Emma marveled at how Allegra Biscotti sounded smart, fashion-savvy, and worldly. When she had read over her responses last night, she worried that they sounded childish and silly. But even though what was on the site was practically the same as the original answers, they seemed different here. They made Allegra Biscotti real.
Emma floated back to class. Mr. Singh still seemed to be droning on about the same thing he had been when she’d left the room fifteen minutes earlier, giving Emma plenty of time to daydream: an Allegra Biscotti boutique in the West Village with a small, sunlit studio in the back to start…a show at New York Fashion Week…eventually a showroom on Fashion Avenue, her clothes in department stores across the country…
Then Paige Young storming Allegra’s office, followed by a team of nervous editorial assistants and demanding to know the real identity of Allegra Biscotti…a photo of a disgraced Emma published on the front page of Fashion News Daily … her beautiful clothes being thrown out of apartment building windows by angry customers in protest…
Emma’s mind spun around and around like a tornado forming in her head. Have Charlie and I gone too far? How much longer can we keep this going? What is Paige Young going to say—or worse, do—when she finds out that Allegra Biscotti doesn’t exist, or really, that I’m Allegra Biscotti?
I should stop this, she decided.
Dear Paige, Emma began drafting in her head, I never meant to mislead you but—
The bell rang, snapping Emma out of her daze. Now, now, now—was all Emma could think—I have to take care of this now. She gathered her books in her arms and raced to her locker. She yanked her phone out of her bag, ready to type out the apology she had composed during class.
But it was too late.
A text from Paige was already waiting for her. Uh-oh. She beat me to it. Game over. Emma clicked open the text.
Ms. B: Requesting exclusive photo shoot of pieces from AB collection 2 b featured in upcoming print edition of Madison, Designers 2 Watch section. Interested?
Emma needed several seconds to process the fact that Paige was not accusing her of pretending to be Allegra Biscotti. Instead, this was the exact opposite.
She wants what?…but I don’t…I can’t…now what?… how could I not…but I shouldn’t…but I want to so badly… Her brain tornado whirled, the conflicting thoughts tossed about by a force that felt out of her control.
The only clear thought she had was: find Charlie immediately.
“Breathe in…breathe out,” Charlie coached a hyperventilating Emma a few minutes later. He pushed her toward a chair near the administrative offices and sat down beside her. “It’s all good. Really good.”
But Emma wasn’t convinced. This wasn’t some little white lie. This wasn’t pretending to like Holly’s unfortunate new haircut or telling her mom she would clean her room tonight. This was pretending to be someone else on the pages of the country’s biggest fashion magazine. And she didn’t need psychic powers to know that if Paige found out she was being tricked, it wouldn’t end well.
“Hi, guys.” Emma’s mom appeared in front of them, the door to the admin offices closing behind her. Her smile quickly faded into concern. “Emma, is everything all right? You don’t look so good. A little white, actually.” Joan put the back of her hand against Emma’s clammy forehead. “Are you here to see the nurse?”
“No!” Emma blurted, more forcefully than obviously necessary. “I mean, I’m not here for the nurse. I…um…” Emma fumbled, pleading with her eyes for Charlie to do what he did best. Talk his way out.
“Emma’s just in shock because, uh, she just got an A on a pop quiz in bio,” Charlie offered.
“Really? Way to go, Em!” her mother said. “Now, if you just focus your energies like that on the Western civ exam, you’ll ace that too.”
That’s what he came up with? Why doesn’t he dig a hole and bury me now?
Emma smiled weakly at her mother.
“Well, got to run to class,” her mother said. “Which is probably what you two should be doing now, too. Right?”
Charlie scrambled to his feet and dragged Emma up with him. “On our way!”
Emma’s mom waved good-bye before heading off in the other direction. Emma watched her mom leave and had the sudden feeling she was in a What Not to Wear episode, featuring Joan Rose. She was about to protest her mom’s scuffed clogs when she noticed that Charlie’s usual smirk had suddenly turned serious.
“You can’t fess up now,” he lectured Emma, pulling her behind the stairwell. “This is your big break—the biggest! It’s one of those once-in-a-lifetime things.”
“But, what about—”
“You can’t freak out. I have a plan—well, sort of. Listen, you design, and I’ll run everything else. It’s going to be awesome. You can do this, Em. And you should.”
Emma thought back to all the happy designing daydreams she’d had during class. “I should, shouldn’t I?” she echoed, the conviction growing in her voice. Having Allegra’s clothes photographed for the magazine would get her that much closer to all her dreams and maybe even more. “I mean, it’d be silly to turn down this opportunity, right? Who knows when—or if —it will happen again.”
Emma pulled out her cell, and together they composed a very different message than she would’ve just ten minutes earlier.
Ms. Young: Wld b honored 2 provide my designs 4 the photo shoot. Pls let me know what u need 2 make the shoot happen. All best, AB
Emma felt herself drifting that afternoon, mentally afloat, as she sketched madly in the margins of her world history notebook. Sheer, flowing tunics. A braided vine-like belt. Ms. Lyons’s words on Athens and ancient Greece flicked in and out, background noise serving only to add to design inspiration. A toga dress with gladiator sandals.
Suddenly, she noticed Jackson Creedon looking at her across the classroom with a strange expression on his face. She bolted to attention. Why is Jackson looking at me? He never looks at me! Then it hit her. She had been staring at him for the last five—God, was it ten?—minutes without even knowing it.
Her eyes grew wide. This was beyond mortifying. She quickly lurched back in her chair, pulling her textbook up to mask her face, which felt as if she’d baked it in the oven. Her hot pink hoodie knocked the strap from her messenger bag, and, as if in slow motion, the bag slid off the back of her chair. She lunged to catch it.
Too late! Fashion magazines flagged with dozens of Post-It Notes spilled out around her chair. A dozen random antique-coin buttons clanked and skittered in all directions across the linoleum floor. But worst of all, her sketchbook landed spine down, open to the page of Jackson in her redesigned soccer uniform.
The teacher stopped talking. Emma could feel everyone’s eyes on her. She had to get that sketchbook before Jackson—or anyone else—saw her drawings!
Emma hurled herself to the floor. She dove for her sketchbook and slapped it shut, shoving it deep inside the bag. Crawling on hands and knees, she grabbed at buttons right and left. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed something shiny near Jackson’s sneaker. A button. One of her buttons was sitting inches away from his foot! There’s no way I’m going over there, she vowed as she scrambled around scooping up the other buttons.
Finally she had all but one of them clutched in her fists. She spun around to clamber back to her desk. Just then, a closed hand thrust toward her and slowly opened to reveal the renegade button. It was Jackson’s hand. He carefully placed the shiny silver button in her open palm. It was still warm from his touch.