Fashion Academy (3 page)

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.

He unzipped the top of his tote, and a tiny, wet nose poked out. “Madonna the Chihuahua, meet…what's your name again?”

“Mickey. Mickey Williams.”

“Don't tell anyone, okay?” he said, zipping Madonna back into her home. “No dogs on FAB property. Mr. Kaye would have a fit. But she's kind of my mascot. She goes where I go.”

“I promise. Your secret is safe with me,” Mickey replied. “But who's Mr. Kaye?”

“Only the toughest Apparel Arts teacher in the entire school.”

“Oh.” Mickey gulped.

“You definitely want to watch out for him…and those two.” He motioned to the curb, where a large, white stretch limo was pulling up. A girl and a boy stepped out, waving to the crowd of students as if they were royalty.

Mickey wrinkled her nose. “Who are they?”

“The Lee twins. They're in my grade. Their mom is Bridget Lee, wedding designer to the stars.”

Mickey whistled through her teeth. “Whoa! She's super-famous. She did Jessica Simpson's wedding gown!”

“Exacterooni,” Javen replied. “So steer clear of Jade and Jake. Or as I prefer to call them, Tweedle Mean and Tweedle Meaner.”

Mickey stared at the pair. They looked fairly normal, if not a bit fancy for the first day of school. Jade was wearing white lace shorts and a white chiffon halter top. Her long black hair was pulled back in a rhinestone headband that looked like a tiara. Jake was dressed in a white linen suit with a baby-blue polo shirt underneath.

When Jade was done air-kissing all her friends on both cheeks, she took her pink crushed-velvet Chanel backpack from the limo driver and slung it over one shoulder.

“Wow. That bag's not even available yet. It's in the fall/spring collection,” Mickey remarked.

“You know your runway—that's a plus,” the boy told her before rushing off to his first class. “Good luck on your first day, Green Girl.”

• • •

Mickey tried to decipher her schedule and find her way around FAB's long and winding hallways. There were six floors with design studios on each. In the basement was the FAB auditorium, complete with a real runway worthy of New York or Paris Fashion Week.

Besides the basic middle school classes—math, science, English, and language—there were two design classes every day. Her Apparel Arts class was on the very top floor.

She reached the sixth-floor landing, panting from the climb up all those stairs, and took her seat in studio 6A. She heaved a sigh of relief: she'd made it on time.

“Take out your textbooks,” the teacher instructed the class. “We'll begin with naming the five oceans.” She unrolled a large world map and pointed to it.

“Um, excuse me,” Mickey interrupted her. “Is this Apparel Arts 1?”

“This is world geography,” the woman replied. “Try the room at the end of the hall.”

Mickey gathered her books and raced to studio 6B. Class was already in session, so she knocked gently on the door before opening it. “Excuse me”—she peered in—“is
this
Apparel Arts 1?”

A dapper gentleman with graying hair, a mustache, and a plaid bow tie peered at her over the tops of his wire-rimmed spectacles. “And you might be?”

“Lost. I'm lost. I went to another room and they told me I was in the wrong place.”

The man tapped his mechanical pencil against his chin. “You don't say? Well then, congratulations. You've come to the right place. Take a seat.”

He pointed to a drafting table a few feet from his desk with a dress form set up next to it. Mickey looked around the room and noticed the rest of the class was whispering and giggling.

“Is there a problem?” the teacher asked.

“No, no problem,” Mickey said, sliding into her seat. She could feel the eyes on the back of her neck.

“Good. Then we can begin. I am Mr. Kaye, and this is Apparel Arts 1. Everyone in this class is either new to FAB—or flunked my class last semester.” He stared in disapproval at the boy sitting in the desk next to Mickey. “Gabriel can attest to that.”

The boy sunk in his seat. Mickey realized this was the teacher JC had warned her about, and he wasn't kidding!

“Over the course of the semester, we shall be learning the elements of design. Does anyone want to tell me what they are?”

Mickey shyly raised her hand. “Yes, the late girl,” Mr. Kaye replied. “Go on.”

“I'd say color, silhouette, texture, and line,” she answered.

“And I'd say you are correct,” Mr. Kaye responded. “And by line, what do we mean?”

Gabriel's hand went up. “Well, there can be seam lines and pattern lines—like the way stripes line up.”

“Line is the most complex element,” Mr. Kaye explained. “It can create shape and illusion. It can be structural or decorative. It can create a mood and a message.”

Mickey tried her best to write down every word her teacher said—it was all so fascinating!

“Besides learning the elements of design, you will sketch and create three looks based on themes I assign you,” Mr. Kaye continued. “I will grade them on a scale from one to four, four being the highest. Then, at the end of the semester, we will total up the points, and three students—one each from grades six, seven, and eight—will present a four-piece capsule collection on the runway before a panel of judges.”

He stood up in front of the SMART Board and drew a big number 1 on it. “Challenge number one will be due in class tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Gabriel groaned. “That soon?”

“There is no wasting time in my class,” Mr. Kaye insisted. “I want to see how talented and creative you all are. Or not.” He looked around the room at the terrified faces.

“You!” He pointed to a girl dressed all in black leather in the back row. He looked at his class list, hunting for her name. “South East?”

Gabriel chuckled. “Is that a name or an address?”

“Cool it!” a boy behind him whispered. “Don't you know who she is? That's Laser East's daughter.”

“The rapper?” Gabriel replied.

The boy nodded. “The one who's married to the reality TV star.”

Mr. Kaye was busy quizzing South on what she thought about the World Hunger Council.

“To design you must first understand your client and what he or she wants and needs,” he explained. “South, what do you suppose the World Hunger Council would be looking for in a T-shirt?”

The girl shifted nervously in her seat. “I dunno,” she said quietly. “Something that makes people donate money I guess?”

Mr. Kaye nodded. “Yes, they would want a message that inspires people to give to their organization. What else?”

He strolled to the front of the room and looked straight at Mickey. “Mackenzie Williams,” he read off his list.

“It's actually Mickey.”

Mr. Kaye furrowed his brow. “Pardon?”

“It's Mickey. No one calls me Mackenzie except my aunt Olive.”

Mr. Kaye cleared his throat. “
Mickey
,” he continued. “What do you think the client would be looking for in a garment?”

Mickey took a deep breath and tried to think of something—anything—smart to say. “Food. They'd be looking for food.”

The class erupted in laughter, and Mr. Kaye took off his glasses and rubbed his temples.

“Silence!” he commanded. “Miss Williams has a valid point. The World Hunger Council is definitely looking for food. But that is stating the obvious.”

A girl seated in the front row raised her hand, and Mickey noticed a stack of silver bangles on her wrist. She wasn't sure, but they looked like they were made out of the tops of soda cans.

“Jewelry designer?” she whispered to Gabriel.

“For sure. Check out the humungo hoop earrings.”

Mr. Kaye squinted at the girl's name on the class list. “Marzipan?” he asked.

Again, the class roared with laughter.

“It's
Mar-sa-leen
,” she replied, unfazed. “But Mars is fine—as in the planet.”

“And your last name?” Mr. Kaye said, making a note on his roster.

“Just Mars. I'm trying to create my own jewelry line out of recycled materials, and I thought ‘Jewels from Mars' sounded a lot better than ‘Stuff by Marceline Lipnicki.'”

“Indeed,” Mr. Kaye commented. “Mars it is.”

Gabriel had to practically cover his mouth with his hands to stop from cracking up. “We have an alien from outer space in our class!” he said, snickering.

Mr. Kaye shot him a mean look. “If everyone is quite finished speaking out of turn, Mars had something to add to the discussion.”

“I wanted to know if we could accessorize the shirt for our assignment?” she asked.

“You can—for extra credit. Although you must stay within the budget.”

He wrote the number ten on the SMART Board and drew a circle around it. “Ten dollars. No more. Extra credit if you use less.”

“That's impossible,” South protested. “I was going to do leather embellishments.”

“Then you'll just have to get creative,” their teacher insisted. “Creativity counts.”

He handed each student a plain white T-shirt. “Feel free to rummage through the scrap box and look around your home for materials that you have already at your disposal.” He pointed to a huge plastic bin next to his desk brimming with fabric swatches and bits of trim. “I'll give you the rest of the period to sketch.”

Mickey started to get up and join the rest of the class pulling scraps from the box. Then she stopped herself. That was too easy. Her design had to be unique, innovative, something Mr. Kaye had never seen before. But what?

“This is a nightmare.” Gabriel groaned, looking at the pile of scraps he'd managed to wrestle out of Mars's hands. “That E.T. girl practically broke my arm for the blue silk- cashmere blend!”

“Did you get it?” Mickey asked.

He waved a small torn patch of fabric in the air. “Well, I got a piece of it.”

While everyone else was busy sketching, Mickey sat staring at the blank sheet of paper and chewing her pencil eraser.

“Designer's block already?” her teacher asked, making a
tsk-tsk
sound as he peered over Mickey's shoulder.

“I guess I'm just stuck trying to come up with something original,” she replied. “What should I do?”

“What you came to FAB to do,” Mr. Kaye said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Be a fashion designer.”