Believe (18 page)

At the end of the hour, Roxanne returned to thank Brian. She looked straight into the camera and told the world that this story was getting bigger every day.
Stay tuned!
Across the bottom of the picture, a news report ticked by. A female suicide bomber just blew up a bank in Gaza. Thirty-two dead. Twenty wounded.

I stayed up most of the night finishing the dress.

THIRTY-THREE

I knew I was asking a lot of Ms. Browning, but I couldn't wait. “Can you give me five minutes? I need to see what you think.”

Her tote bag was packed. “How about one?” She looked at the clock. She probably had plans.

Well, this wouldn't take long.

I handed her my portfolio. “I worked on this all night long.” When she opened it, I said, “The first few pieces are there to make you laugh.”

She turned to the first pages, a series of T-shirts branding funny sayings. “Over the years, I've wondered if you would ever make a statement about your … um … your …”

“Celebrity. My reputation. You can say it.”

Each one had a different saying on the front.

It doesn't matter what you're famous for, as long as you're famous
.

Don't stop looking at me.
I'm ready for my close-up.
15 minutes is never enough.
Every day, we all smile for a camera.

She stopped turning pages and put her hand to her mouth. “Aren't they funny?” I said. “My plan is to paint them by hand, so each one will be unique—but still commercial.”

“They're certainly timely,” she said, nodding slowly—which was very disappointing. I still couldn't see if she was smiling, if she thought they set the right tone, or if they were awful and off-putting.

She turned to the next section, the suits and dresses. “Now this is good. These lines are really fresh. What kind of textiles are you envisioning?”

I tried to relax. “Light wool, of course.” She smiled. Ms. Browning loved light wool. I pointed to my favorite jacket and skirt ensemble. “I was wondering if you thought I should treat it with some diluted permanent white glue,” I said. “To stiffen it up.”

“I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not,” she said, turning the page to the first of the dresses. Now she looked almost happy. “Make this one. Absolutely.” She tapped the page with her pencil eraser. “The T-shirts are one thing. They're cute. But this … they will want to see if you can pull off these micropleats.”

I agreed, even though I was sure I wouldn't have to make anything more. I pushed her forward to the end of the portfolio and the last dress. “So?” I asked. “Do you love it?”

She shrugged. “Talk to me about these squiggly lines. Is it your intention to distort the silhouette?”

“Not exactly.” I was nearly giddy. “Here. I'll show you.” When she looked a little impatient, I said, “I've got it right here.”

First, I locked the door. Then I made her turn around while I slipped off my T-shirt and put on the dress. After some maneuvering, I managed to get the buttons fastened and the skirt fluffed just enough. I gave it a quick twirl to let the threads fly. “Okay. You can turn around.”

Ms. Browning stood back. She looked at me from all angles without making a gesture or smile. That was intentional. At the start of every semester, she told this story about how once, after a student presented an important piece of work, her smile disappeared and that wasn't fair.

But the payoff should come now. It had been long enough. She should be smiling and complimenting the dress, the detailing, the originality, telling me I'm the next Alexander McQueen. I gave a quick twirl, so she could see the movement in the hands.

“Slow down,” she said. She looked at the dress up close. Then she asked me a string of questions that were supposed to make me think:

“What inspired this treatment?”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Do you like it? Who would wear this, besides you?”

I did not freak out. This was her gig. “Obviously, I wanted to make a statement about my hands and the fact that whenever people see me, all they see are my hands. I wanted to merge my feelings about beauty and what people think is beautiful with the ugliness I see in my story and my hands.”

“So … you made a dress about your hands?”

I thought about that for a moment. “Not really. More a statement about the way the world has always looked at me … and my ugly hands.” I wanted her to smile, to acknowledge how fabulous this was. “Like the T-shirts. It's about how the media has hounded me.”

She told me to sit down.

“This is cute, Janine,” she said, “and in a week or two or three, it could be profound. But today it also looks rushed. It's too literal. I think you've crossed the line to self-indulgent.”

Ms. Browning put a lot of importance on the ability to accept constructive criticism, but she was wrong. This was well-conceived—and inspired. If she looked again, she'd see I didn't need to take my time. I had already done everything she told me to do. I asked her to look it over one more time. “I totally respect your opinion, but I think it's profound
now
. Did you
not
see the news? I had a really crazy experience, and this is what came from it. I think it's honest. And funny.”

She bristled. “Janine. Listen to me. It's too literal. I think you don't need real hands. What you need is texture. And more movement. And shape and volume.” She took another sip of soda. “I think you made this to get me off your back. So you could go interview for school while your story was in the news.” She pointed out some construction flaws. She didn't like the fraying at the hands. She thought the whole concept was way too obvious.

I said, “But …”

Now she looked tired. “Janine, please. If you still have appointments, cancel them. You have the beginning of something, and I just wish you'd show me some patience. A little humility for the process. Take some time to let this concept develop. Push yourself. Embrace your—”

“Stop.” If she said “face your fears,” I'd scream. This was what I did.

This was the best I could do.

I asked, “Is this your way of telling me I'm no good?”

Now she looked exhausted. “No, Janine. It's not. All I'm saying is, go home and play with these themes. Make the suit—the sketch is gorgeous—and at least one of the shirts. Refine your lines. You've got some great ideas, and these sketches are a perfect starting place. But if you want to impress Parsons, you really need to slow down. Trust me on this. Your impatience shows and gives you away. This is college—your future. It's not a TV show.”

Outside, the bell rang. Someone knocked on her door. Loud. She said, “Maybe you're right. Maybe your name will get you in the door. Maybe you think this is just a formality. But if I were in your shoes, I wouldn't be so smug. In the art world, you have to pay your dues. You have to earn it.” Outside, the knocking continued. I heard someone yell my name. As she walked to the door, Ms. B. said, “I thought that was what you wanted. I thought that after everything you've been through, you'd appreciate that.”

THIRTY-FOUR

Ms. Browning walked across the floor to the door.

“Can you wait?” I asked. As I walked toward her, the hands on my dress fluttered. “Just answer a few more questions?”

“I don't think that would be helpful.”

“But I need to understand. I was so sure you would love this.” I felt stupid standing here in my hands, and at the same time, I couldn't believe she wasn't falling over herself.

I had thought for once in my life, I was going to get what I wanted. But I failed.

She opened the door.

It was Abe—just the person I didn't want to see. “What are you doing here?” I asked him. Why did the worst moments of my life always have an audience?

He didn't even look at my dress. “Janine! Put some shoes on. We have to go.”

“Where?” I looked at my clothes crumpled up on the desk. “Can you at least give me five minutes?”

“No.” With his crutch, he swiped them to the ground. “You don't have time. They're cutting down the tree. Miriam is freaking out.” He turned around and started limping out the door. “She needs you.”

It no longer mattered if she was mad at me. Miriam had been my best friend since second grade—my first day in a real school. Since the teacher told her to show me around. Since she didn't stare at my hands. Since she said, “Everyone has something they don't like.”

At the flagpole, Abe finally noticed my dress. “Nice look.” He was breathing heavy. “Is that supposed to be a nightgown?” He checked his watch. “Maybe you should change.”

“Keep moving. I'm okay.” I could be humiliated for her. “Just tell me what happened.”

On the way there, I heard the details a good friend would already know. After the protest, the board of supervisors held a bunch of unannounced meetings and determined that the tree was a safety hazard. It was too close to some power lines. Too expensive to stabilize. A disaster waiting to happen. Just what Lo had predicted. I said, “I'm confused. I thought there was time. I thought they were going to bring in a scientist.”

Abe needed to stop. His armpits hurt. His ankle throbbed—he was putting too much weight on his foot. “Just don't tell her it's all for the best.” He grimaced in pain. “She's really sensitive. She knows you couldn't care less about the farm.”

If my cheeks weren't red, they should have been. “Fine. I don't care. Not really. I don't understand why she thinks it's so bad if they put the farm in another place.”

“It's the principle of the thing.” He looked at me like I was an idiot. “I shouldn't have to tell you that people all over the world fight over land.”

Fine. Good point. If he wanted me to feel even more stupid than I already did, he succeeded. “But it's still just a farm. It's not …” We walked in silence. No singing. Not even a sad line. It felt weird.

I asked him if he saw “The Power of Faith.” “So is tonight your big debut? Are you going to tell the world what happened?”

I thought that would cheer him up, but it didn't. Still no singing. “She taped our interview, but she told me she'd give me a heads-up if she was going to use it. And since she hasn't, my guess is I've been scrapped.” About this, he didn't look at all upset. “I know you won't believe me, but to be honest, I don't really care. I had some fun. I made a lot of new friends. I met Emma.” He paused for a second to readjust his crutch. “But some things are more important.” He meant Miriam. “I don't really believe you healed me.”

That surprised me. “You don't?”

“No, I don't.” Now he walked even slower. “My mother doesn't either. After all the excitement had ended, we talked to my priest and he says I should thank God—not you. He says I should consider myself lucky and blessed that God was watching me, but he was pretty sure you had nothing to do with that.” As we got closer to the farm, he reminded me that Miriam didn't know I was coming—that I might (for once) try a softer approach. “And can you do me a favor? Can you not make this day about you?” When I started to argue, he said, “The tripod isn't a triangle with you on the top and me and Miriam on the bottom.”

“I'm sorry. I mean it.” I promised to try hard to make it up to both of them. “I owe you so much. You were right about Emma. I'm glad I gave her a chance. She is definitely amazing.”

For a moment, Abe looked impressed. “That's really good, J. Really good.”

I started to tell him about the hotel and how she helped me remember my dad and the bombing, but then I stopped. Too self-centered. Not what he needed to hear. “She has a lot of heart. You know, she changed Dave's life.”

He laughed. “I told you she was awesome. The way she looks death in the face. I'm really glad you got to talk to her.” Up ahead we could see the farm—or rather—what used to be the farm. Now it looked like a construction zone. Men wearing long sleeves and big chaps over their pants stood by. They carried equipment—slings and saws. Others stood ready to help out. There was a big orange-and-black truck parked in the middle of the farm, and heavy rubber blankets lay draped over the nearby power lines.

“Why the blankets?” I asked.

“Live wires,” Abe said. “Can't turn off the power to the nursing home.”

Felling a tree was a dangerous activity. Men in hard hats and bright orange vests kept the crowd at a safe distance.

The tree had already lost a lot of its smaller branches. It looked sad. A cable hung from the biggest branch. One man, standing at the top of the truck's arm, pruned some more small branches. The workers stood back as they hit the ground.

It was very quiet. No protests. Just a few directions to look here or stand there. The people just watched.

Abe said, “When Emma told me her story, I couldn't believe it. I knew the two of you would be good for each other. I just hoped you would give her a chance and listen.”

At first, I had no clue what he was talking about. But then I remembered—her friend with cancer. I got it.

I finally got it.

Emma was there for her friend. She didn't think about herself. To make things better, I had to do that, too. I just had to figure out how.