Vanessa's Fashion Face-Off (4 page)

By the end of the day, Locker 411 had already
started to do its job. When I walked into the auditorium after school, the student director of the drama club glanced over at me and beamed.

“Jackson versus Kestler! The most infamous smackdown of the century.”

“Hey, Phoebe.” I forced a smile and hugged the swatches of fabric I'd brought with me. “I wouldn't call it infamous. It's nothing, really. Not even worth watching.”

“Don't be silly,” she said. “Of course we'll all watch and support you.”

“I'm a lucky, lucky girl,” I told her, forcing the smile even wider.

“Oh! And here are the measurements you asked for.” Phoebe slid a sheet of paper off her clipboard. “Can you make them work?”

The cast of the play was small, three girls and two guys, but the play itself was set in the distant future, so I'd be making costumes from scratch. The fun part, though, was coming up with the
designs and sharing them with the director.

I nodded at the page she gave me. “These are great, thanks! Tell me what you think of these fabrics.” I held up each swatch as I described it. Even just talking about fashion lifted my mood. “This is for meeting the aliens, a bit muted and reserved, and this is for the big fight scene, lots of flash and aggressive colors.”

Phoebe nodded along to everything I said. “I like them, but can we get something like this one in a less shiny fabric?” She held up a silvery swatch. “I'm worried about the glare from the stage lights.”

“Of course,” I said with a nod, reaching into my bag. I handed her a hand-stapled lookbook I'd put together. “And I made some form sketches with swatches on them, so you can get an idea of the final product. Obviously, we'll switch out the shiny silver for a matte now.”

Phoebe flipped through the lookbook,
smiling. “Awesome! You have got some gift, V. You're totally going to win your advice-off.”

I blushed and grinned. “Thank you.”

She handed back the book. “Just make that one fabric change, and we're good to go!”

I took the book from her but didn't move.

“Sorry, was there something else?” she asked.

“Actually, I was hoping that after practice I could maybe use the stage?”

Phoebe nodded. “Sure. Is it for anything special? Do you need access to the props room?”

I shook my head. “I just need to practice for the advice-off. I'm a little nervous,” I said.

“Someone as poised and confident as you?” She looked surprised. “Just remember to take deep breaths,” she added with a smile. “When people get nervous and try to speak, they end up sounding like hyper chipmunks.”

I laughed. “Thanks for the tip.”

The actors took to the stage, and I listened
and watched while studying their measurements and doing more sketches. After an hour, they stopped for a break, and Phoebe approached me.

“We'll be off the stage for about fifteen minutes if you want to use it,” she said.

“That's perfect,” I said. “Thanks!”

I waited for everyone to clear the room and, with a self-conscious glance over my shoulder, I hoisted myself onto the stage and got to my feet.

Clearing my throat, I smiled and spoke to an invisible audience, “Hi, I'm Vanessa Jackson and—”

There was a clicking sound from overhead, and suddenly, the stage was awash with light. A girl's voice boomed from above. “You can keep going. I'm just running AV tests.”

But I was a Vanessa-deer-in-stage-lights, frozen with fear.

“Hello?” her voice boomed again. “I said you
can keep going. Your name is Vanessa Jackson and . . . ?”

“Uhhh. Uhhh.” My throat felt like it was lined with crushed crackers. I swallowed and tried again. “Uhhh?”

“I can barely hear you. Use the mic,” suggested the voice.

A command. That was helpful. Something to take my mind off the fact that a stranger was watching me and could probably see the sweat rings under my armpits.

I reached for the microphone, but it must've been coated with grease because it slipped out of my hands. I caught it by the cord and tried to swing it back up to grab it, but I misjudged the length of the cord and smacked myself in the head with the microphone. The thud of metal meeting face echoed throughout the auditorium, along with my dry-throated “Uhhh!”

“You okay?” asked the voice.

I nodded and said in a rush, “My name is Vanessa Jackson, and I write fashion and style advice for the
Lincoln Log
.”

Phoebe had been right. I sounded like a hyper chipmunk.

I put the microphone back and hopped off the edge of the stage. Clearly, this wasn't something I'd be able to tackle on my own.

I left the auditorium and texted Mom to come get me. Then I dialed a different number.

A minute later, Heather answered my call. “Hey, V, what's up?”

The crackers in my throat had finally crumbled away, and I was able to talk again.

“I have a life-or-death situation,” I said. “Can you be at my house in twenty minutes?”

“
T
hanks for coming over so quickly,” I told Heather when she showed up at my door twenty minutes later.

“You told me it was a life-or-death situation,” said Heather, stepping inside. She looked me up and down. “And now that I see you're eating a Popsicle while in your pajamas, it's clear we have different meanings of life and death.”

“Sorry.” I gripped the Popsicle in my teeth and helped her take off her coat. “I'm trying to give myself brain freeze,” I said, talking around a mouthful of ice-cold cherry.

“You
want
brain freeze?” she asked. “Isn't that something most people avoid?”

I shook my head. “I'm hoping if my brain is numb, the rest of me won't be.”

Heather regarded me warily. “Maybe we're already past the point of brain freeze.” She gingerly took the Popsicle from me. “How many of these have you had, sweetie?”

“Counting this one, which I accidentally dropped in the toilet? One.”

“Gahh!” Heather let go of the stick, and the Popsicle splattered onto the tile floor. “V, that's gross!”

“It still had the wrapper on!” I said, picking up the broken pieces. “And the toilet water was clean.” I made a face. “Okay, now that I hear myself, you may have a point. But I'm under a lot of stress!”

I carried the pieces into the kitchen, and Heather followed, calling hello to my mom and
brother in the living room.

“What's going on?” Heather asked while I tossed the Popsicle bits into the sink and washed my hands.

I explained how I'd gotten onstage and frozen in the spotlight, along with giving myself a microphone-shaped bruise.

“Aww.” Heather eyed my forehead. “I thought you'd gotten over that fear.”

“Yeah, well, apparently, my brain forgot to tell the rest of me.” I dried my hands on a paper towel and crumpled it into a ball. “Anyway, you're in front of an audience all the time for choir, so I thought you could help.”

Heather was a crazy good singer. Whenever Brooke and I have karaoke at our slumber parties, Heather somehow mysteriously signs up for songs in handwriting that looks nothing like hers.

“Well, I am onstage a lot,” she said, “but never by myself.”

“You also did great at last month's Meet the Press,” I said. “Remember, when we all had to do on-camera segments?”

“True,” she said. “But that was just facing a camera, not people.”

“I can't even do
that
,” I said. “We have the advice-off next week, and I'm going to choke.”

“Well, let's see if we can fix that,” said Heather with an encouraging smile. “Can we sit someplace more . . . stable?”

She eyed the stool underneath me.

I was pretty sure she meant to say, “Can you sit someplace more stable?,” but Heather was the kind of girl who was too sweet to point those things out.

“Sure.” I motioned for her to follow, pausing in the living room. “Mom, Heather and I are going to be in my room.”

“Can I come?” asked Terrell. “We can all play Battle the Mermaid.”

“How about Battle the Paper Towel?” I asked, lobbing it at him.

“Heather, while you're here, are you possibly free on Wednesday afternoon?” asked Mom. “I need someone to watch Terrell while I take Vanessa to the dentist.”

Heather winced. “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Jackson, but I have Hebrew school. Maybe Katie could do it? She told me she used to babysit in Los Angeles.”

“I'm not a baby!” Terrell gave Heather a defiant stare, and she smiled.

“Excuse me. Young
man
–sit,” she said.

“That isn't a bad idea,” said Mom.

“We'll ask her tomorrow,” said Heather.

“Thank you!” said Mom. “You girls have fun.”

I led the way to my bedroom and closed the door.

“Okay, what's the plan?” I asked.

Heather's eyes traveled from me to my closet.
“Actually, I've changed my mind. I'll help you, but it's going to cost.”

“You want to borrow one of my outfits? Sure,” I said with a shrug.

“Nooo.” Heather held up a finger and grinned mischievously. “I'll only help if I can see your Halloween costume
today
.”

“My . . .” It was such a devious request from such an angelic face that I couldn't help smiling. “Fine, but you also have to show me what
your
costume is.”

“Deal!” said Heather. “Let's see yours first.”

I giggled with excitement. Even though I'd wanted to keep my costume a surprise, it was kind of cool to get to show someone.

I walked into my closet and reached into my rack of winter clothes, pulling out my most amazing creation to date.

“Voilà!” I spun it on its hanger so she could see the front and back. “Steampunk princess.”

Heather's expression was completely worth it. “That . . . is . . . awesome.”

The skirt was white-and-brown-striped, satiny, and gathered to knee-level at the front. Around the waist of the skirt, I'd swapped fabric for dark-brown leather that I'd accented with copper-colored buttons shaped like gears. For my upper body, I had a white blouse with puffy sleeves under a red textured bodice that had buckles instead of laces.

“V, it's gorgeous!” Heather whispered, running her hands over the material. “You made all this?”

“Well, not the metal pieces,” I said with a grin. “But yeah.”

“And these gear buttons are adorable!” she raved.

“Thanks. But here's my favorite part.” I pointed to the choker around the neck of the
hanger. It was red velvet, with the red-and-white cameo dangling from the center. “It belonged to my grandma.”

“I bow to the queen of all costumes.” Heather bent at the waist.

“Steampunk princess,” I corrected her, laughing. “And thank you.” I hung the costume on the back of my door. “Okay, your turn. What are you going as?”

Heather searched through the photos on her phone for a minute and then showed me.

“An Irish folk dancer.”

“So cute!” I said, taking the phone from her. “I didn't know you could dance like that.”

“I can't,” she said. “I've been watching some videos online, but they move too fast for me.” She took back her phone. “But that's okay because all eyes will be on you, anyway!”

At the mention of all eyes on me, my thoughts
jerked back to the advice-off, and my stomach lurched.

“Can we work on my stage fright now?” I asked.

Heather nodded. “Of course.”

She sat cross-legged on the floor and had me do the same.

“We'll start with a breathing exercise,” she said. “Breathing is very important when you speak.” She paused. “Also for life in general.”

She cleared her throat. “This breathing technique is called ‘
sama vritti
,' or ‘equal breathing.' You're going to inhale for four counts and then exhale for four counts. Ready?”

I nodded. “I've been breathing my whole life. This'll be easy.”

While I talked, Heather took the thumb and forefinger of my left hand and brought them together to form an
O
. Then she did the same with my right.

“These hand positions guide your energy flow so that you gain wisdom and feel calm.” At a strange look from me, she blushed and added, “I sometimes go to yoga with my
bubbe
. Studying stresses me out, and the yoga helps me relax.”

I grinned at her. “That's cute that you and your grandma do that together. My grandma drags me to church bingo.”

Heather placed her hands on my shoulders. “Now, you're going to take some calming breaths while I count to four. Inhale.”

I breathed in, and Heather counted.

“One . . .”

I started to cough.

She stared at me, wide-eyed. “Really?”

I waved away her concern with one hand and stifled my cough with the other.

“I'm fine,” I said. “The cold of the Popsicle is still in my throat, I think. Start over.”

“Inhale,” she said again, counting on her fingers.

I took a deep breath and gave her a triumphant smile.

“Exhale,” she said.

I blew a gust of air in her face. She blinked and leaned back.

“Okay, that was supposed to be slowly”—she twitched her nose—“and without the scent of cherries and garlic.”

“Sorry, I had pizza for lunch,” I said, covering my mouth.

“But you got further this time!” She patted my knee. “Let's try it again. And remember, inhale and exhale slowly. And when you exhale, I want you to say
om
and really feel the vibration.” She demonstrated.

We practiced the breathing technique a few more times until I was as calm as I was ever going to be.

“Good,” said Heather. “Now it's time for a visualization exercise. If you think it, you can make it.”

I gave her a dubious look. “Terrell sometimes thinks he's a dinosaur.”

“Just close your eyes.” She reached out and placed a hand over them.

“Your palm is sticky,” I informed her.

“That's from your toilet Popsicle,” she said. “Close your eyes.”

I did as she said, and she pulled her hand away. A second later, I heard muted harp music, no doubt from her phone.

“I want you to imagine yourself back onstage,” she said. “The spotlights are on, and you're the only one there.”

“What am I wearing?”

The music stopped. “Huh?”

“Onstage.” I turned my head in her general direction. “What am I wearing?”

“Oh. Um . . . purple pants and a green tank top.”

I made a face. “I look like an eggplant.”

“I meant blue jeans,” she corrected herself, starting the music again.

I wrinkled my forehead. “Boot cut, flared, or skinny?”

The music stopped.

“What?”

“What kind of jeans?” I asked.

“Flared.”

“I don't own flared jeans,” I said. “When did I buy them?”

Heather sighed. “I don't know. There was a sale at Blarneys?”

“I think you mean Barneys,” I said. “And even on sale their jeans are not cheap. Where did I get the money? I didn't babysit those terrible Thatcher boys again, did I?”

I felt Heather's hands clutching both sides of
my head. “You got the money as a birthday present, the jeans were on clearance because they had a stain, and before you ask, you're wearing ballet flats.”

I was quiet for a moment. Then I peeked through one eye and asked, “What color are the flats?”

“Vanessa!” Heather squeezed my head, and we both busted out laughing.

After we'd calmed down, I said, “Look, I'm sorry, and I appreciate your help, but visualizing myself confident before an audience won't work. Trust me, I have a constant daydream where I'm holding a fashion show, and”—I shrugged—“that hasn't worked, either.”

She shook her head. “I just don't get it. You love being the center of attention, and the spotlight is perfect for that. Even if you're not comfortable in front of two hundred people, you should be okay in front of one camera.” She snapped her fingers.
“Remember when we helped Brooke film that video for history? You were in front of a camera then!”

“A cell phone camera,” I reminded her. “And I didn't have to look directly at it, and my professional career wasn't at stake!”

“Well—”

Someone knocked on my bedroom door.

“Come in, Mom!” I called.

Only it wasn't my mom. Or my little brother. Or Brooke or Tim Antonides or even Tim Gunn.

“Hiyee!” said Katie, waving to me. “Your mom said I'd find you here, and she asked me to babysit your brother, which of course I said yes to because how cute is he, and plus, you and I are like sisters from different misters, so he's almost family!” She took a deep breath. “But what are you doing by yourself, lonely pants?” She started to walk in and saw Heather off to the side. “Oh! Hi, Heather! Sorry. I just wanted to talk to
Vanny about the advice-off.”

“That's actually what we're practicing for,” said Heather. “V has a little stage fright.”

“Hey!” I turned on Heather with wide eyes. “Why would you reveal my weakness to the competition?”

“Awww, it's okay,” said Katie. “My lips are sealed.” She pantomimed zipping them shut. “Want me to email you some Toastmasters videos my mom has?”

I was about to point out that she technically wouldn't be able to talk if her lips were really sealed, but her question intrigued me.

“Toastmasters?” I repeated. “What's that?”

“It's a public-speaking improvement group. My mom used to have a serious phobia about speaking in public, so her doctor recommended she join. After a few months—”

“A few months? I only have a week.” I looked to Heather to back me up, but she shrugged.

“It couldn't hurt,” she said.

Why was she siding with Katie?

“Fine.” I nodded at Katie. “Can you email me the files?”

“Sure, give me your business card.”

I froze in the process of getting a pen and Post-it. “My what?”

“Business card,” she repeated as she reached into her purse and pulled out a flat, pink card case with a black
K
in the center of it. She flipped it open and passed cards to me and Heather.

Of course.

“Wow!” said Heather with the same enthusiasm she'd had for my costume. “These are really nice. And so professional!”

“Awww, thanks!” said Katie. “I want people to take me seriously.”

I glanced at the card she'd given me, which I had to admit did look really nice. Her name, her email address, and
Fashion Guru
were written
in swirly script meant to look like thread coming off a spool at one end of the card.