The Fashion Committee Read online

  Back on the bus to go home everyone was quiet. Even our teacher seemed shaken by what we’d just seen. There was no debrief, just a lot of sighing except for one guy who kept talking about how “sweet” it would be to go to Green Pastures.

  “You got a winning lotto ticket?” asked Gus Joseph, who is good at drawing cars but not known for his attitude.

  “The good news is they offer scholarships,” said Mr. Fairfax. I admit that the old sphincter of hope tightened up at those words.

  Dare I hope?

  Mr. Fairfax checked his phone, then muttered “damn.”

  “I’m sorry, guys. The deadline for the general merit scholarships was last Friday.”

  He stared at the screen for a few more minutes.

  “But it says here that they hold an Emerging Talent scholarship competition each year for students in grades ten through twelve. You missed it for this year, but you guys could apply for that next year.”

  We took that tour in February. By the following September, thanks to government cutbacks and a general societal disinterest in lower-income kids, our school no longer had any art or music classes. Our main creative outlet was carving swear words into our desks and, in the most troubled cases, into our arms. A few weeks ago I saw Mr. Fairfax working at Starbucks.

  As for the mythical scholarship to Green Pastures, which Mr. Fairfax had breathlessly referred to as “the Sorbonne of Vancouver Island,” the following year the Emerging Talent competition was in ceramics. That was a no-go for me. I nurtured my resentment at the unfairness of life, made angry metal art, drew my angry pictures, and was bitter. It might not have been the most productive approach to life, but it was honest, at least.

  If the Green Pastures tour sparked smoldering class resentment in me, my job at the Salad Stop turned it into a blaze.

  The Salad Stop is located between the Waterfront Pub and the Ocean Breeze Liquor Depot on Hammond Bay Road, not far from Green Pastures. Maybe Steve, the franchisee, who spends most of his time at his other businesses (a CrossFit gym and a weightlifter’s “supplement” store), located it there so that drinkers could replenish the vitamins they lost during their boozing.

  We serve salads to the ladies whose sole job seems to be doing hot yoga twice a day. They come in between classes to grab a small organic greens or, when they’re feeling ready to risk a pot belly the size of an acorn, a half serving of ancient grain salad.

  The serious boozers who move between the pub and the liquor store weave past our front window like fronds of kelp swaying on the incoming tide. They don’t bother with salads, which I appreciate.

  Then there’s the youngest part of our customer base: the spoiled shitheads—sorry; reactive—from goddamned Green Pastures. They come in wearing their duck-hunting hats and goddamned mime outfits, carrying tin lunch boxes or those little round plastic buckets construction workers carry on their belts, the ones meant for nails and whatnot. The art kids keep them filled with chalk or paintbrushes or pens or feathers. They are hard to take, but the worst of the worst are the ones in the fashion program.

  They’re instantly recognizable. They wear all black and have severe blond or severe black hair, severe bangs, or hair pulled severely away from the face. Smiles strictly forbidden! Red lipstick on both males and females. They vary in size from fat to thin, but they’re all super controlling about what they eat.

  Samples of questions I have been asked by Green Pastures fashion students:

  “Where do the greens come from? Are they local? How local? Like, do you have mileage you could share with me?”

  “Did Chuck Wiggins in Parksville grow these? I’m partial to his produce.”

  “Are the walnuts on the apple salad non-GMO? What about the apples? And the oil? What can you tell me about the oil?”

  “Is this container biodegradable?”

  “Did you wash your hands before touching the lettuce? I sort of have this thing about hepatitis. Not saying you have it or anything. I just like to be safe.”

  Oh yeah. I’ve been asked these questions and more by the Green Pastures fashion students, who seem to be in training to be pains in the ass for the retail sector, which is probably going to be me and my kind if I don’t get a trade after I graduate. If I graduate.

  So I wasn’t surprised that the girl who sat beside me in Career Prep felt she was Green Pastures material. She’s intensely precious, patently fake, and basically unbearable, all red-lipped, be-suited ridiculousness. She doodles her way through every single class, same as me, but she does it in an annoying way that causes me to have harsh reactivity.

  On the scholarship pamphlet I’d pulled over to read, the girl had written several depressing things in the margins, such as “Me!” and “Destiny calls!” and “Charlie Dean Designs!!TM ®” There were a lot of exclamation points and sketches of dresses and shoes and patterns.

  When she sat back down, I tapped my finger on the brochure.

  “So you’re ditching this dump and going to Spoiled Brat Academy?”

  “I hope so,” she said. “They have an amazing fashion program. Going to a school like that would be a life-altering experience.” Even though she’d only been out of the bathroom for sixty seconds, she whipped out this little compact and checked her lipstick, presumably to make sure it was still murder red.

  She was right, though. Much as I hate to admit it, people who go to schools like Green Pastures have different lives. Better lives.

  “Oh yeah?” I said. “I’ve always been real interested in fashion.”

  She looked over at me, and her smooth, milk-white brow nearly furrowed.

  “Really?” she said in a careful voice.

  “I mean, what’s not to love? The glamor, the models, the money. That sort of shit.”

  She looked down at the piece of paper, probably debating whether to get up and go to another seat.

  “Is that contest open to anyone?”

  Her mouth dropped open half an inch, but she didn’t answer.

  “Because of how much I like fashion I might enter. Throw a few of my outfits in there for consideration. I might be the next . . .” For a second, I couldn’t think of a designer. “Hasbro,” I said, thinking that was probably the name of some designer.

  “Do you mean Halston?” she asked.

  “Him too,” I said. “Halston and Hasbro. Jules and Verne. I love all those guys. Their outfits are just, like, glorious to me.”

  “You sew?”

  “Are you kidding? All day, all night, as they say in the song.”

  “What?” she said, getting a little testy now. “I mean, what do you sew?”

  The girl was the awkward type. Hardly ever spoke. Just sat looking like she’d break into five sharp pieces if she fell over. But I had her blood up now. My specialty.

  “You mean besides the seeds of destruction? Little of this, little of that.”

  She smoothed her skirt, which looked like it used to belong to Queen Elizabeth. Wool. Pleats. Granny shoes. The whole bit.

  “You should enter,” she said. “I’d like to see what you come up with. Maybe it will be as good as something by Jules and Verne.”

  The “loser” at the end of the sentence was unspoken, but I heard it loud and clear. And didn’t care.

  “Mind if I copy down the website address? I don’t want to miss the deadline. When is it? Next Friday?”

  Wordlessly and maybe a bit reluctantly, she pushed the pamphlet to me. When I’d written down the address, she took it back, folded it neatly, and put it in a leather case the size and shape of a Buick’s fender.

  “I really, really love fashion,” I said to her profile. “It’s so important and meaningful. I just hope you don’t mind some competition—what did you say your name was?”

  “Charlie Dean,” she said. “And I welcome competition.”

  three


  HERE’S AN IDEA © CHARLIE DEAN DESIGNS:

  If you are unable to afford beautiful clothes, treat the ones you have as though they are irreplaceable. Fold them neatly. Hang them gently. Wear them with utmost pride. In fact, treat all your personal things with care and deliberation. Love and attention make everything more attractive.

  DATE: FEBRUARY 8

  Days until application is due: 7

  I was so consumed with thoughts of the application that I nearly forgot to be nervous about what I might find at home after school.

  Let me explain. Avec réticence.

  My father got out of drug rehab two days ago. For anyone unfamiliar with the experience, the first few days out are always uncertain for the newly clean addict. Relapse is an ever-present threat. Due to having to attend school, I hadn’t been home to monitor my father’s behavior. Even though Alateen says it’s impossible to try to get or keep an addict clean, he seems to do better if I keep an eye on him.

  So it was with some nervousness that I conducted my initial inspection of our unglamorous rental house, located in the unstylish reaches of the poorest part of town. There were no unsavory drug friends hanging around, and when I went inside, I found no high father and, best of all, no dreadful new girlfriend. Great news!

  Instead he’d left me a note on the kitchen counter saying that he’d gone to a meeting and would be home around five. It might even be true!

  This day was turning out perfectly!

  Relieved, I went to my room and opened my laptop, and after luxuriating around the Green Pastures website for fifteen or twenty minutes, I downloaded the application and wondered idly who my competition might be.

  It was a surprise to me that the boy from Career Trajectories was interested in entering. Not because he’s unattractive or without style. He is actually quite handsome in an athletic but slightly unkempt way. I could see him featured in a Street Style spread about skateboarders or BMX riders. He has bright blue eyes, très striking against his dark complexion.

  The verbena accents on his shoes were a delightful touch, and I’m almost certain his pullover was vintage Patagonia.

  Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not interested in him romantically. I have decided that I cannot afford to be distracted by even casual relationships until I am well established in my fashion career. I haven’t had a romantic liaison yet and have no plans.

  But back to the boy. I do hope he enters. The fashion world needs all kinds of people, even ones who make jokes about fake designers, which I could see was quite funny of him. It would be good to know someone else, even if I would wipe the floor with him. I have been making and designing clothes since I was a child. It is my life. He probably made the joke because he couldn’t name even one designer. Poor thing.

  I read through the many sections of the application and experienced a touch of what the French call the nerfs when I saw the section devoted to personal biography.

  No one looking at me would think I get nervous, because I am impeccably put together. Carefully dressed people always look unflappable. I know in my bones that I am Green Pastures material. It’s just that, well, my personal history is . . . not fashionable.

  Here are the facts of my case. As you have already gathered, my dad has a small drug problem. Well, it’s a bit bigger than small. He gets periods of sobriety, then, inévitablement, he meets a new woman who turns out to be a bad influence. He relapses and goes downhill like a professional bobsledder in a new wind suit. This is followed by breakup with said ladyfriend, and a move to a new home or a new town. Repeat, ad infinitum. (It’s good to throw in a little Latin for variety!)

  His latest stay in rehab lasted eight weeks, which meant that I was by myself this past Christmas. I’ve not told anyone that, of course, and I’m not mentioning it here to gain pity or extra sympathy points from readers or possible biographers. There is nothing less stylish than being an object of pity. Anyway, it wasn’t that bad. Being alone was certainement preferable to having my father and his druggy friends hanging around the house while I attempted to maintain a chic and festive holiday atmosphere!

  I kept so busy that I hardly even noticed I was alone. First, I took extra shifts at the makeup counter at Shoppers Drug Mart, where, as noted, I am a valued team member. Christmas Eve I walked home from work and spent the evening sewing and reading fashion blogs.

  I woke up Christmas Day, put some apple juice from one of those enormous glass jugs—so rustic and reminiscent of yurts!—and mulling spice on the stove to give the house that It’s a Wonderful Life smell. I spritzed the cedar boughs and made myself a lovely brunch of raisin bread French toast.

  In the afternoon I reread part of D.V., the memoir by my idol, Diana Vreeland, a true fashion visionary and a person who understood the critical importance of beauty, and in the afternoon I talked to my dad on the phone at his rehab center. He had just gone in, so he wasn’t allowed “outside” visits. He told me he was with a “good group of guys,” and they would get a Christmas dinner cooked by people from a local church.

  “It’s not very attractive here, Charlie,” he said.

  “Just get better, Jacques. That’s all that matters.” I sat in my room, which is by far the most stylish space in our house. I was hemming a pair of wide-legged pants in the whitest linen and rawest silk. They were going to be too Jil Sander for words.

  “Charlie girl, I’m sorry I’ve gone down the tubes again. I had such high hopes. But when Leanne ran into trouble, I ran with her. Damn it, I should know better by now.”

  “It’s okay. Recovery is a process.”

  “God, how did we get so lucky to have such an incredible kid? Your mom would be so proud. You know you remind me of her.”

  I didn’t want to have that conversation on Christmas Day or any day, really. I’m like my mom in that I love fashion, love sewing, and care about beauty. In important other ways, I am not like my mom. For instance, I don’t plan to die with a needle in my arm. Oh dear, forgive me. That got dark rather quickly. Back to the heartwarming holiday conversation with my dad.

  “We’ll do Christmas dinner and presents when I get out,” he said.

  “Of course we will.”

  Long pause.

  “On that subject . . .”

  I waited.

  “When you’re allowed to visit next week do you think you could bring me a few bucks? And a carton of smokes?”

  “I’ve got money and your cigarettes ready. I can drop them off tonight if you want.”

  “No, no. It would take you most of the day to get here and back. Holiday transit and all that.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “I forbid it, Charlie. It’s Christmas Day. You should be enjoying yourself. But maybe you could come tomorrow. I just need money for incidentals. We have enough to give the landlord his rent?”

  “Mr. Devlin will have his money on New Year’s Eve.”

  “You really are the greatest. Merry Christmas, Charlie girl.”

  “Merry Christmas, Dad.”

  I’ve been more or less looking after my dad since I was nine. He gives me his disability checks, and I make sure the rent is paid. When he’s doing well, he also gives me the money from his DJ gigs. Between that and the money I make at the makeup counter we not only get by, but I manage to keep myself in fabric and notions. This early training in discipline and frugality will pay off when it’s time for me to run my own fashion line.

  Enough about Christmas past. Purposeful forgetting is something I learned from studying the life and works of Mrs. Diana Vreeland, who ignored all unpleasantness and focused on taking care of business. That is always the best thing to do.

  Back to my contemplation of the application. I wondered what my mother would have said. She would have been so excited. Thinking of her reminded me of the last time my dad and I drove through Edmonton on our way to some dumpy new rental
in some dumpy new town. We passed the intersection where everything in our lives had gone so wrong. It had been turned into a construction zone. The mall across the street from the old motel where we’d been staying when it happened was half-demolished, and the motel was boarded up.

  As we waited for a construction worker to wave us through the intersection, I wondered if my dad had noticed where we were and if he was thinking about my mom. But he wasn’t doing well and was very short-tempered, so I said nothing.

  But maybe driving by the scene of the crime made an impression on him, because not long after we drove past the mall, he gave me a book called Black Friday that was full of photos of abandoned malls. The images showed how much beauty there was to be found in the most unlikely places.

  Now I closed the application and got up from my desk and picked up the copy of Black Friday and flipped through it.

  Remarkable. Haunting. A bit like our past. But I’d spent too much time there. Now I had to look to the future. I put the book down and continued to sketch ideas for my entry. Whatever it was had to be epic, extravagant, gorgeous.

  Days until application is due: 7.

  Hopes for fabulous future: high!

  four

  FEBRUARY 8

  I was reading the application and jotting down curse words and offensive comments in the margins when Booker and Barbra came over after their shift slinging baked goods at Crumb.

  Bites lost his mind when they knocked, barking and growling and hurling himself against the door. There’s no sneaking into this house.