Miss Scarlet's School of Patternless Sewing (31 page)

Mary Theresa slouched and tried to hold back a naughty grin. It would be the craziest trick she ever pulled, but she couldn’t wait to try. “I’ll do it.”

“Now we’re talkin’,” Olivia cheered. “Go get your hombre and bring him home!”

Saturday, January 14, 6:49 p.m.

Scarlet does New York

Hola, you vintage-loving vixens… three guesses what is on the front burner today. Oh, let’s just get to the headline; my heels are on fire over here! Tomorrow at 6:45 a.m., I’m hopping on a plane to New York City for three glorious months of the Johnny Scissors Emerging Designers Program!

In my new life, I’ll be living among twelve of America’s most promising emerging designers in the penthouse of House of Tijeras.

And even more exiting, I’ll be sewing in the famous student sewing center that Daisy designed many decades ago. Honestly, they could put me in an upright cot in the broom closet and I’d give thanks. I’ve waited so long for this!

Well, my lovey-lovelies, my blog posts for the next three months will be slimmer than Spanx, as all of my energy will be aimed like a can of whipped cream at the delicious sundae that is my program. But I do have my iPhone and you know I’ll be doing the snap ’n post thing.

I’m wishing all of you love and prosperity for this New Year—I wish you many little victories!

Yours in sequins,

Miss Scarlet

P.S. Kamikaze kudos to those of you who donated to mi causa, but I’ll be returning all your $$$.

S
carlet ended her first day as a temporary New Yorker by cuddling in bed and saying an earnest prayer for her family and her patternless sewing students—most of all, Rosa, wherever she was. Scarlet then fell back in bed and blinked several times before reaching for her iPhone. She took a deep breath and punched in a message to Marco.

Are we OK? I miss you. A lot. Thinking of that Sam Cooke song you put on my playlist…

Nothin’ can ever change this love I have for you…

—XO, Scar

*   *   *

The next morning when her alarm rang, Scarlet’s eyelids opened and she searched for her iPhone to see if Marco had answered. She had waited several minutes, but must have drifted to sleep. Pressing the phone to her chest, she gulped and peeked at the screen.

miss you too. thought about what you said to me in the car. time for me to rip some seams too. wishing you the best because you deserve it. love, m.

Scarlet sighed as she read it and sat up on the lumpy mattress that would be her bed for the next few months. Setting the phone on the chipped gray nightstand, her body shivered from the cold. The overbearing scent of Lysol dominated her tiny matchbox of a room. Scarlet hadn’t lived in conditions like these since her early college days.

She hated to admit it, but so far Marco’s gut feeling had been correct. When she’d arrived yesterday and met with the other interns in the main entrance of House of Tijeras, they were greeted by Louisa, the program coordinator. After a round of informal introductions, Louisa politely explained that the date wasn’t the only change made to the program.

“Due to budget cuts beyond our control,” she said, “we’ve had to rent out the penthouse and move the student quarters to a nearby facility.”

Louisa instructed them to gather up their luggage and follow her all the way through the giant complex. The twelve up-and-coming designers were then led across the street to the subway terminal where they were given maps to take the train to Harlem to a YMCA dormitory.

Little did they know that that dormitory was only the beginning of the disappointments to come.

*   *   *

On the first official day, the group sat through a two-hour orientation about the history of Casa de la Flora. Scarlet appreciated the slideshow, but it took all her might not to raise her hand and “fill in” some of the spotty history about Daisy’s career. It also bothered her that only fifteen minutes of the orientation focused on Daisy, the rest on Johnny Scissors.

After the orientation, the students grabbed a quick lunch in the cafeteria. Scarlet scanned the offerings behind the smudged
buffet glass and searched for the best of the worst. Just as she reached for a soggy salad, someone tapped her arm.

“Leave it,” said the guy standing behind her in line. “Don’t eat anything here that isn’t prepackaged.” Scarlet ducked and wormed her way out of line and bought a cup of Yoplait.

All she wanted was to get on with the day, because a tour of the 15,000-square-foot building was to come after their meal. At least that didn’t disappoint. The place made Carly’s look like a Circle K. Scarlet felt like little Charlie Bucket wandering through Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. She watched every step to ensure she didn’t fall into any chenille rivers or eat any candy-colored ribbons. She kept her hands to herself and processed every morsel of detail.

They paraded through the fabrication shop, then wandered about the materials center, as well as the sketch lab, design studio, and fitting room. When they reached the Johnny Scissors runway on the tenth floor, everyone took turns impersonating his or her favorite supermodel. Except Scarlet. She had already started to think of new dress ideas. It had been a while since her mechanical pencil touched her sketchpad, and before she knew it, she had cranked out two gowns and a pantsuit.

Still sketching, she pressed on, last in the group. Her favorite floors had to be those with the libraries and galleries—thousands of books, magazines, slides, picture files, and even Daisy collectibles. Their first assignment involved a research and essay project about each student’s muse, the specific inspiration, and how they applied it in a tangible form to their own work.

*   *   *

The next days were all about production; very similar to the work she performed at Carly’s. Some students were downright divas about sweeping up the loose threads or winding dozens
and dozens of bobbins. Scarlet, however, considered it a way of paying her dues. Johnny Scissors likely wanted his students to appreciate all levels of fashion design.

At the end of Friday’s class, Scarlet felt more drained than if she’d worked a sixteen-hour shift at Auntie Linda’s quince shop. Completely exhausted, Scarlet rolled over on her bed, aimed the remote at the twelve-inch plasma screen TV, and pressed the On button. When the remote refused to cooperate, she crawled off the mattress and tripped on a box on the floor.

“My box!” Scarlet forgot that her mother had sent a gift box of her famous “Juicy Jeane” handmade sachets. The mail clerk had delivered it Thursday, but Scarlet didn’t have time to open it. She used the tip of her pinkie nail and sliced open the tape to find a set of pretty fabric pillows that smelled of fresh gardenias, roses, and cherry blossoms. A little bit of home—just what Scarlet needed. At the bottom of the box sat a book and card sealed inside a Ziploc bag. She opened the bag and slid out the tattered pink book—her first fashion sketchpad. She thought it had been tossed out years ago.

A picture reel of past events played in her mind as she lovingly traced her hands over the ink-drawn figures on the cover. She then flipped through page after page of sketches. Scarlet could see the raw shape of what would later become her Mexibilly Frock collection.

Scarlet grabbed the card and read it.

Scarlet inserted the card back in the envelope and decided she wanted to sew. Five days had passed, and she hadn’t pricked a stitch. The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to check out the famed student sewing center, so she rushed to apply a fresh coat of makeup, changed into a pair of tight cuffed jeans and a lilac ribbed-front cardigan blouse she’d knitted last summer, and smoothed down her forties wartime updo. Right before she left her room, she kicked off her white Keds and slipped into four-inch-high Daisy-inspired painted platform sandals and secured a matching comb in her hair.

Scarlet scooped up her decorated sewing basket and jumped in a cab downtown. When she arrived at House of Tijeras, she headed to the front office to ask about driving an official Johnny Scissors sewing machine. The receptionist rang an assistant, who led Scarlet to the elevators.

“Hey, you’re the one who warned me about the cafeteria food the other day. Hi, I’m Scarlet Santana. How long have you worked here?” Scarlet asked as they stepped in.

“I’m Ronnie. Couple of years,” he replied. “They moved the sewing room to the eighth floor. Budget cuts.”

“Darn,” Scarlet said. “That’s fine. So, how do you like your job? It must be exciting!”

“Not really.” He shrugged. “I’m an assistant to the receptionist. My job is to escort guests to their proper floor. Been doing it for three years now, hoping to move up someday. Are you a new employee?”

Scarlet straightened her posture. “I’m here for the final Johnny Scissors Emerging Designer Program.”

“Good luck with
that,
” he mumbled.

“You’re lighting up the tilt sign there, mister man. Stop feeding me a fib, and spill,” Scarlet said forcefully.

Bing!
The elevator doors opened. Scarlet lunged for the Close Door button.

“Fine. I went through the program too,” said Ronnie. “I used to have it made in Austin before I came here. I had my own studio and line, models. The whole Texas-sized waffle. But I had to stay here to pay off my debt.”

“Your tuition?”

“No, I’m talking about the bill they hand you on your last day.” Ronnie stepped closer to Scarlet, lowered his voice to a whisper, and pretended to check the time on his watch. “I hope you read the fine print on your contract. You get charged for wear and tear on the supplies, the machinery—all of it. And you know that business about him mentoring the students? I heard that for this class it’s by DVD, and you’ll get charged for it.”