Rather than stay at the bookstore for lunch on Monday, I decided to wander. While driving to and from the store with Jayne, I’d seen a small fabric store a few blocks away.
I’d worked on one quilt project during my GED studies, but I hadn’t done anything else. More specifically, I hadn’t tried sewing anything English for myself.
A small bell jingled over the door as I entered. The shop lady waved before returning to a customer she had been helping.
There were bolts and bolts of fabric, and for the first time in my life, I could pick yardage from whichever one I chose. I could pick fabric with stripes or flowers or even small birds.
Some of the fabrics already had embroidery on them, others had sequins. I reached out to brush them with my fingers and feel the weight of the weaves. As I looked at the fabric, I envisioned different garments in my head. I thought of a skirt with the embroidered fabric, a fluttery blouse with the sequined fabric. I had a couple T-shirts in my closet I was already starting to be bored with…maybe appliqué some designs? Trim with lace?
Lace. I’d never used lace in my life. I walked over to where a stand of trims hung in spools. I fingered the holey strips and examined their patterns.
Near the lace I found bolts of fabric so sheer I could see through it. There were no holes like the lace—it had to be chiffon. I’d never actually seen chiffon, only read about it.
I wore my black hoodie that day, the one I thought was a little plain. What if I took the chiffon—which was also black—and used it to liven up my basic hoodie? I could tie a bow or fashion a rosette…
The edge of the fabric frayed and curled away—how did that happen? I liked the effect, especially against my hoodie, but I didn’t imagine my scissors could produce such an effect.
I carried the bolt to the woman behind the measurements counter. “Excuse me,” I said, proud of myself for using such an English expression. “I was wondering how you achieved the frayed edge here.”
She tucked a piece of steely gray hair behind her ear. “I suspect it’s just torn. Let’s see.” I watched as she made a one-inch snip at the top through the selvage edge, grasped the small tab of fabric, and rent the chiffon in one long tear.
She gave me the smaller piece for inspection. “Is that the finish you’re looking for?”
I nodded.
I bought a yard of the chiffon and walked back to the bookstore, my mind full of ideas and inspiration.
After work, I positioned myself on the couch in front of the TV and the DVD of Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, one of the movies Gemma had loaned to me. I found that I kind of liked having something else to entertain me when I was working on a project. Miss Pettigrew reveled in a day of pampering while I tore my chiffon into strips of different widths.
Once I sat in the center of a pile of depressing black strips and self-doubt, I used my straight pins to tack the chiffon ribbons into shapes on my hoodie. At last I fashioned a sort of double bow for one side with the loops pinned apart and the tails looping down the front. I pinned two additional ribbons beneath it, tugging them up so they could trail along the back beneath the hood.
“How’s your project coming?” Jayne asked after a couple hours.
“Fine,” I said. I checked the pin placement and held it up to examine my work. “It looks…drab.”
“It’s black.”
“Black is drab.”
“Why did you pick out a black hoodie?”
“Because it will go with nearly everything. I think.” My shoulders sagged. “I don’t know anymore.”
“I think it needs a bit of sparkle.”
My eyes lit up. “Beads!” I could do a lot with beads. I could sew them on individually and give the front a light sprinkle of sparkle. Or…as I thought about it more, I remembered I was working with a hoodie. A lot of beads would be appropriate for cashmere—I supposed, I’d never felt cashmere—but not for something this casual. Maybe a gathering at the center of the bow? Like a brooch?
“There’s a bead shop on Northwest Twenty-Third—Let it Bead, or something kitschy like that. You might look there.”
I held the sweatshirt up again. Sparkle. What a strange new life I lived, one where a problem could be fixed with sparkle.
Having a clothes project to work on was fun. I could move on to other garments. “I wish I could have found a way to bring my sewing machine,” I said. “It’s probably best that my old one is home for Leah and Elizabeth to learn on, though.” My chest clenched as I thought about my sisters, but I forced myself to remain calm.
“A sewing machine would be a clever thing to have around here,” Jayne agreed. “With you going to art school soon and me with my stack of quilt squares…”
“How are those coming?”
“They’re…you know, square.”
“Oh. Good. Well, I can sew by hand for a while. Maybe I should start saving for a machine with my work money.” I smiled, thinking about the things I could sew.
On Wednesday night, I finally did it. I gathered the courage, applied to the Art Institute, and set a time for the personal interview. I felt proud.
I was terrified.
Completely terrified, because I couldn’t prepare for the most basic part of all—what would I wear?
I cornered Jayne while she worked on her laptop. “What kinds of things are appropriate to wear to an interview?”
“Sounds like a Gemma question. I might send you out in overalls. Not that anyone but farmers wear overalls anymore.”
“Come on,” I said, sitting next to her. “You’ve interviewed for jobs, and I don’t think you wore overalls.”
“No, I didn’t.” She closed her laptop. “You know, something nice. Trouser pants. A skirt, if you’re not me.”
“You wear skirts.”
“I wear skirts now. I didn’t, not before Your Pickiness put my wardrobe in a chokehold.”
“You’re welcome.”
Jayne tilted her head. “Are you thinking about your school interview?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s not like they’ve taught you to be all fashion artsy yet, so no pressure.”
I sighed. “All the other students—they come from a different world. They get the in jokes, they know the songs that play at the mall, and they don’t have to have someone explain what a cap sleeve is. I’m starting so far behind, I want to show the interviewer that I am willing to work hard.”
“I think you mean that you have talent,” Jayne observed. “It’s still hard for you to see yourself as talented, isn’t it.”
“Maybe. Probably.”
“Well, you got me wearing skirts, so there’s some proof of your talent right there. You should tell your interviewer you’re Amish up front. You might qualify for some sort of affirmative action thing. You know, keep their Amish quota up.”
“I didn’t understand any of that.”
“Never mind, it was a terrible joke.”
I sighed. “I’ll never catch up.”
“Yes you will. Friday night movie nights will help. And if you ask her, Kim will get you listening to all of the right hip indie musicians. Stop worrying. You’ll be too cool for the rest of us in no time.”
“I think I’ll bake something.”
“Sounds yummy. What’s on the menu?”
I thought over my options. I liked my flourless chocolate cake, but it was eggy and airy enough to be a soufflé. I wanted something with more substance.
“The lemon chocolate tart. With candied lemon peel,” I decided.
Ever since I left home, my baking had grown fancier and fancier along with me. I baked only when necessary before, but here I found myself trying increasingly elaborate desserts. Here, no one would raise an eyebrow if I made something extravagant. The bishop would not knock on our door. I could be as creative as I wanted to be.
Maybe I would make a skirt. It would take a while by hand, but I could certainly do it. I thought about skirt designs as I cut butter into the pastry dough.
I left the bookshop on my lunch break again, this time to look for skirt fabric. William gave me a funny look as I left, but I’d already decided his face was stuck that way. Zach had already left, so I wasn’t sure what William’s problem was, aside from the fact that he was William.
Instead of looking over the sheer, frilly fabrics, I sought out the heavier ones that would stand up to a Portland winter. I looked at some corduroy but decided that sewing it by hand would be too hard on my fingers. The heavier cottons were…well, boring. And too prone to picking up lint. There were a few embroidered cottons, but I wanted something that could be both businesslike and artsy. Chain-embroidered flowers seemed neither.
I began to feel disheartened until I found the bolts of wool. There were nubby weaves—tweeds, I think they were called. One was in a plaid pattern in undesirable shades of cream, bright green, brown, and bright yellow. Another was brown, almost as uninspiring as black. But the green…it was a dark forest green, and even though it was heavier, it also had a nice drape. The weave could go either way, so I wouldn’t have to buy extra to make allowances for a striped or plaid pattern. I liked the green. It made me think of trees and moss and, I supposed, forests. Probably why it was called forest green.
With that fabric in mind, I took a look at the pattern books.
So many of the styles were so ugly! If someone were to put the time into making clothes, why choose styles that were so out of style? Still, there were some classic cuts, and I found a basic pencil skirt that I liked.
The idea of a skirt that fit toward my body rather than away from it made me excited and nervous at the same time.
I liked the idea of a wool skirt. The fabric would be slow to dry if it got wet, but it would also be slow to soak if I got caught in the rain. Wool would be warm, and as long as I protected it from moths, it would last a long time.
As I looked at the photo in the pattern book, I began to think of things I could do to make it my own. I liked the idea of adding a three-dimensional cluster of flowers to one side.
Leaving enough time to eat some lunch, I purchased the necessary yardage of wool, matching thread, needles, and a zipper for the back. I couldn’t hide my smile when I returned to the bookshop.
Zach and William were arguing in the back rooms. I couldn’t help but hear their conversation as I put away my coat and fabric.
“I would have appreciated more notice,” William said, clearly flustered.
“You’ve got about as much notice as I did, man. My mom only told me yesterday that she expected me home for the break. Said my grandmother’s health is bad and if I don’t go home, I may never see her alive again.”
I walked through the short corridor and entered the room. “Is there a problem?”
William crossed his arms. “No.”
Zach held out his hands in exasperation. “Are you kidding me? Whatever, man.” He turned to face me. “I’m gonna be gone during the”—he shot a look at William—“busy holiday season, leaving him and Richard to be the only ones to work the register.”
“Is that a problem?” I asked. “One person. One register—”
“Richard pulls out a second one during December so no one spends the day waiting in line. Hey…” Zach snapped his fingers. “You could teach Sara to use the register.”
“Zach,” William warned.
“Wow. Glad I thought of that.”
I maintained an impassive expression. A smile at this time would not be wise. I could see William trying to think his way out of the predicament. And failing.
William looked to me. “Do you think you could learn the register?”
“Yes.” I still refused to smile. And I didn’t need to. Zach’s grin nearly stretched off his face.
I was glad to finally have a chance to learn a new skill, but I wasn’t sure how long I could survive without Zach around to smooth things out.
When Jayne picked me up, I asked if we could drive by the bead store she’d mentioned.
“Sure,” she said, putting the car into reverse as she backed out of R.G. Cameron’s tiny parking lot. “Have you practiced driving lately?”
“Not lately. Haven’t had time.”
“We’ll have to fit something in soon. You should give Joely a call.”
I winced. “Joely thinks I drive too slow.”
“You do drive too slow.”
I shrugged. “Faster than I used to.”
“Not saying much.”
Finding a parking space took a few moments, but once we were inside Let it Bead, I quickly found exactly what I wanted for the hoodie: five small Swarovski crystals with just a bit of smokiness to them and three dark grey Swarovski pearls.
They were all on sale. I loved sales.
After dinner I spread my materials out on the couch in such a messy way, I think I surprised myself. Jayne took a picture to document the event.
I threaded the needle through two beads at a time and worked until they formed the sort of cluster I was looking for—slightly off-kilter, but on purpose. I held it up to the light. “You’re right, Jayne,” I said. “The sparkle does make a difference.”
She smiled. “I’m glad. Are you going to wear it to your interview?”
I set it into my lap. “You don’t think it’s too casual?”
“No. It’s artsy, and really pretty dressy with those beads. But you might ask Gemma. She’s the expert.”
“I’m going to make myself a skirt to wear. I bought the yardage today—want to see?”
“What are you going to sew it with?”
“Oh, I’ll sew it by hand.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s just a skirt.”
“Sara….” Jayne took a slow breath. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go to the farm and ask for a few of your things?”
“No.” The word rushed out. “I can’t go back.”
“I wouldn’t ask that of you. I’d go for you.”
“Going back for my belongings would be close to going back altogether. I can’t do it.”
Jayne took a seat next to me on the couch, narrowly missing my threaded needle. “I just want you to know there are options.”
“I know.” I clasped my hands in my lap. “But having options means not going back.”