Believe (17 page)

THIRTY-ONE

When people talked about being born again, they talked about epiphany—or seeing the light. Faith came upon them instantaneously. That's what Dave said I gave him.

A purpose.

A mission.

Hope.

When Dave made me face the truth, that didn't happen. I never felt a purpose, not even close. Dave and Emma were a long way from convincing me that I could help others. But I did feel something. It wasn't joy. It wasn't peace. It wasn't magic—it couldn't be magic—but in a way, it was just as powerful. It was an image I'd carried for ten years. Ugliness and beauty, all at once.

You could call it love.

Or strength.

Or confidence.

Whatever it was, I was willing. I was willing to hear more. I wanted to look for more. I was willing to look at everything in a very different way. For the first time, I was willing to ask “What if?”

When I left Dave, I left with ideas.

THIRTY-TWO

This time when I got home, I wasn't hungry. I wasn't in the mood to talk. This time, I couldn't wait to start drawing.

I had no doubts.

In my head, I saw designs that I knew were authentically me. I saw an entire collection of clothes that reflected my view of the world as well as the world's view of me.

It might be the most superficial example of enlightenment ever realized, but this was who I was. No apologies necessary. Fashion was the way I expressed myself.

And now I had faith.

“Is anyone home?” I grabbed my sketchpad. My hands felt electric. My ideas couldn't wait. Once I got them, I'd start sewing. I would work really hard, and finally, the world would see what I wanted my life to mean. As I drew, my ideas became clearer. I knew there was no way it wouldn't blow Ms. Browning away. This portfolio was going to make her jaw drop. She was going to have no problem recommending me for Parsons. This portfolio made a statement. It said, “Here I am.” It said, “I am going to be big.”

My own hypocrisy made me laugh. Up until this moment, I hated fame—the very thought of it made me ill. But now I knew that wasn't exactly true. I wouldn't mind being famous, if it was on my terms. If I was being honest, I'd admit I wanted to be seen for the work I did, not just the story.

I kept drawing. I wanted to write my own story.

Two hours later, my fingers were numb. I heard Lo's keys in the door.

“You look different,” Lo said when she came to my room. “What happened?” I jumped off the floor and hugged her and then I hugged Sharon.

“I'm inspired. I feel like I was hit by lightning.” I told them everything. About Brian. And Emma. And my memory. And that I was sorry. “I'm sorry I called Roxanne. I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was going to Dave's. I'm sorry I didn't tell you everything the second it happened.” Then I went back to my sketchpad. I pushed it into her hands. “Look.”

Sharon said, “Wow.” I'd sketched three very interesting shirts, a jacket with pants, and four very different dresses. The last one—the one that Emma had inspired—was amazing, if I said so myself. The lines were classic, but the detailing made it anything but.

“I'm going to make it now,” I said. “With the material you bought.” I was determined to show Ms. Browning something before Easter break.

Maybe we could still go look at colleges. At least one.

I ran upstairs, got the half-finished dress, spread it out on the floor, and dismantled as much of it as I could. It took a long time. Fine-point scissors were not my favorite tool.

Lo was confused. “What happened?”

I kept working. “Today I realized I'm never going to be great at anything until I face my fears.”

“Your fears?” Lo asked. She sounded skeptical.

“Yes. Just like my mother said. I'm going to be brave. I'm going to make something that says something big about me.”

I felt a little bit like a genius.

I took the biggest pieces of fabric and began to pin it to the interfacing. I had to work slowly and carefully—I didn't want to snag anything. Reworking fabric was tricky business.

When the pins were in place, I took the time to iron out any new wrinkles. Then I walked upstairs to the machine.

Dress-Form Annie's lipstick had smeared, like she'd just gotten home from a great night out. She looked happy, but a little bit wild, which is how I felt, too, as I began to cut and sew. First, I made cap sleeves. Then a slightly deeper V at the neck. I added boning to give the bodice a defined structure and shape.

It looked good. Better than good.

Next came the skirt. I used every ounce of fabric to create volume. Then I pulled out an old crinoline I'd found at a secondhand store a few months ago. At the time, I'd thought it might look cool under a formal dress. But now I knew why I'd been drawn to it.

I put the dress on Annie and stood back. It was getting there. It just needed some detailing. The authentic touch.

I searched my basket of remnants for interesting swatches. The fabrics were all different. Some were smooth and silky—they made my palms tingle. Others were coarse. They reminded me of my scars.

My hands.

They had changed my life.

I traced my hands onto a piece of cardstock and cut them out.

I was inspired.

“What if I cover this dress with hands?” When Lo looked confused, I ran upstairs for the dress, the swatches, and Annie. “What if I make a dress that says
I am more than my hands
?”

“You're kidding, right?” Lo warned me that a dress covered in hands might attract the wrong kind of attention. “Just relax for now. We can talk about it over break. Maybe we can take a trip … get some inspiration?” She thought a dress with hands would attract the kind of attention I tried to avoid. She thought I was acting a bit manic—even for me.

That was okay. I expected her to doubt me. That's what often happened when a real artist tried something new. “I'm tired of fighting it. I'm already exposed. No matter what I make or do or say, before I walk in the door of any college and program, they'll already know who I am.” I traced my hand onto a coarse piece of denim, cut it out, and slapped it against the dress form. “I'm tired of waiting. They'll have an opinion about me, good or bad. They'll want to see my hands.”

Lo and Sharon didn't disagree. They couldn't. They knew I'd lost my chance to make a true first impression a long time ago.

This was a chance I had to take.

What could be more authentically me than a dress covered in hands?

I gave the cardboard hands to Sharon. “Trace as many as you can onto these fabrics.” Then I sharpened my best shears and handed them to Lo. “You get to cut.”

Cutting hands out of silk was not a very easy task. I told Lo not to worry if she made a mistake. I joked, “Remember, they don't have to be perfect.”

After we had a nice-sized pile, I began to tack them by hand to the dress. I confessed that I did not go to school. They confessed that they covered for me. “We hoped you were with Miriam,” Sharon said. “But when we called looking for you, she sounded pretty upset.”

I put down my needle and thread. “I tried to call her, but she doesn't want to hear my side of the story.”

Lo clenched the scissors. She stopped cutting. “She's your best friend. She is suffering … in part, because of you. What you did … it was very thoughtless.”

“You always take her side. If she'd just call me back, she'd understand why I didn't go to the protest.” I went on, “Why is it all on me? Why aren't you calling her out for using me to attract attention?”

“Because she wanted to make our world better—that was all.” Lo's face was long. “Her request had nothing to do with celebrity. She's been your loyal friend for a very long time, and when she needed you, you ditched her.”

I said nothing. Lo was right. I broke my promise. I let Miriam down. “If you'll help me now, I'll corner her tomorrow and apologize first thing.”

She said, “You'll be humble?”

Humble was not what I was thinking, but I would have agreed to anything. “Yes,” I said, mostly to get her off my back. “I'll be humble,” I said, even though I was feeling exactly the opposite. I was going to show the world that I was ready for the big time.

I was going to show the world who I really was.

They traced and cut. I finished reshaping the dress, and when that was done, I picked up a pile and start tacking the hands to the skirt. Every time I touched them, the fabric frayed. I liked it. “Don't bother trimming the threads. I like them like that. It makes them look creepy and imperfect.” Almost like trees. “It makes you want to look.”

We worked until all our hands cramped, a few minutes before Roxanne's first installment of “The Power of Faith.”

“Should we?” Sharon asked.

The dress already looked awesome. I had no use for humility; there was nothing Roxanne could say that would surprise or hurt me. “I don't see why not.”

I turned it on. Roxanne thanked the regular anchors. Her bright red power suit showed a tad too much cleavage. But her hair was perfection—very Jackie O. Her pumps were kick-ass. She stood in front of a desk, and behind her was an extra-large computer screen. On cue, the camera panned back so we could focus less on her lipstick and more on the screen. She told us that what we were about to see would inspire or aggravate. It was a perfect story for the Easter/Passover season. A story about faith and miracles.

Then she looked straight into the camera. “Faith challenges everyone,” she said. Big long pause.

Sharon laughed. “You think?”

Another camera shift. Roxanne turned her head so she was facing to the side, but looking forward. “It is the topic of our generation, the center of war and politics and everyday life.”

Lo said, “I can't disagree with that.”

I continued to tack down hands until the dress weighed a ton. The whole time, I half-listened as Roxanne talked about how faith had permeated our culture. One football player regularly thanked God for helping him succeed. A straight-A student prayed before every test, even though her parents told her that God was too busy for such little things. She showed us a picture of an Iranian girl who risked her life by expressing her views on a blog.

Roxanne promised that her first guest would change the way we thought about prayer. (The whole time, the phone rang. It started, it stopped, then it started again. We ignored it.) I expected her to interview a minister. That would make sense. Or maybe an interfaith panel. People liked seeing some diversity on specials like this.

Instead, when she was done with her intro, she queued up a homemade film.

I dropped my needle. It was Brian in his wheelchair. At Dave's house. First he sat in the chair and attempted to navigate a block of sidewalk. Then he worked out in rehab. Then he punched a wall. Over that image, Roxanne said, “There is nothing I can say to prepare you for what you are about to see.”

Lo asked, “Is that?”

“Just watch.”

The movie ended. Brian emerged in his chair—in the studio. Then without warning, he stood up and walked. He pumped his fist and jumped up and down, just to show off. Lo said, “She's right. I don't believe it.” Sharon asked, “How long was he paralyzed?”

“Two years,” Brian told Roxanne. “I spent two years in a wheelchair.” He tried to describe the moments he knew he was sick as well as the moment my hands began to work their magic.

Roxanne's eyes looked really surprised and beautiful. That gray shadow on the lid smudged into the crease for depth did great things for her. She asked her questions with increased earnestness: “What was it like being in a wheelchair?”

“Terrible.”

“What was the activity you missed most?”

“Lacrosse. With my dad.”

“What do you want to do first?”

“First, I want to thank Janine Collins and Pastor David Armstrong.” Roxanne showed some footage of me holding Brian's hand in front of my house, then the group of us praying at the hotel. The picture was fuzzy, our faces not too clear. The angle was bad. Lots of shadows. But it still looked like praying. Brian said, “When Janine Collins prayed with me, God heard my prayer. Either that, or she healed me.”

Lo picked the phone off the hook and slammed it down. “What are we going to do?” She asked me one more time if I really thought this was the right time to make a dress all about hands.

I said, “It's not like I'm going to wear it.” When Lo protested that I was tempting schools to only see me as the Soul Survivor—the very thing I swore I didn't want—I told her that I was actually glad Brian went to Roxanne. So what if everyone knew? This was good news. It was exciting. And what could we do? It was his story. “Now you know why I'm so inspired.”

By the next commercial break, I'd sewn on enough of the hands to know that this dress was going to be a masterpiece. My phone vibrated. I hoped it was Miriam. It felt weird not to talk to her. I realized I never finished anything without her input.

But it wasn't her number. “Hello?”

“Hi Janine. It's Emma.” She sounded like she'd been crying. “You have to trust me—we didn't want Brian to go on TV.”

I said, “I trust you” and “It's not your fault” about a hundred times before she calmed down. I didn't know why she was so surprised.

“Dave should have prepared you. Stories like this … they don't stay secrets for long. They never do.”

When she was finally quiet, I told her to meet me after school. “Wait until you see the dress I'm making,” I said. “I couldn't have made it without you.”

A moment later, Dave got on and thanked me for not being angry. “She's a special girl, Janine. Like I said, she changed me.”

I joked, “I thought I changed you.”