“Oh, don’t be modest, Lizzie,” Dominique says with a laugh. “Jean-Luc told me everything.”
What is she talking about? What is going on? What did Luke say to her about me? What did Luke say to Shari about me? What is Luke doing, going around talking about me all over the place?
“It won’t take Lizzie any time at all,” Dominique is saying, “to whip Victoria’s dress into shape.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Thibodaux claps her hands together, tears-actual tears-glistening at the corners of her eyes. “Is that really true, Lizzie? Can you really do it?”
I look from Mrs. Thibodaux to Mrs. de Villiers to Dominique, then back again. Something is going on here. Something that, I’m starting to suspect, has more to do with Dominique than it does anything else.
“Do you think you can salvage it, Lizzie?” Mrs. de Villiers asks me, looking worried.
Did Luke really say I have many talents? That I’m accomplished?
I can’t let him down. Even if he did rat me out to Shari.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I say hesitantly. “I mean, I can’t promise anything-”
“I don’t care,” Vicky says. “I just don’t want to look like Stevie Nicks on my wedding day.”
I can see her point. Still-
“Take off your dress and give it to Lizzie,” Mrs. Thibodaux tells her daughter. “And change into your rehearsal-dinner dress. There are a lot of people waiting to see us down there. God knows what they think is happening up here.”
I didn’t point out that it seemed as if most people hadn’t been too alarmed by Vicky’s screams, since she seems to let them out so often.
A minute later I find myself standing there clutching an armful of satin and lace.
“Do what you can,” Mrs. Thibodaux says to me as Vicky, having changed into a demure pink sundress and repaired her tear-stained makeup, opens the door and goes out to greet Craig, who has been calmly waiting for her all this time.
“You can’t possibly make it look any worse,” is what Luke’s mother says as she sails past me.
It’s Dominique who adds, as she follows the sisters, “Good luck,” with such malicious glee in her eye that I realize-belatedly-that I’ve just dug myself a grave I’ll never be able to climb out of.
And that Dominique is the one who handed me the shovel.
Part Three
World War I was responsible for millions of deaths, but perhaps none more noticeable than the death of prewar conventions. A generation of women who had been doing “war work” in the absence of men, who were away fighting, realized that with the world about to end, they might as well start smoking, drinking, and in general doing everything else they had been forbidden from doing for so many years.
Girls who engaged in these activities soon earned themselves a special name-flappers-so-called because they were like baby birds, “flapping” the wings of their independence for the first time. In defiance of their parents and, in some cases, lawmakers, these girls bobbed their hair, hiked their skirts to knee length, and began paving the way for the fashion trendsetters of today’s youth (see: Stefani, Gwen, L.A.M.B designs, and Spears, Britney, banana snake halter top).
History of Fashion
SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS
21
It is vain to keep a secret from one who has a right to know it.
It will tell itself.
– Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882),
U.S. essayist, poet, and philosopher
Okay. It’s all right. I can do this. I can totally do this.
I’ll just rip out the stitches. I have my sewing kit with me, with its seam ripper and stitch scissors. It’ll be a snap. I’ll just rip off all the lace and see what I’ve got to work with when I’m done. It’ll be fine. Just fine. It has to be fine, because if it isn’t, I’ll have ruined a bride’s big day. Not only that, but I’ll have let down all these people who’ve been so kind to me.
Okay. I have to do a good job. I have to.
Rip.
Oh. Oh, okay, that looks really bad. Maybe I’ll start with the butt bow. Rip. Yes, that looks better already. Good. Rip.
The thing is, one person, I know, wants me to fail. It’s so obvious that’s why Dominique said the things she did. Luke probably didn’t say any of those things-rip-about me having many talents, or being so accomplished. I can’t believe I fell for that. She only said those things because she knew if I heard them, it would be harder for me to say no.
And she wanted me to say yes so I could screw up.
It’s just-rip-why would she want me to screw up? What did I ever do to her? I mean, I have been nothing but nice to her.
Well, okay, there was that thing about telling Luke’s mom that he wants to be a doctor. She might be a little peeved about that, seeing as how she wants to move to Paris.
And then there’s the fact that I let her little plan about converting Mirac to a lipo-recovery hotel slip.
But I never told Mrs. de Villiers that Dominique was the one who came up with it.
So why would she do something so incredibly bitchy? She knows as well as I do this dress is a lost cause. Vera Wang couldn’t salvage this thing. Nobody could. What was Vicky thinking? How could she possibly ever have thought-
“Lizzie?”
Chaz. Chaz is at my bedroom door.
“Come in,” I call.
He opens the door and pokes his head inside.
“Hey, what are you doing in here? We need you out-”
His voice trails off as he takes in the mess my room has become. Snowy fields of lace lay…well, everywhere.
“Sweet mother of God,” Chaz says. “Did the Sugar Plum Fairy explode in here?”
“Bridal gown emergency,” I say, holding up Vicky’s gown.
“Who’s getting married?” Chaz wants to know. “Bjork?”
“Very funny,” I say. “Anyway, don’t expect me back at the bar anytime soon. I’ve got my hands full up here.”
“That’s kinda obvious. But not for nothing, Lizzie…do you even know anything about fixing wedding dresses?”
I am trying hard not to let him see me cry.
“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” I say brightly.
“Yeah. I guess we will. Well, don’t worry, you’re not missing much down there. Just a lot of windbags going on about their yachts. Oh, hey, listen, what’s going on between you and Shar?”
I sniffle, and rub my nose with a shoulder as if it just tickles and isn’t running.
“She found out I didn’t actually graduate,” I say.
Chaz looks relieved. “Is that all? Jesus, the way she’s carrying on, I thought you said something about Mr. Jingles. You know she still feels guilty about that-”
“No,” I say. “I just neglected to inform her that I haven’t finished my thesis. And she found out. Somehow.”
You know, it serves me right. Luke telling Shari about me not graduating, I mean. Since I told his mom about the doctor thing.
It’s just that I physically can’t keep a secret. What’s his excuse?
“Didn’t finish your thesis? Jesus, that’s nothing,” Chaz says dismissively. “You can crank that puppy out in no time. I’ll tell Shar to cool it.”
“Right,” I say, sniffling. When he throws me a questioning look, I say, “Allergies. Really. And thanks, Chaz.”
“Okay. Well. Good luck.” Chaz looks around the room speculatively. “Looks like you’re going to need it.”
Then he leaves.
I let out a little sob but quickly pull myself together. I can do this. I can do this. I’ve done this hundreds of times to dresses at Vintage to Vavoom, dresses no one wanted to buy because they were too ugly. A few swipes of my scissors and a velvet rose here and there, and…voila! Parfait!
And we were generally able to sell them at a fifty percent markup.
I’ve just managed to get the wings dripping from the sleeves off when there’s another knock at the door. I have no idea how long I’ve been working, or what time it is, but I can see outside the tiny diamond-shaped window at the end of my bed that the sun is setting, turning the sky a brilliant ruby color. I can hear laughter drifting up from the lawn and the clink of silverware. The guests are eating.