. But she knew if she did, it would be that much harder. So instead, she kept walking.
“Here we are,” Mickey’s mom said when they arrived at Aunt Olive’s three-story walk-up on West 88th and Columbus. They had somehow managed to get all of Mickey’s luggage on the train from Philly to NYC, and now the cab driver was unloading it on the curb.
“Is that it?” the driver asked, mopping his brow. “What do you call this thing?” He set Mickey’s dress form down on the sidewalk. “It’s like a headless, armless, legless mannequin on wheels!” he said.
Mickey chuckled. “That’s Edith,” she explained to the puzzled man. “I named her after Edith Head, one of the most famous costume designers in fashion design history.”
“Uh-huh,” the man said, looking puzzled. “Where’d her head go?”
“Dress forms don’t need a head,” Mickey said. “You use them to fit your designs. Sometimes I sew right on her! I got Edith at a yard sale for fifteen dollars in the fourth grade. We’ve been inseparable ever since.”
Her mom paid the fare, and the driver pulled off. “I suppose that you, Edith, and I should head on up to Aunt Olive’s,” she said.
They rang the buzzer for 3B and waited patiently for Olive to buzz her up.
“Aren’t you coming in?” Mickey asked when her mom paused at the third-floor landing.
“It’s probably better if I don’t,” her mother hesitated. “Olive and I don’t exactly get along.” She set Mickey’s sewing machine down on the floor next to her. “I’m sure you’ll do great, honey. But if you ever want to come home—even tomorrow—you can just change your mind. You know the door is wide open.”
Mickey took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. Olive looked through the peephole and barked, “Who’s there?”
Mickey’s mom shook her head and shouted, “Who do you think it is, Olive? It’s us!”
She gave Mickey one last hug. “See ya on the weekend, right?”
Mickey nodded. “It’s only a week away, Mom. I’ll see you Saturday. Every Saturday! I promise!”
She watched her mom descend the stairs then heard several locks and bolts turn on the other side of the door.
Aunt Olive poked her head out and glared at Mickey. “Are you going to just stand there or are you coming in?” she asked. “I see your mother was too rude to come in and greet me.”
Mickey forced a smile and tried to be pleasant and friendly. “Hi, Aunt Olive!” she said. “I’m so happy to be here!” She went to hug her aunt, but instead Olive extended her hand. Mickey wasn’t sure if she was supposed to shake it or kiss it!
She looked around the apartment: it was a small but tidy two-bedroom with several paintings of birds on the walls. In fact, as Olive gave her the tour, she realized there were birds everywhere: dozens of tiny porcelain ones, bird-decorated towels in the bathroom, even a real parakeet perched in a cage in the living room.
“Wow, you like birds, huh?” Mickey said, poking her finger through the bars at the fluffy, little, yellow creature chirping at her.
“Murray bites,” Olive grunted. “Keep your fingers away.”
“Oh!” Mickey replied. “Thanks for the tip.”
“I am an ornithologist,” Olive explained.
Mickey looked confused. “Is that like an eye doctor or something?”
Olive huffed. “No, it’s a bird-watcher. If you want, you can tag along with me this weekend to Central Park. There’s an amazing nest of black-capped chickadees near the reservoir.”
What Mickey wanted to say was, “No way! That sounds deadly boring!” but instead she replied, “Awesome.”
“You’ll sleep in here,” Olive said, pointing to a small room off the kitchen. It was painted banana yellow.
“It’s really pretty,” Mickey said, pretending to like it. She wheeled in Edith and set her tackle box filled with threads, needles, pins, zippers, and scissors on the small nightstand. No matter where she went, she found something to add to it: a cool stud or grommet, an interesting snap or vintage button. It was her magic box for designing.
“It used to be my office, but I suppose I can make do,” Olive said with a sigh. “I didn’t think you’d be bringing so much stuff with you.” She helped Mickey carry in a huge tote bag that weighed a ton. “What’s in here?”
“My steamer, my iron, my muslin for draping patterns…”
“I see,” Olive said. “Your mother didn’t mention that you’d come with all of this.”
“Thank you so much for letting me stay with you,” Mickey said, plopping down on the edge of the bed. Like the walls, the cover, sheets, and pillowcases were all yellow as well—with more birds on them.
“I’m really good at sewing and dyeing fabric,” Mickey mentioned. “Maybe I could do some pretty new curtains and a quilt…”
Olive frowned. “You’ll do nothing of the sort!”
Mickey gulped. She had been there only five minutes and already managed to irritate her aunt.
; “The room is great—really,” she tried to explain. “It’s just not exactly my style.”
Olive eyed Mickey’s black leather jacket, gray tank top, jean shorts, and purple Dr. Martens.
“Yes, well, I could see that it might not be. But I just went to Macy’s and purchased that bedding.”
Now Mickey felt guilty. “Oh, I love it. Really. You have great taste.”
That seemed to calm her aunt down.
“I’m really hungry from the train ride.” Mickey tried to change the subject. “Can we maybe go out and get some pizza or something?”
“I’m a vegan,” Olive sniffed. “And I don’t allow any processed food in my home.”
Mickey took that to mean no to a slice. “Okay, then what would you like to eat?” She regretted the words as soon as they came out of her mouth.
“I have some leftover black bean soup and spinach chickpea curry,” her aunt replied.
“Yum,” Mickey gulped. “Sounds delish.”
“Then wash up,” Olive ordered her. She presented Mickey with a hand towel from the linen closet and a small bottle of hand sanitizer. “I suggest you carry this with you at all times in your backpack. Schools are full of germs, and I don’t want you bringing them home…”
She wandered off to start heating up their dinner.
Mickey took out her phone and began texting her mom: Help! Aunt Olive is making vegetarian slop for dinner, and she’s a germophobic bird-watcher! But before she hit send, she reconsidered. The last thing she wanted her mom to do was worry—or worse, say, “I told ya so.”
Everything GR8 with Aunt Olive! she typed and sent.
Even if it wasn’t, she had to remind herself that she was here in NYC at last, following her dreams. And if that meant she had to eat beans and tofu for the next two hundred or so days of school, then she would do it and never complain. Some dreams were worth making sacrifices for.
After spending the weekend with her aunt, Mickey concluded that Olive wasn’t that bad—at least not as bad as her mom made her out to be. She was just a bit uptight. It was hard for Mickey to understand how she and her mom could be sisters, much less fraternal twins. They had the same curly, strawberry-blond hair, though her mom highlighted hers and wore it long and loose and Olive pinned hers back in a tight bun. She recognized her aunt’s eyes as well—they were emerald green, just like her mom’s. Too bad she hid them behind thick tortoiseshell glasses. Then there was her style: Olive looked like she had stepped out of a time warp. She wore a ruffled pink blouse, long pearls, and an A-line brown skirt. Maybe she was going for a retro fifties vibe? It was the opposite of her mom’s ripped jeans and vintage rock T-shirts. Maybe there had been some mistake and they were switched at birth? Maybe her granny Gertrude got confused and accidentally picked up the wrong baby in the park one day?
Olive was also a neat freak who insisted that everything be “spic and span” and in its place.
“Mackenzie, clean up after yourself!” she scolded when Mickey left her sketchbook and colored pencils on the kitchen table. No one called her Mackenzie; her mom only used it when she was mad at her. It was a name she barely recognized or answered to. But as many times as she corrected Aunt Olive, she insisted on calling her by her “proper name.”
“Mom calls me Mickey, and I call her Jordana sometimes,” she tried to explain.
“I don’t care what you call your mom or she calls you. And you call me Aunt Olive out of respect,” she warned her.
Mickey wrinkled her nose. “Really? Mom says she called you Olliegator when you were little. I think that’s cute.”
Olive pursed her lips. “I’m an adult,” she replied sternly. Aunt Olive was an executive assistant at a big law firm, and she took everything very seriously. “Your mother needs to grow up.”
But that was exactly what Mickey loved about her mom—how she was such a free spirit and never cared what anyone thought or said about her. Mickey tried her hardest to be that way, but sometimes it was hard.
For the first day of FAB, she set her alarm for six o’clock so she would have time to style her outfit properly. She was proud of how it had all come together. She’d taken a beaten-up denim jacket from a thrift shop and dyed it black before adding crocheted doilies for trim at the collars and cuffs. It said exactly what she wanted it to say about her: “I’m edgy but feminine.” And wasn’t that what fashion was all about? Not just a trend or a style, but a reflection of who you are and how you’re feeling? That was what Mickey loved about designing the most, and what she had written on her FAB application:
I love how you can speak volumes with a single stitch. Fashion should be fearless! I want to be a designer who always colors outside the lines and thinks outside of the box…
She was pretty sure Aunt Olive didn’t see it that way. Her idea of taking a fashion risk was wearing a skirt that was hemmed above the knee.
“Does it really go together?” she asked, noticing how Mickey had paired her jacket with a white tank top and bike shorts, both of which were splatter-painted with green-and-yellow drips.
“It isn’t supposed to go,” Mickey told her. “It’s supposed to look creative, which is what FAB is all about. Pushing the envelope!”
She added a pair of green cat-eye sunglasses.
“Well, it’s colorful.” Her aunt sighed. “I’ll give you that. And so is your hair. Good heavens!”
Mickey had created green stripes in her long, wavy, blond hair with hair chalk.
“Now for the finishing touch!” she said. “No outfit is complete without accessories!” She slipped her feet into a pair of black high-top sneakers, tied the yellow laces, and grabbed her bag.
“What is that?” her aunt asked, scratching her head. She squinted to make out the words on Mickey’s tote.
“It used to say ‘Louis Vuitton’—it’s a bag you keep a really fancy expensive bag in. Which if you ask me, is pretty silly,” Mickey explained.
Olive seemed puzzled. “You mean a dust bag? You made that out of a dust bag?”
Mickey spun the tote around. “Two of them, actually!” The other side read “PRADA.”
“What? How? Why?” Olive asked.
“Well, it’s perfectly good flannel,” Mickey replied. “And don’t you think it’s kinda funny? A statement about recycling? I used two leather belts for the straps and jazzed it up with some studding at the seams. It cost me about four dollars total at the flea market!”
She threw the bag over her shoulder and glanced at the clock. It was eight, and the school bus would be along shortly to pick her up on the corner.
“Your breakfast is ready,” Olive said, handing her a glass of green sludge. This was worse then yesterday’s quinoa and fruit concoction! She missed her mom’s breakfasts of leftover Chinese takeout omelets or cold pizza. But Aunt Olive insisted she start the first day of school with “something healthy and nutritious.”
“Do you have any chocolate milk?” she asked, getting up to check the fridge for something edible.
“This is better for you. It’s fresh kale, celery, cucumber, ginger, and a touch of agave. It’s delicious.” She took a big sip of her own glass and licked her lips.
Mickey wrinkled her nose. It didn’t look or smell delicious. “I think I’ll grab something in the cafeteria,” she said, pushing the glass away. “I’m too nervous to eat.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. She was pretty terrified for her first day at FAB. Just then, Mickey’s phone rang.
“All ready to conquer the world?” her mom asked.
“I think so, Jordana,” she replied.
“Ah, I see. We’re trying to sound very mature this morning. Send me a picture of the first-day outfit and call me tonight. I want to hear all the deets.”
Mickey smiled. Her mom was trying to sound cool. “I will. Love you.”
As the bus pulled up to
the corner of Columbus Avenue, Mickey took a deep breath. This wasn’t just the first day of FAB. It was the first day of the rest of her life. The first day of everything.
The trip over the Brooklyn Bridge had taken longer than she expected, but Mickey didn’t mind the bumper-to-bumper traffic or the honking horns. She was taking it all in: the sights and sounds that were New York City, fashion capital of the world! As the kids filed off the school bus, she was able to get a better look at what they were all wearing. She saw several Abercrombie hoodies, a few Brandy Melville graphic tees, countless pairs of Superga sneakers in boring tennis white.
What happened to pushing the envelope? she wondered. Where was the creativity? The originality? They all looked like carbon copies of each other.
“Nice hair,” a girl snickered as she pushed past her with her posse. She was dressed in a simple jean skirt and pink graphic T-shirt that read “#pretty.”
“Didn’t you get the memo? It’s not Halloween!”
Mickey walked up the steps to the school’s huge gray concrete and glass doors. Even the building looked boring.
A voice behind her read her mind. “You were expecting something a bit more artsy, right?” She turned to see a short boy carrying a purple tote bag that was almost as big as he was. She noticed the bag had holes in the sides.
“I guess,” Mickey replied. “I’m not sure what I was expecting.”
“You’re new,” he said, climbing the steps. “Sixth-grader?”
Mickey nodded. “You?”
“Seventh. I’m Javen Cumberland.” He dug in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a business card. Mickey read it: “JC Canine Couture.”
“You design for dogs?” She gasped.
The boy raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t be so judgy, Miss ‘I colored my hair to look like a salad…’”
“It’s green, okay? I like green.”
He chuckled. “Apparently. But your bag rocks. Really.”
Mickey smiled and noticed that his bag was moving. “Is there something in there?” she whispered.