With Christmas over, we undressed the tree and returned it to the back of Levi’s pickup truck. I tried not to be depressed as the lights disappeared around town and winter’s bleakness took over. I focused my thoughts as best I could on the beginning of classes.
I felt ready. At least, I thought I did. Gemma helped me shop for a proper shoulder bag that would carry my laptop as well as whatever sketch pads and pencils I might want to carry. We finally found a nylon waterproof bag in a sunny orange tone, which we agreed would be fashion-forward enough for me to carry with pride.
The days before classes were a blur. I rearranged my schedule to accommodate my recently released class schedule. The atmosphere at the shop was odd now that Zach was back, but no one was talking about it, and I didn’t have time to answer Zach’s questions or reassure William of…something. I just had no idea what.
New Year’s passed without my noticing, as did Epiphany.
Sunday evening before my first day at school, I couldn’t sit down, much to Jayne’s frustration.
“If you lay out your outfit for the morning one more time, I’m going to tie you up and make you watch something really mind-numbing, like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. I know it’s supposed to be a masterpiece or something, but a forty-minute flashback about a comb? Seriously?” Jayne propped a hand on her hip. “You’re a princess. Buy a new comb.”
“I’ll take that one off my viewing list if you feel that way about it,” I said.
“Sorry, don’t know where that came from. That movie always bothered me. I like House of Flying Daggers. That’s got to count for something. At least there aren’t any self-indulgent comb-retrieval sequences.”
“I want to start off right with everyone. I’d rather not be the outsider, at least not more than I already am,” I said as a feeling of dread washed over me.
“If that’s the case, the less thought you put into your clothes, the better. You don’t want to look overprocessed. Really, you look great in everything you put on. Artlessly polished.” Jayne crossed her arms. “If you don’t stop worrying, I’ll have Joely come over and give you a speech about saying no to drugs.”
I giggled. I couldn’t help myself.
“You think I’m joking,” Jayne raised an eyebrow. “She’ll make you wary of aspirin.”
“I’m sure she would.”
“Want to bake something?”
I took a deep breath. The kitchen. Oven-baked warmth. “That could be a good idea.”
“Just don’t take it out on the pastry.”
“Scones then?”
Jayne snapped her fingers. “Good plan.”
In a move that was less surprising than it would have been a month earlier, William had offered to let me park in my employee spot even when I was in class. I took him up on his offer without a second thought.
It felt odd, though, to pull up next to work and walk the opposite direction. The sky dumped heavy droplets of water. I walked quickly, my head and my bag tucked under my striped umbrella.
I arrived in my first class, Introduction to Apparel Design, damp but undamaged. I scanned the room for friendly faces. Most of the students were female, but there were a few young men in the class.
There was an empty seat near the window, so I claimed it. The girl next to me was still arranging her bags and belongings, and I watched as she pulled out a small bag of yarn and began to knit. I began to turn to introduce myself, but at that moment the instructor began to speak, and the class quieted.
The instructor discussed the contents of the class, passed out a syllabus, and gave a short lecture. I watched the girl next to me from the corner of one eye—she knitted all through class.
I was amazed. I could tell she was paying attention to the lecture because she only rarely looked down at her handiwork. Still, I admired the fluid motion of her fingers as they maneuvered the yarn around the needles.
“What are you making?” I asked when class finished.
She held it up. “It’s a sweater,” she said.
“It’s lovely. May I touch it?”
“Go ahead,” she said with a small laugh.
I reached out and touched the delicate, lacy fabric. “I’m assuming you knit each piece so it comes out the size and shape you want, correct? You don’t cut it afterward?”
“Most of the time, no. There’s a technique called steeking that involves running a couple lines of stitches before cutting between them. It’s a traditional Scandinavian method—my grandmother used to do it on Fair Isle cardigans all the time.”
“That’s amazing.” I offered my hand. “I’m Sara Burkholder.”
“Britta Larson.” She took it with a smile. “Are you fashion design track?”
“I am. Just started this term.”
“Exciting. What class do you have next?”
“Garment Construction with Jacobson.”
“Me too. The classroom’s not far.”
She pointed out the door and I followed, a little giddy at the thought that I may have made a friend.
After class, Britta invited me to lunch with two other girls in the fashion program. The heavy rain had poured itself out and now fell in a lazy drizzle over the tops of our umbrellas.
Two girls waved when we walked into the P.F. Chang’s across the street. The first was tall, blond, and striking. “Britta texted that you were coming,” she said instead of an actual greeting. “I’m Sonnet Brooks. Sonnet like the poem.” She shook my hand. “This is Megumi. We call her Meg.”
I turned to smile at Meg. She was petite, Asian, and impeccably dressed. Instead of favoring the alternative styles many of the other students sported, Meg looked as though she’d stepped out of an Audrey Hepburn film.
“Nice to meet you both,” I said. “Sonnet. That’s an unusual name.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Poetry-reading hippie parents. It could have been worse. If I were a boy, they would have named me after Jimi Hendrix.”
I had no idea who that was, as usual, but the name sounded ghastly.
“Let’s order—I’m starved.” She eyed me up and down. “Nice bag.”
Meg and Britta agreed, and the knots in my stomach began to release.
Over lunch I learned that Meg’s family was Japanese, though she was born in Seattle and moved to Portland in the second grade. “My parents are very traditional,” she told me as we ate our bowls of rice, vegetables, and garlicky chicken. “They didn’t think the fashion program was a good business decision. It took two academic advisors explaining how the program prepares you for the real world to convince them to allow me to enroll. I think my mom is still hoping I’ll marry a nice Japanese doctor.”
I gave a wry laugh. “I completely understand.”
Sonnet arched an eyebrow. “Parents not thrilled about the higher calling that is fashion?”
“They may never get over it,” I hedged. “What about you? How does your family feel about you in the program?”
“I’m the responsible one in the family, since I’ve never dropped acid and don’t do ’shrooms on the weekends.” She shrugged. “I got my BFA at the U of O in the fiber arts program. Really enjoyed it. It’s part of what brought me here. My parents are pretty sure I’ve gone corporate, but whatever. Someone has to support them in their old age.”
“What about you?” I asked Britta.
“Oh, my parents are fine with it. All the women in the family are thrilled, actually. I want to design knitwear that’s wearable, not bulky and frumpy. All the women and a few of the guys in my family knit, so they’re all for new knitting patterns.”
“You know guys who knit?” I tried to imagine any of my brothers knitting and failed.
“Once you get a man hooked on hand-knit socks, it’s a slippery slope until he tries it out for himself.”
“I’d love to learn,” I said, remembering the project she’d worked on through class. “I’ve seen knitting before, but I’ve never known anyone who actually did it. Is there a book you’d recommend for it?”
Meg and Sonnet dissolved into laughter. Britta shook her head. “Oh, don’t even try to teach yourself from a book. I’ll show you.”
“Of course she will! Britta’s always looking for someone to bring into the fold.” Sonnet’s eyes glowed with humor. “She’s fixed all of my bad habits. I used to throw—now I pick. Don’t worry, that will make sense later. Britta holds the knitting wisdom of a dozen generations of Scandinavian women. They were probably all knitting as they give birth.”
“I made a scarf,” Meg admitted. “I should probably try another.”
“You should,” Britta agreed. “You should try shibori. It’s Japanese, and it would complement your designs well.”
“I’d love to see your designs,” I said. “I’ve never been around other people who were…well, like me.” Ever.
Meg pulled a scrap of paper from her bag. “This is one idea I’m working on. I like the idea of incorporating origami into my garments—the trick is making sure the folds and details don’t add bulk.”
“Right,” I agreed as I studied her sketch. “I like what you’ve done with the lines.”
“Just a thought…” Britta mused, “what if you paired your origami garments with something softer, more organic?”
Meg tilted her head, considering the idea. “Like a sweater?”
“I know I’m the knits proponent around here, but when it comes to layering textures…”
Meg sat back. “You have a point.”
“Of course I do,” Britta replied as she pulled out a sketchpad of her own. “See, if you do a horizontal rib, you can recreate the lines and make a mohair knit wrap for that dress you showed me last week.”
I sat back and let myself absorb the conversation. I’d never known what it was like to be near people who thought like me, who loved clothes the way I did.
This was it. I’d made the right decision. There was no way I could ever go back.
I floated through my last class of the day. By the time Jayne came home from work, I had two pies cooling on a wire rack and sat in the middle of a pile of new sketches. Several of them were of wedding gowns for Jayne—I tucked them under my rear when she walked through the door.
Jayne didn’t notice. “Someone’s been busy,” she said as she took a look around. “I’d say something about the place being trashed, but truth is, it’s cleaner now than it ever was before you moved in. How was school?”
The words fell out of my mouth as I told her about Britta and her knitting, and how Sonnet got her name, and Meg’s beautiful designs, and how for the first time, I’d experienced what it was like to meet people like me.
Jayne grinned. “I remember what it was like to be in my first journalism class. Everyone there—okay, not including sorority girls who just wanted to be on TV, but everyone else—cared about ethics in media and well-written leads. After growing up in a small town, finding people like me was…it was like breathing for the first time. I thought, So this is what it’s like. I’ll never forget it. I met Kim there too, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“We didn’t get to know each other and become friends until we got to the Oregonian, but we had several reporting classes together.”
“What about Gemma? And Joely? I don’t know that I’ve ever asked how you connected with them.”
“Met Joely while I was doing a story. She cracked me up—and I didn’t usually have that experience while interviewing officers. Gemma I met through the paper. She brought food to work.”
I smiled. “And the rest was history?” I hoped I got that line right. It sounded right. “Like you and Levi?”
She crouched and found a seat next to me on the floor. “Like me and Levi. Sounds so cheesy, but I really am crazy about that man.”
“You should let him marry you.”
“I should.” She sighed. “I know. And I will, when the time is right.”
“What makes the time right?”
“He’s just getting settled in at the firm—”
“It’s been over six months.”
“I don’t know. Everything feels unsettled.”
In that moment, I understood. Jayne and Levi weren’t unsettled. I was unsettled.
I didn’t say anything. I knew Jayne well enough to know that she’d deny it. But my heart began to pound as I realized that my lack of independence was keeping the two most important people in my world from starting a life together.
In the quiet of my room that night, I searched for apartment listings online. I had no idea renting an apartment could be so expensive! But I had financial aid and my job, and if I pieced a couple quilts in my evenings, I could sell them to put toward a deposit.
I was English now. I had to learn to take care of myself.