Material Girls (4 page)

“Just get a cat.” Sabrina popped her earbuds out of her ears. “Chubbs sits on my head every morning until I yell at my mother to feed him. He's better than an alarm.” She crossed her legs so that her foot stuck into the aisle. “Braxton was talking about the summer action season.”

Braxton grinned and flicked his eyebrows up and down really fast, just once. I loved that little tic of his. “Just wait for it to start up. All I have to say is: Junie Woo and Kev duPrince. Dismantling an underwater bomb.
While battling electric eels.
”

Another Kev duPrince flick. Much as I wanted to be enthusiastic, it was hard. The last three Braxton had dragged me to had made my head throb—something blew up every five minutes. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, I nodded my encouragement.

“I guess that sounds okay,” said Sabrina. “I'm so over Kev duPrince, though.” She picked a stray cat hair off her leggings and blew it over her shoulder. “He's kind of fossilized on us by now, don't you think?”

Braxton frowned. “You're making me nervous. Half the court at Denominator wanted to replace him with Jason Steelpacker, but the senior members overruled them. Kev was dominant through the whole
Ghouls of Rockaway
franchise.”

He looked so distraught that I waved my hand to dismiss his concerns. “You're the expert, Brax. You've been Denominator's golden boy ever since the Tap. Don't worry about it.”

It was true. Braxton and I had been promoted to Superior Court judge at our respective companies within months of each other. We'd met at a release party for a Jennifer Tildy rom-com—Torro had contributed some wardrobe pieces for the film. He'd told me he liked my hat. Next thing I knew, the hat was lost on the floor somewhere and we were making out in a corner.

“I guess,” Braxton said. He was still frowning.

A group of girls standing in the center aisle exploded in laughter. I looked up. They were a year or two younger than I was—probably selectors. They were clustered around a single Unum, while one girl scrolled across its screen. From their comments, I guessed they were looking at an online fashion magazine. They pointed to the screen and shrieked like seagulls about the featured styles.

“They Torro-LeBlanc?” asked Braxton.

“No.” I noted the mirror ball bag that hung off one girl's shoulder. “Bancroft House, I think,” I said, checking with Sabrina for confirmation. She nodded.

One of the girls caught me looking up at her. Her face brightened with recognition. “You're on Torro's court, aren't you?” she said, turning away from her friends.

Before I could answer, Sabrina piped in. “Yes, we are, and no, we don't have any tips for you. We're just trying to ride to work in peace.”

“Whatever.” I felt the girl's gaze travel up and down my outfit. “Nice pin,” she muttered before turning back to the group.

“Nice face,” Sabrina shot back.

I looked down at the silk chrysanthemum pin that blossomed on the lapel of my cropped riding jacket. I had remembered to scan it this morning, hadn't I? No way it could be expired. Lapel pins had come in again only last season . . .

“Obsoloser. Don't listen to her,” said Sabrina. “You always look prime, Marla. Here, check out the new single by this Lyric Mirth girl. It's gonna be huge. I can tell already.”

Sabrina stuffed an earbud into my ear, and the thumping beat drove the uneasiness out of my head. I listened to Lyric's bright voice belt out the chorus:

Don't touch my body

Don't kiss my face

Between our hearts

Leave an infinite space

I want to hurt

Let's keep things pure

So pure it hurts,

So pure it hurts . . .

My hands were clammy when I took my seat on the bench, but the morning passed well. I found myself in a natural majority on most decisions. The last drafter even tried to push through a suede vest, and I enjoyed deconstructing his argument that suede was really a spring fabric. One of the judges, Ginnifer, had totally backed me up. I was starting to feel comfortable in my chair again.

Julia gestured in the next drafter and introduced her as Vivienne Graves. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen her. Vivienne was thin with black hair. She wore dark clothes and had dark circles under her eyes. Appropriately, the design on her dummy was a black dress. I inhaled as soon as I saw it. It was one of the loveliest pieces anyone had ever wheeled into the garment-judging room. It fell below the knee, creating a natural silhouette. It was sleeveless with a modest V neckline, and the fabric with which it was made rippled like a dark pond. I wanted to dive into it. I immediately typed:
Black dress: Stunningly simple, comfortable, elegant, the new look of early spring. Yes!

“I was going for something simple and elegant,” Vivienne began. Her voice was strong but raspy. “Everywhere I look I see bright colors and metallics, and they're starting to make me dizzy. I'm not saying that they're bad,” she added quickly. “I just thought a return to the black dress might be welcome for some this season.”

The silence that met these remarks was uncertain. I looked around at the judges but couldn't read their faces. I wanted to begin my endorsement . . . but what if everyone else hated it?

Finally, Henry spoke. “While
you
may prefer something this simple and dark, I'm not sure other people would. What's fun about it? Where's the trend potential? I just—don't get it.”

“Yes,” Olivia said slowly. “I think I agree with Henry. It's pretty boring. Maybe if it had a fur-lined collar, or some beading on the bottom—but without any accessorizing I don't see how it's special.”

“Totally, Livy,” Sabrina said, piling on. “If it were released, its trendiness would probably expire in a week.”

One by one, the judges agreed. The dress was dull; it wasn't eye-catching; it needed to be more innovative. Vivienne stood by her creation, listening to everybody criticize it, one after the other. She finally turned her hollow eyes to me. Over Vivienne's shoulder, I saw Julia peering at me intently. I reread what I had typed on the screen and looked up again at the drafter in front of me. My right hand hovered over the delete button. But this time, instead of tapping away my opinion, I clenched my hand in a tight fist.

“Sorry, I love it,” I proclaimed. “I think you're all wrong. I'll defend it. Torro will sell a million of these. I just know it.”

At 5:03 p.m., Julia told me to stay put. After the other judges filed out of the garment-judging room, a CSS agent materialized in the doorway. We occasionally saw Corporate Security and Surveillance agents patrolling the building in their gray dress uniforms—all the creative industries were big on safety.

Julia informed me that my position on the Torro-LeBlanc Superior Court had been terminated. The following day, I was to report to the basement to begin work as a drafter. “No tears, now,” she said firmly and walked out of the room. The CSS agent escorted me out of the building.

I spent the ride home from work with my face buried in Braxton's shoulder. I hated crying in front of him—but I didn't need everyone on the train to know I'd lost my seat. I tried to breathe deeply and swallow my sobs.

“It's just not right,” Braxton kept whispering, as he rocked me gently. “You can't let them do this to you. You've got to get them to put you back on the court.”

“What am I supposed to do?” I mumbled into his collarbone. “Julia said the decision was final.”

“Get your mother to call your boss. She'll fix it.”

I wasn't optimistic. Parents of Taps weren't even allowed in the design house. Then again, Karen wasn't the type to go down without a fight. Maybe she'd help me make the case for a second chance? I stoked the faint ember of hope for the remainder of the train ride through La Reina.

I decided to let the bad news out as swiftly as possible. I unlocked the door to the apartment and placed my briefcase on the kitchen counter. “Julia transferred me from the Superior Court to the basement.” My voice caught on the word
basement
, and I cleared my throat. “She said I'm a drafter now.”

My mother let the roasting pan she was scrubbing fall into the dishwater. She stared at me, wide-eyed. “What happened?”

“I have no idea.” I thought of Vivienne's black dress, and my defense, which had been brutally crushed by the other judges. “I tried to push for this amazing dress, but apparently, I've lost my touch. Karen, do you think . . .”

I didn't have to finish the question. Karen was peeling off her soapy gloves and reaching for her Unum. She called Julia personally. I sat on one of the kitchen counter stools, rotating back and forth with nervous energy as I listened to the conversation. At first my mother spoke calmly, reminding Julia of my “gifted fashion instincts” and years of service to Torro-LeBlanc. When that didn't work, she pleaded for one more chance, alleging that the demotion had broken my heart. It was true—it had. Finally, to my surprise, she raised her voice and called Julia an “ungrateful shrew of a manager.”

“I'll speak to your boss about this!” she screamed into the Unum before hitting the End Call button. She then called the vice president of human resources, who confirmed that Julia had final say in hiring and firing for the Superior Court. “Outrageous. What kind of show are the Silents running over there?” Karen muttered, thumbing across her Unum for the next number.

Even with my hopes sinking lower and lower, I loved my mother for her intensity. She had always been this way, 100 percent committed to me and my career. Deciding on the best sketches for my Tap page, editing my opinion entries, revising and re-revising the layout until it was perfect. And, after I'd been tapped, listening to my stories from the third floor of Torro-LeBlanc, advising me on which selectors to kiss up to for a promotion, and on and on, until I'd made it to the top.

I listened as the chief creative officer's assistant deflected a final call to the executive office. Karen repeated her protests but hung up, defeated. We shared a look.

“I'm sorry,” I said. I wasn't quite sure why I was apologizing, but I went over and put my arms around my mother. She hugged me back limply.

Dinner was awkward.

“Don't worry, sweetheart.” Walter, my father, tried to be overly cheerful. “At least you're still working. Besides, you'll spend only a few more years at Torro. Once you're married, you'll have little ones of your own to take care of. Being a mother is the most important job in the world.” He reached over and squeezed Karen's hand.

My mother blinked out of her vague funk and shot a smile at my father.

Marriage? Little ones? Was he for real? “Uh, I'm not exactly ready to get married,” I said. I had been taking the train to Torro-LeBlanc since I was thirteen. It felt strange to think about doing anything else. I knew that some of my old classmates a couple of grades ahead were starting to have babies, but I couldn't even imagine that yet. I still felt way too young to give up my own work.

“A
drafter
, of all things.” Karen shook her head in disgust. “Wouldn't you rather tell everyone you quit? We have some savings. There's your account, of course, and Walter's network is doing fine.”

“We really could use the commissions, though,” my father said quickly, his mouth full of the truffle-and-fontina flatbread. “A prop master's salary isn't going to take us on vacation every year.”

Karen ignored him. “You can stay home with me. We'll go shopping tomorrow, or to the salon, if you like . . .” She clasped her hands. “I know. We can make a lava cake together!”

My mother looked so excited that I felt bad letting her down. It
was
tempting. Days upon days of drafting designs like a robot, most of my ideas ending up in the garbage . . . or a long stretch of relaxation? The latter had been my mother's path. Karen had worked for a fashion house when she was younger, the now-defunct Grigoriev label. She'd served as a selector but had never been promoted to the courts. She'd then married my father, another Tap who worked at the Knox Network. Walter had judged for about a year and now handled props for Knox's television shows.

Karen had loved bragging to everyone within earshot about my quick rise to the top within Torro-LeBlanc. Not that I used to mind. I knew it would be a blow to have to tell her friends her daughter was now a drafter, but this wasn't my mother's life. It was mine. And something about Karen's days felt hollow. I was sixteen—could I really fill my next few years with shopping and baking and salon visits? How could I give up work altogether?

Then, of course, there was Braxton. What would he think if I just quit? I wasn't sure if quitting was better or worse than staying on as a drafter in his eyes.

“I'll see how I feel tomorrow morning. But I'll probably go. Even though I practically got fired, I still love Torro-LeBlanc,” I said, shrugging. “It's my life.”

“This flatbread is delicious, Karen. Really. You outdid yourself,” Walter said, reaching for a fourth piece. I nodded in agreement. It was.

The next morning, I took an early train and curled up alone on a seat, avoiding eye contact with the other riders. I navigated the lobby of Torro-LeBlanc with my head down and waited in front of the elevators for one heading to the floor below.

“Hold the door!” Olivia shouted, jogging over. My now-former bench mate grabbed me by the elbow and yanked me into a nearly full elevator heading up. I wondered why her hands looked funny, like little raven's wings. I looked closer and recognized the accessory: she was wearing the feather gloves Torro was about to release. I felt a lurch of jealousy. Olivia had probably grabbed them out of the runway sample room to which the Superior Court judges had privileged access. I would have to wait until they were released now. And I didn't know if the commission from one sketch would even cover them fully. It wasn't fair. I should have grabbed the musketeer hat when I'd had the chance.