Be Strong & Curvaceous (5 page)

“I did read the manual, Carrie. I’m not completely ignorant. I’m just not interested.”

“It’s
Carly
. Try to drum up enough interest to remember that.” I blinked. Where had
that
come from? Usually I’m better at keeping a zipper on my mouth. The less the general population around here knows about me, the better chance I have of getting the grades I need, bagging my diploma, and getting on with my life. Excepting, of course, my friends and Brett. And Mac was neither.

I braced myself for the inevitable annihilation, but to my surprise she met my gaze full on. “I’m sorry. Carly.” Her cheeks, which had been flushed, paled a little. “My best friend at home is Carrie. Caroline, actually. She has dark hair, too.”

Silence fell, as long as a breath. “My real name is Carolina,” I said, almost afraid to return a personal snippet of information. “So I guess it’s an easy slip of the tongue. You probably miss her.”

“Thank goodness for Skype.” She glanced at me again as she began to get ready for bed. “That’s where I’ve been. In the computer lab, sitting in the dark with the headphones on. Carrie’s just about to go to school.”

“Lissa’s dad is doing post-production on a movie over there, so they do the same thing.” I paused. “I think they were shooting at Strathcairn in the winter.”

“Were they?”

“She said they were using your castle as a set or something.”

She straightened, and whatever color had been in her face drained away completely. “It’s not a
castle
. It’s a
house
. That’s all.”

I couldn’t imagine why that would make her mad. “Whatever.” Time to change the subject, obviously. “I have a message for you.”

“What?” She snatched a fresh towel off the heated drying rack and paused in the doorway to the bathroom.

“We’re both invited to be on the organizing committee for the Design Your Dreams fashion show in June.” Using as few words as possible, I recapped what Emily had told me. “Let Vanessa know if you’re interested. Or I can make sure she gets the message.”

“Are you going to do it?”

I was tempted to lie, to say I hadn’t decided. To make it look like this really didn’t matter to me. But putting on a front might backfire—and besides, a Christian should tell the truth, shouldn’t she? Look at Gillian. She puts it right out there, and it’s up to you to handle it or not. “Yes, I am. But it’s conditional on whether you agree, too.”

“What’s it got to do with me?”

“They’d like you to be the public face—the visible one running the show. To give it an international flavor. I’m not sure what that means, but that’s what they told me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I guess you have cachet—not to mention connections. Maybe you could get Chanel Couture to send you another dress to wear in the show.”

I don’t think she heard the joke. She gazed into space, thinking. “And Vanessa is running the committee?”

“She runs most of the social things here. It’s a gift.”

Mac snorted. “So is social climbing, but you don’t get any respect for it.”

“Oh, she gets plenty of respect. I’m sure inviting both of us to be on the committee was painful for her.”

“Why should asking you be painful?”

Let me count the ways
. “I didn’t realize she knew I existed. She sent someone else to ask me, anyway. I don’t rate a personal invitation.”

Standing in the bathroom doorway, she considered me. “Don’t run yourself down like that. It isn’t right.”

“What do you mean?” I didn’t care how I got the invitation, as long as I got it. Besides, the less contact I had with Vanessa Talbot, the better off I’d be. She’d cozied up to Lissa during our first term, and look how
that
had turned out.

“If she wants me to be on her committee and run her precious show, she’s going to have to ask me herself.” Mac went into the bathroom and turned the shower on. “If you demand respect, Carly, you usually get it.”

I stared blindly at the screen in my lap as the shower began to run. The last thing anybody in their right mind should want is Vanessa Talbot’s respect.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: April 13, 2009

Re: Hey

Hey little sister, how’s it going? Dad told me term started last week. Only three months to go and you’re free for summer vacay.

I probably won’t be able to get away. Jorge and T-Bone McKay (remember I met him at SXSW last year?) asked me to be the assistant sound designer on Robert Earl Keen’s new album. This is major exposure! I haven’t said yes yet, but only because I want to make sure I don’t scream like a groupie when I talk to them.

How are things with those
gringa
girlfriends of yours? Any sewing projects, or are you too busy with boyfriends and fancy dances?

I had words with Dad about sending you up there all by yourself when you could have come and lived with me. What do you think? Senior year in public school in Austin or maybe even Nashville with your family, like a normal person? Just throwing it out there.

Ti hermana,

Alana

ONLY PEOPLE WHO had earls for grandfathers would expect Vanessa to come to them. People who had prune-pickers for grandfathers usually took a more practical stand. As in, shut up and be grateful you got to be on the committee at all. Anything else was pure gravy.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t allow Mac to wait for Vanessa to climb down off her marble plinth and issue a personal invitation. No more keeping my head down and going with the flow. I had to make sure Mac got on that committee, no matter how angry it made me to think about what she’d said. Easy for her to expect people to respect her. That meant they
saw
her first. Visibility was not Mac’s problem. It was mine.

But things were about to change. I’d be visible. Oh, yeah. I was going to walk down that runway in the dream dress of the year, and everyone would sit up and open their eyes then. After I got Mac taken care of, I had exactly nine weeks to make it happen.

I speed-dialed my father’s number at work and got his assistant. “Ocean Technology Procurement, Mr. Aragon’s office.”

“Hi, Marina, it’s Carly. Does Papa have a second to talk?”

“Hi, sweetie. Your timing is perfect. His nine o’clock just left and his ten hasn’t shown yet.”

“And I have a class in ten minutes, so I won’t hold him up when he does show.”

“I’ve trained you well. Here you go.”

My father came on in less than five seconds. “Carly, this is a surprise. Is everything all right?”

“Of course, Papa. But I just need to know . . . I’ve been invited to be on the committee that is putting together a big fashion show in June. For charity.” In case he thought I was wasting my time with extracurriculars, I added, “And I get five community service credits.”

“Good for you! Congratulations.”

“Thanks. But the deal is, I’ll need a dress for the show.”

“Didn’t you just get one? That pink one you wore on Benefactors’ Day?”

“Papa, it’s not like that.”

“Why not? You didn’t spill anything on it, did you?”

“No, I mean I need to make a dress to enter. I’m not sure if it’s being judged or not, but I do know it will help me get an internship this summer.”

“
Mi corazón
, you don’t need to waste your time on a summer job that doesn’t pay. And you know I can’t shell out for extras like dresses. Heaven help me, I couldn’t even give you a
quince-añera
last year. Your Tía Margarita still isn’t speaking to me. And then after I paid your friend back—”

“What?” My mouth hung open on the word.

“Of course I couldn’t let her buy your clothes for you. I weaseled the information out of her before we left that evening and paid her back.”

Lissa had never said a word to me. For two terms now I’d been wracking my brains trying to think of how I could do something for her that equaled her buying half of the evening dress we’d found in the garment district last October. So far I’d come up with nothing. What do you get the girl whose mother’s family owns the biggest shopping center in Southern California?

“Papa, I wish you’d have let me take care of it.”

“How would you do that,
mi’ja
? You’d have to own your own company to afford the kinds of things your friends have.”

“Maybe, but at least I wouldn’t have to burden you with it.”

I blinked at myself. That was it. I’d get a job. I’d do something that would net me the best fabric money could buy. The fabric would help me decide on a design. Because I’d do it myself, no one would feel sorry for me. And most important, I wouldn’t feel this burning sense of obligation toward people I loved, but who didn’t understand how it felt to want everything and have nothing.

And don’t even get me started on my
quince
. I’m so over it.

“So, now that clothes are out of the way, what else can I do for you?” my father asked, clearly with one eye on the clock.

“Oh, nothing, Papa. I just wanted to know if there was anything extra in the kitty. So since there isn’t, I’ll go to Plan B.”

“Okay,
mi’ja
. See you Friday night.”

“ ’Bye, Papa.
Te amo
.”

“I love you, too.”

I flipped my phone shut and grabbed my backpack (Prada, half-price off eBay). As soon as classes were over, I would jump onto Craigslist and scan the job boards. While I waited the day or two it would take to get my applications processed, I’d come up with a design for a dress that would drop jaws and incite major envy. And once I had the job, I’d give up trips to restaurants and do my laundry myself, which would give me even more money toward fabric. To get something really amazing, I’d have to order it from London or Milan, and it would cost a hundred bucks a yard, at least. Maybe no one from school would know that, but the designers sitting in the audience sure would. They knew you had to put quality materials in to get a quality garment. So, figure eight yards for a floor-length gown, plus trim at fifty dollars a foot, plus interfacing and lining, not to mention underthings like a corset bra, and we were talking a major investment.

Nine weeks.

I was burning daylight.

EMILY, GOOD LITTLE MESSENGER that she was, found me in the library during third period on Thursday. Maybe she had free period then, too. Or maybe it hadn’t occurred to her to go to class. I wasn’t sure.

“Hey.” She dimpled at me as she let her bag slide to the floor next to where I stood in the stacks, scanning the spines of books with titles like
The Heights of Fashion, 1880–1920
and
Poiret: Designing Art Deco
. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for inspiration,” I said absently. The Poiret had some possibilities, but any dress inspired by him meant panels of beading and tons of embroidery. I didn’t have time for that.

Emily shot the books a wary glance. “So, did you talk to your roomie about joining us on the committee?”

“I did.”

“And? Is she interested? We can’t wait around all week, you know. We have to get this going.”

I took a breath. “She wants to talk with Vanessa about it personally. It’s a big commitment.”

“Personally?”

“Yes. You know, in case she has questions.”

“What questions? We’re organizing a fashion show. How many questions can there be?”

“Mac has some.”

Emily leaned in and dropped her voice. “Do you call her Lady Lindsay? You don’t have to curtsy, do you?”

I stared at her. “She isn’t the queen. And no, I call her Mac, like she asked me to.”

“What’s she like? I mean, I kind of feel sorry for you, having to room with her. Does she make you do her laundry?”

Was it possible for anyone to be this offensive and not know it? “She’s different,” I said coldly. “And the service does her laundry, same as the rest of us.”
You nitwit
, my tone said. Only I’d be doing my own down in the basement, starting this week. I’d already sent a note to Mrs. Dumfries asking if I could have this term’s fee refunded, since it came out of my pocket money.

I reshelved the books and grabbed a couple of volumes of
Women’s Wear Daily
to page through in my room. “Anyway, let Vanessa know Mac wants to talk to her, would you? I have to go.”

As I headed for the circulation desk, I could hear the sound of French tips on a keypad. We weren’t allowed to use cell phones in the library, but Mrs. Lynn evidently hadn’t caught on to texting yet.

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