Vanessa's Fashion Face-Off (12 page)

He grinned and gave me his cell phone number. Then he reached for his wallet, taking out a twenty. “Here. I can't have you buying stuff for me. It's unchivalrous.”

I gently pushed his hand back toward him. “If I find the right shirt, then you can pay me back.”

Mrs. H called for the start of class, and I went back to my desk, more gracefully this time. As she called each section, Mary Patrick got progress reports from everyone, and the topic of the advice-off came up again.

“I know it's only one week, but I'm going to miss answering letters,” said Heather with a sigh.

I leaned my head on her shoulder. “How about I bring a bunch of magazines and some lawn chairs, and while everyone else is busy working, we can sit around and read?”

She giggled. “Can we drink smoothies out of tall glasses with umbrellas?”

“Out of
pineapples
with umbrellas,” I told her.

“Don't forget,” said Brooke, “you're still choosing the questions Misha and Katie are answering.”

Tim left the room and came back with the latest advice requests.

“‘Dear Lincoln's Letters,'” he read, “‘What outfits will look good with my new braces?'” He passed me the paper. “I don't need to know fashion to answer that one. . . . Nothing.”

I took the paper from him and saw that it didn't stop at just that question.

Dear Lincoln's Letters,

What outfits will look good with my new braces? I hate them, and I look weird. Is there anything that will make them (or me) invisible?

Metal Mouth

“Awww,” I said out loud with a frown. “I know I'm supposed to be choosing questions for Katie, but I
have
to answer this one.”

“What one?” Katie appeared next to me.

I screamed.

Everyone stared.

Katie took a step back. “Sorry, I thought you saw me.” She glanced around. “Sorry, everyone!”

“V, are you okay?” asked Heather.

I clutched a hand to my chest. “Katie, where . . . where did you come from?”

She pointed to the door.

“No, I know that,” I said. “But . . . why are you here?” I took an excited breath. “Did you get my note? Do you forgive me?”

Katie shook her head. “Mrs. H thought it might be nice for me and the girl who's subbing for Heather to sit in and watch you guys work.” She nodded to Misha, who'd stopped to talk to someone. “She got permission from our teachers
for us to take ten minutes.”

My shoulders dropped. “So you don't forgive me.”

There was an awkward silence. She glanced at my friends.

Heather got to her feet. “Uh . . . hey, Tim and Brooke! Let's go sharpen our pencils!”

“I write with a pen,” said Tim, holding it up.

“I want to watch them fight,” said Brooke, staring at me and Katie.

Heather reached down and grabbed them both by an ear. “Pencil sharpening. Now.”

“Owww!” said Brooke, getting up. “What are they
teaching
you in choir?”

“Yeah, and aren't you in Model United Nations?” asked Tim, following her. “This is
not
a peaceful resolution. Ireland would be ashamed!”

Katie watched them go and shook her head to get the craziness out. “Anyway,” she said. “I can forgive you, but I can't forget what you did,
Vanessa. That was a ton of hurtful accusations that I didn't deserve.”

I reached out for her hands. “I
know
,” I said. “And I'm sorry. I was intimidated by you because you've got it all.”

“Got
what
all?” asked Katie.

“Magazines interviewing you and stores wanting to see your fashions,” I said, ticking off on my fingers. “Business cards and a website and—”

“And I'm still not getting any sales!” she said. “People don't want to back a twelve-year-old girl. They think because I'm a kid that I can't be taken seriously.” She brushed her hair out of her face in an angry swipe.

“Oh.” I pressed my lips together. “I didn't know that.”

“If you had asked, you would've,” she said. “I would've told you anything you wanted to know, but you chose to jump to conclusions and ruin a
perfectly good friendship.” Her voice deepened, but she didn't cry. “And now I have
no
friends at this school.”

Just when I thought I couldn't feel worse . . .

“Katie—,” I began.

She sighed and got to her feet. “I'm gonna go. Just . . . have your teacher email me whatever advice questions you want me to answer, okay?”

I twisted my hands together. “There's nothing I can do to change your mind?”

Katie turned. “It would have to be something huge.”

“I'll work on it,” I told her. “I really will.”

It was too promising a friendship not to.

“
I
cannot believe I agreed to take you to the mall when there's a
House Hunters
marathon on,” said Mom, swerving our van around a car waiting for a parking spot. “I must be out of my mind.”

“Out of your mind with love for your daughter, yes,” I said. “And I promised Gil I'd find him something.”

“
I
didn't!” she said.

“Me neither,” piped up Terrell from the backseat.

Mom pulled into a parking spot, and a few
minutes later we were in the department store.

“Okay, we don't have a lot of time,” I said, “so start looking for something that says surfer/poet/hippie/drummer.”

Mom just stared at me. “You're kidding.”

“What about these?” asked Terrell, pointing to a rack.

“Those are Spider-Man pajamas,” I said. “Not really Gil's style.”

“I meant for me,” said Terrell.

“Would you please focus?” I asked. “We're looking for a long-sleeve shirt that a poet might wear to a fancy party.”

Mom and I started sifting through racks while Terrell engaged in a battle with the hanging Spider-Man pajamas.

“What about this?” asked Mom, holding up a baggy linen tunic.

“That's what a
medieval
poet would wear to a fancy party,” I said. “Think modern.”

“How about this?” She pointed out a button-down shirt with flowers.

“Think masculine.”

“This?” She held up a T-shirt with fake muscles printed on it.

“You're hilarious.”

“Honey, fashion isn't my forte,” said Mom. “And I've never met this Gil boy, so I have no idea what he's into.”

Nevertheless, she kept on looking, and after a while Terrell tried to help too. Some of the things they chose made me cringe, while others made me laugh. And I started to realize how awesome my family was to be doing something they disliked, just to help me. The great thing was, I probably could've called in Brooke, Heather, or Tim, too, and it would've been just as much fun.

Despite everything Katie had going for her, she didn't have these wonderful people in her life the way I had them. She might get close with
my friends, but it would never be the same as
my
friendship with them because her personality was different than mine. There was no way I could be Katie Kestler, because then I couldn't be Vanessa Jackson.

“My last attempt,” said Mom, holding up a striped long-sleeve crewneck with a solid chest pocket.

“That . . . is actually perfect,” I said, taking it from her.

“Really?” Mom looked pleased with herself. “Look at me, I'm a hip mom.”

“I wouldn't go
that
far,” I said, and ducked out of her reach before she could grab me. I snapped a pic of it and texted it to Gil, who sent me back a smiley.

When I got home, I worked all the way up until bedtime, adding a special touch to the shirt, and on Friday in Journalism, I presented it to Gil.

“Vanessa! This is awesome!” He ran his fingers over the special touch: stitching of a surfboard. “But I don't remember seeing this in the picture you sent.”

“I put that on myself,” I told him. “So now the shirt is customized just for you.”

He beamed, lovely dimples reappearing. “I feel like I owe you more than just the twenty dollars this cost,” he said, handing over the money.

“That smile,” I told him, “is extra payment enough.”

While the news team put last-minute touches on their work to meet deadline, I kept glancing at the classroom door, wondering if Katie might come in to watch us.

She didn't.

That evening, Gil and his parents showed up to take me to the civic center, and I gave him two thumbs-up when he met me at my front door. “That shirt is so you!”

“Is it? I'm not very sure about anything right now,” he said.

I called good-bye to Mom and walked with Gil down my driveway. “You'll do fine,” I assured him as we walked to his parents' car. “You don't have to speak or anything, do you?”

He shook his head. “But that's not what I'm worried about. What if nobody likes my entry?”

“
I
like it,” I told him firmly. “And if you want, I can stand next to it all night and ooh and aah over it.”

Gil chuckled. “You don't have to make any sounds, but I wouldn't mind the support.”

I greeted Gil's parents and asked them about life in Hawaii. Gil leaned back in his seat and relaxed with a smile on his face.

“I love thinking about that place,” he said.

Gil's dad dropped us off in front of the civic center, and his mom led the way to the registration table.

We walked into the display hall, which had buffet tables set up in the center, piled high with fruits and cheeses. Along the walls were easels featuring the photo entries.

Gil bumped my shoulder and pointed with a grin. “There's mine on the end!”

He hurried toward it, and I pulled out my cell phone. “Stand next to it and let me get a picture,” I said.

Gil posed, and I raised my cell phone just as a strong hand clamped down on my shoulder.

“No photos of the art, miss,” said a man in a security uniform.

Why was I always in trouble with them?

“You should have a sign. . . .” I trailed off when I realized I was standing right next to one. In fact, they were posted every few yards. “Oh. Sorry. We don't want to take pictures of all the exhibits. This one is my friend's.” I pointed to the display.

The security guard shrugged. “Sorry, but I don't make the rules. She does.” He pointed to an old lady with a pinched face.

When she saw us looking, she narrowed her eyes.

“Well, what about them?” asked Gil, pointing to some people at the entrance with a video camera dragging cables behind it.

“They're with the local news,” said the security guard. “They've got permission. Excuse me.”

He trotted off to stop some other people with their own camera at the ready.

“Well, that sucks,” said Gil.

“But you're going to be on the news!” I told him. “Look, look, here they come!”

I backed up to get out of the path of the news crew as they approached, but the cameraman stopped just to the left of Gil's photos and then crossed the room to film the other side.

Gil and I watched him go.

“That was rude,” I said.

“I guess he didn't want us in the footage,” said Gil with a shrug.

More people began wandering into the room, and I tugged on Gil's arm.

“Let's get some food before it's all gone.”

We stood where we could see Gil's photos and gauge audience reaction.

Some people paused and pointed to the Ecklesby Estate, no doubt chatting about its soon-to-be demolition. Others just stared from the image of Hawaii to the image of the estate, as if confused by what it could mean.

“Just out of curiosity, what did you name the exhibit?” I asked Gil.

“Name?” he repeated.

“You know . . . how artists name a painting so people can understand what they're expressing,” I said. “Like van Gogh's
Starry Night
.”

Gil raised an eyebrow. “You never cease to
amaze me. I wouldn't see you as an art buff.”

I blushed. “Well, I don't know the names of
all
the great works, but art and fashion design are kind of the same. You start with an idea, jot some things down on paper, and bring it to life.”

“Like writing books,” said a voice next to me. “Seriously, how can you not appreciate them more?”

I rolled my eyes and turned to face Tim. “
What
are you doing here?”

“I appreciate art in
all
its forms,” he said, gazing down his nose at me. “What are you doing here?”

“Gil entered the exhibit, and I'm here to support him,” I said. “To stay by his side no matter what.”

A couple approached Gil's exhibit, and I pushed him toward them. “Go!”

“Hey!” He dug in his heels. “What are you doing?”

“Stand by your exhibit and talk about it,” I told him.

Gil tugged on the bottom of his shirt to straighten it and approached the couple, rubbing his hands together.

“He looks like he's trying to start a fire,” said Tim. “Are you sure he's going to be okay on his own?”

“He'll be fine,” I said.

Except he wasn't. As soon as he started explaining his photos, the couple wandered away.

“Rude,” I said with a frown.

A man in a pinstripe suit strolled by and stopped to look at the photos. Gil tried his speech again, but as soon as he'd said one word, the man looked him up and down and kept on strolling.

“Hey!” I said.

Tim shushed me. “People don't have to like the photographs.”

“But they don't have to be rude to the photographer,” I said.

Poor Gil was shifting from one foot to another, shoulders hunched, staring at the carpet.

“Hey, look, a camera crew,” said Tim. “And they're coming this way!”

“Yeah, they've been by here already,” I said, glancing over. But this time a woman with a microphone was with them. “Oh, this is perfect! She can interview Gil.”

I waved to get his attention and pointed out the reporter. Then I pulled myself to my full height. Gil nodded and did the same, standing next to his exhibit with his hands behind his back.

The reporter strolled sideways while she held the microphone and talked at the camera.

“They're almost here!” I whispered, clutching Tim's wrist.

“For someone who gets stage fright, you're
alarmingly excited,” he said.

“That's because . . . Wait—” The camera once again stopped right before it reached Gil. The reporter started walking back from where she came, still talking.

Gil's mouth opened and closed, but he seemed at a loss for words.

I sure wasn't.

“Hey,” I said, hurrying after the news crew. “Why are you ignoring my friend?”

They didn't hear me.

“Hey!” I said again. “HEY!”

The cameraman and reporter jumped and turned around in alarm. So did everyone else in the room.

“You missed a great exhibit on the end,” I said, pointing at Gil's. “Why don't you want it on the news?” I looked at the cameraman.

Tim cleared his throat. “Uh . . . V?”

“Is it because a kid submitted it and you don't
think it's worthy?” I continued.

“V . . . ,” said Tim.

“Let me tell
you
something”—I pointed my finger at the reporter—“my friend's work is amazing and meaningful. It's about where life begins and where it ends. It's special to him, but you act like it doesn't matter.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You seem very passionate about this.”

That's when I noticed she was holding the microphone out to me. And that the camera's light was blinking.

I was on TV.

I froze for just a second, but then I saw Gil out of the corner of my eye, watching me with a hopeful expression.

I nodded and took a deep breath, keeping my eyes on the woman. “Just because we're younger, people treat us like we don't know anything, like we've never experienced life,” I said. “But we've
felt emotions, and we've seen beauty, and we know what we like. Take my friend Katie Kestler . . .” I stopped. “Well, my former friend Katie Kestler. I kind of ruined things by—”

Tim prodded me in the back.

I looked at him. “Right. Not the point.” I faced the reporter. “Anyway, Katie is a brilliant fashion designer, and she's smart and professional, but because she's only twelve, nobody takes her seriously. And nobody takes Gil seriously.” I pointed to him, and the camera panned over.

Gil's eyes widened, and he waved nervously.

“Could you please just film maybe five seconds of his photo entry?” I asked the cameraman.

“No, he may
not
,” said a woman's voice. “And I shall tell you why.”

Everyone, including the cameraman, turned toward the old woman with the pinched face who I'd seen earlier.

“I have specifically requested that exhibit
not be filmed because it will belong to
me
.” She gestured to Gil. “If, of course, you are willing to sell it.”

Gil squeaked. I translated. “You want to buy his work?” I asked.

The old woman laughed airily. “Don't sound so surprised. Weren't you just praising its merits?”

“Well, yes,” I said. “But . . .” There wasn't anything to argue. I grinned. “Yes, ma'am.”

The camera swiveled back to the reporter, who smiled broadly and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the people have spoken
and
been heard. A photographer was noticed for being a talent, not a teen. This is Allison Delaney reporting live from the civic center for Channel Five News.”

The light on the camera stopped blinking, and the cameraman lowered it to his side. The reporter turned and extended her hand to me.

“Thank you for turning a boring news
segment into something delightful,” she said.

I shook her hand, and then she waved to Gil. “Best of luck to you.”

“Thank you!” he said.

As soon as she walked away, Gil hurried over and high-fived me and Tim.

“Holy cow, can you believe it?” he asked, laughing. “I never in a million years would've guessed today would turn out this way.”

“Yeah, I don't think Stefan did either,” said Tim, nodding toward the opposite side of the room.

Our lead photographer stood scowling with his arms crossed next to a photo of himself with his arms crossed.

“I think they call that a self-fulfilling prophecy,” Tim added.

The three of us snickered.

“Vanessa.” Gil held his arms open to me.
“Thank you for talking me into doing this. And for convincing me to wear a different shirt.”