Fashion Academy (2 page)

It took three more days to convince her mom—and another week of her mom pleading with Aunt Olive—but they both finally gave in. Mickey double pinkie-sweared her mother that she'd be careful, get nothing less than Bs in all her classes, and never talk to strangers on the subway.

“You've never been away from home,” her mom reminded her. “Are you sure you're going to be okay with this?”

“It's like sleepaway camp,” Mickey tried to rationalize. “Annabelle's been going all the way to Vermont every summer since she was eight. If she can handle it, I can.” Camp had never been a possibility since her mom couldn't afford it. But with FAB offering her a full scholarship, there were no excuses.

“What if you have a nightmare? Who'll bring you warm milk and rub your back? Certainly not your aunt Olive!”

“I'll be fine, Jordana,” she said. Her mom let her call her by her first name whenever she wanted to sound mature and grown up. Mickey wasn't about to admit that the idea of being away from her mom every night made her a little anxious. She would put on a brave face and simply spend as much time with her mother over the summer as she could.

She hung out at Wanamaker's during the days watching her work her makeup magic. “I have my daughter's law school graduation this weekend, Jordana,” her steady customer Mrs. Gates filled her in. “Do you think we could do a smoky eye? Get rid of the wrinkles?”

Mickey's mom studied her face from every angle. She held a slanted brush between her teeth and didn't dare dip it into a pot of shadow until she knew her exact plan of attack.

“I would do a warm brown-and-bronze eye,” she said, nodding. “Yes, definitely brown, not gray. And a contoured cheek with a very pale lip. Maybe a frosty nude—no, an icy pink.” Mickey giggled. It was as if her mother were a doctor prescribing medicine.

“Oh! You are a genius!” the woman cooed. “Truly, a makeup genius.”

Mickey felt the same way—her mother definitely had an artistic gift.

“Why didn't you ever go to New York City and work at Fashion Week? Or a photo shoot for a magazine?” Mickey asked her one night when they were setting up folding chairs on the roof to watch the sunset.

Her mom shrugged. “I guess I got comfy here,” she said. “Sometimes comfy is okay, honey. You don't always have to go off gallivanting around the country to prove something.”

Mickey knew she was referring to her father. Shortly after she was born, her dad decided he wanted to travel with his band and be a rock star. So he left one day and never came home again. Simple as that. In the past ten years she couldn't recall a single phone call or birthday card, and her mother never spoke his name. (For the record, it was Doug.) She knew how much it hurt her mom at the time, but Mickey could almost understand it—her dad's need for adventure, for excitement, for a life that was bigger and bolder than the one he had. He never did become a star (unless you counted a few singles that scraped on the bottom of the charts), but at least he gave it his best shot. Her mom said it was irresponsible, but Mickey couldn't blame him for wanting more or for seizing the chance when it presented itself. She was a lot like him that way.

• • •

The summer flew by, and middle school was staring her right in the face. She and Annabelle made plans to meet up at their fave froyo place the day she got home from camp.

“I don't get it,” Annabelle said, thoughtfully licking a cone. “I mean, why would you want to go to a new school where you don't know anyone?”

“I want to be a designer,” Mickey replied. “FAB is where you go to be a designer.”

“Couldn't you just go to middle school in Philly here with me and still be a designer?” Annabelle pleaded. “We've been friends since first grade. It'll be totally weird without you.”

Mickey knew Annabelle depended on her—not just for answers on their science homework and advice on what to wear—but for emotional support as well.

“I don't have any clue what I want to be when I grow up,” her friend admitted. “How come you always know things?”

Mickey shrugged. “You'll figure it out. You're really good at dancing. Maybe you'll be a Rockette!”

Annabelle rolled her eyes. “Puh-lease. As if my parents would
ever
let me be a dancer! My mom's a lawyer and my dad's a radiologist. They're sending me to law school or medical school, like it or not.”

Mickey knew that was probably true. Unlike her mom, who always encouraged her to follow her passion, Annabelle's parents put a lot of pressure on her to get straight As in school, take piano lessons, speak Latin…

“You're totally gonna forget I exist.” Her friend interrupted her thoughts.

“No way!” Mickey replied. “How could I forget the person who broke my toe with her bike in first grade?”

Annabelle laughed. “That was an accident. Your toe got in the way of my wheel.”

Mickey held up her flip-flop. “See? My pinkie toe is still crooked. All I have to do to remember you is look at it.”

“Well, just in case you need reminding…” Annabelle handed her a small box with a ribbon on top.

“What's this?” Mickey asked. “It's not a going-away present, is it? 'Cause I'm not going away! I'll be home so much on the weekends and holidays you'll get sick of seeing me.”

“Just open it,” Annabelle said.

Mickey took off the lid and saw there was a small silver thimble charm on a chain.

“I couldn't find a sewing machine charm,” Annabelle said softly. “This was the best I could do. I kinda think it says ‘fashion designer,' don't you?”

Mickey threw her arms around her friend and hugged her tight. “It's the best present ever!” She took it out of the box and secured it around her neck. “I'll never take it off.”

“Eww. Not even on Field Day? Because you get so disgustingly sweaty,” Annabelle teased her.

“Okay, maybe on Field Day. But that's the only time.”

They finished their cones and said a quick good-bye.

“I'll call you and let you know all about FAB,” Mickey promised.

“I'll call you when I need help with my biology homework,” Annabelle replied. “And you are so coming home to help me dissect a frog.”

As she walked back down the street to her apartment, Mickey wanted desperately to look back and wave. But she knew if she did, it would be that much harder. So instead, she kept walking.

“Here we are,” Mickey's mom said when they arrived at Aunt Olive's three-story walk-up on West 88th and Columbus. They had somehow managed to get all of Mickey's luggage on the train from Philly to NYC, and now the cab driver was unloading it on the curb.

“Is that it?” the driver asked, mopping his brow. “What do you call this thing?” He set Mickey's dress form down on the sidewalk. “It's like a headless, armless, legless mannequin on wheels!” he said.

Mickey chuckled. “That's Edith,” she explained to the puzzled man. “I named her after Edith Head, one of the most famous costume designers in fashion design history.”

“Uh-huh,” the man said, looking puzzled. “Where'd her head go?”

“Dress forms don't need a head,” Mickey said. “You use them to fit your designs. Sometimes I sew right on her! I got Edith at a yard sale for fifteen dollars in the fourth grade. We've been inseparable ever since.”

Her mom paid the fare, and the driver pulled off. “I suppose that you, Edith, and I should head on up to Aunt Olive's,” she said.

They rang the buzzer for 3B and waited patiently for Olive to buzz her up.

“Aren't you coming in?” Mickey asked when her mom paused at the third-floor landing.

“It's probably better if I don't,” her mother hesitated. “Olive and I don't exactly get along.” She set Mickey's sewing machine down on the floor next to her. “I'm sure you'll do great, honey. But if you ever want to come home—even tomorrow—you can just change your mind. You know the door is wide open.”

Mickey took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. Olive looked through the peephole and barked, “Who's there?”

Mickey's mom shook her head and shouted, “Who do you think it is, Olive? It's us!”

She gave Mickey one last hug. “See ya on the weekend, right?”

Mickey nodded. “It's only a week away, Mom. I'll see you Saturday. Every Saturday! I promise!”

She watched her mom descend the stairs then heard several locks and bolts turn on the other side of the door.

Aunt Olive poked her head out and glared at Mickey. “Are you going to just stand there or are you coming in?” she asked. “I see your mother was too rude to come in and greet me.”

Mickey forced a smile and tried to be pleasant and friendly. “Hi, Aunt Olive!” she said. “I'm so happy to be here!” She went to hug her aunt, but instead Olive extended her hand. Mickey wasn't sure if she was supposed to shake it or kiss it!

She looked around the apartment: it was a small but tidy two-bedroom with several paintings of birds on the walls. In fact, as Olive gave her the tour, she realized there were birds everywhere: dozens of tiny porcelain ones, bird-decorated towels in the bathroom, even a real parakeet perched in a cage in the living room.

“Wow, you like birds, huh?” Mickey said, poking her finger through the bars at the fluffy, little, yellow creature chirping at her.

“Murray bites,” Olive grunted. “Keep your fingers away.”

“Oh!” Mickey replied. “Thanks for the tip.”

“I am an ornithologist,” Olive explained.

Mickey looked confused. “Is that like an eye doctor or something?”

Olive huffed. “No, it's a bird-watcher. If you want, you can tag along with me this weekend to Central Park. There's an amazing nest of black-capped chickadees near the reservoir.”

What Mickey wanted to say was, “No way! That sounds deadly boring!” but instead she replied, “Awesome.”

“You'll sleep in here,” Olive said, pointing to a small room off the kitchen. It was painted banana yellow.

“It's really pretty,” Mickey said, pretending to like it. She wheeled in Edith and set her tackle box filled with threads, needles, pins, zippers, and scissors on the small nightstand. No matter where she went, she found something to add to it: a cool stud or grommet, an interesting snap or vintage button. It was her magic box for designing.

“It used to be my office, but I suppose I can make do,” Olive said with a sigh. “I didn't think you'd be bringing so much
stuff
with you.” She helped Mickey carry in a huge tote bag that weighed a ton. “What's in here?”

“My steamer, my iron, my muslin for draping patterns…”

“I see,” Olive said. “Your mother didn't mention that you'd come with all of this.”

“Thank you so much for letting me stay with you,” Mickey said, plopping down on the edge of the bed. Like the walls, the cover, sheets, and pillowcases were all yellow as well—with more birds on them.

“I'm really good at sewing and dyeing fabric,” Mickey mentioned. “Maybe I could do some pretty new curtains and a quilt…”

Olive frowned. “You'll do nothing of the sort!”

Mickey gulped. She had been there only five minutes and already managed to irritate her aunt.

“The room is great—really,” she tried to explain. “It's just not exactly my style.”

Olive eyed Mickey's black leather jacket, gray tank top, jean shorts, and purple Dr. Martens.

“Yes, well, I could see that it might not be. But I just went to Macy's and purchased that bedding.”

Now Mickey felt guilty. “Oh, I love it. Really. You have great taste.”

That seemed to calm her aunt down.

“I'm really hungry from the train ride.” Mickey tried to change the subject. “Can we maybe go out and get some pizza or something?”

“I'm a vegan,” Olive sniffed. “And I don't allow any processed food in my home.”

Mickey took that to mean no to a slice. “Okay, then what would
you
like to eat?” She regretted the words as soon as they came out of her mouth.

“I have some leftover black bean soup and spinach chickpea curry,” her aunt replied.

“Yum,” Mickey gulped. “Sounds delish.”

“Then wash up,” Olive ordered her. She presented Mickey with a hand towel from the linen closet and a small bottle of hand sanitizer. “I suggest you carry this with you at all times in your backpack. Schools are full of germs, and I don't want you bringing them home…”

She wandered off to start heating up their dinner.

Mickey took out her phone and began texting her mom:
Help! Aunt Olive is making vegetarian slop for dinner, and she's a germophobic bird-watcher!
But before she hit
send
, she reconsidered. The last thing she wanted her mom to do was worry—or worse, say, “I told ya so.”

Everything GR8 with Aunt Olive!
she typed and sent.

Even if it wasn't, she had to remind herself that she was here in NYC at last, following her dreams. And if that meant she had to eat beans and tofu for the next two hundred or so days of school, then she would do it and never complain. Some dreams were worth making sacrifices for.