TWELVE 
A pillow to the face wakes me.
“Shit, Em!”
I groan and roll over, one hand palming the mattress in search of the incessant cuckoo. My phone in hand, I swipe left to snooze because sleep is good. Alarm is bad. Cuckoo clock? It’s the worst. But it’s the only sound that forces me up and vertical in fewer than three snoozes in the morning.
Is it really—?
My eyes pop open.
Nope. Too bright. I squint to adjust to the golden daylight filtering through the window. Shit. I fell asleep texting Levi. Didn’t finish my assignment. Class is in two hours. I sit up and consider my unfinished sketch. It’s not postable. That’s a problem.
Because if it’s not postable, it’s definitely not presentable.
“Fuckkk,” I whisper, rubbing my eyes and dragging my fingers down my face.
Em, now burrowed back under their blankets, extends one arm out and flips me off. So when the snooze is up, I let the cuckoo clock sing. Consider it retribution for their unwashed dishes in the sink, their pillow to the face, their hand being the last one Dani held.
But even I can only handle the cuckoo for so long.
When I turn it off, I see a new text from Levi.
Levi Berkowitz
Plantscapade. UES. 2PM. You in?
6:46AM
I can’t explain what my heart does, seeing the word “plantscapade” on my shattered screen.
UES?
7:11AM
Sorry! Upper East Side. We could meet at Union Square? Figure we should probably discuss the terms of this arrangement?
7:12AM
I’ve never been a fake boyfriend before
7:12AM
I blink at the messages. In the span of seventy-two hours, Levi Berkowitz went from a long-lost friend to my fake boyfriend. I confirm plantscapade plans because we have less than seven weeks to execute this and there’s no time to waste. While I wasn’t making progress on my mood board and sketch last night, I created a template for our relationship content calendar. So today can double as a brainstorm sesh to fill it out with date and photo ideas. With each curated snapshot of us, Sophie will so regret the moment she broke my best fr—Levi’s heart. And Dani? She’ll see us together in real life so much that ignoring her feelings will kill her slowly, until she confesses that she loves me too, a declaration that will cure whatever is happening to me creatively and inspire designs that render Mal Burton speechless in the best way.
But until then? I cannot show up to another class unprepared.
Improvise, Fitzgerald.
I reach for my portfolio on my desk, thumbing through sketches for dozens of ideas that exist only in 2D—not yet stitched and constructed or queued for future posts. My favorite is a satin slip dress with a cowl neck and a slit up the front that is so nineties. So Dani. My eyes shift to the box she gave back to me. Instead of my sisters, lately I’ve been pulling inspiration from Dani’s closet, designing my take on these vintage styles through sustainable and size-inclusive designs. My audience has been into it.
Oh.
I can present this.
It’s so different from the blazer I meant to present last week… but that’s the entire point. I submitted a portfolio inspired by my why—my sisters, who each have their own unique style. But I’ve never had a brand that’s identifiable by a singular aesthetic. That shows I can breathe new life into anyone’s closet. Choosing this dress will show my versatility as a designer to Mal.
It’s perfect.
So I start pulling images for a mood board to match.
I arrive to class (two minutes!) early and take my usual seat between Trevor and Lila. Trevor’s eye shadow matches his teal high-top sneakers today. Lila is in a black utilitarian shirtdress and scuffed combat boots. Their animated conversation comes to an abrupt halt with the scrape of my chair against linoleum. I’m so awkward. Why are these chairs so heavy?
Mal flashes a kind smile my way before she begins her lecture. I don’t deserve it, but it feels like the opportunity for a second first impression. I open my laptop and immerse myself in taking notes, asking questions, being an actual student of fashion.
For the first time, I feel like I’m doing the thing I came here to do.
“Cool skirt,” Trevor says during the break.
He gestures to my denim midi skirt with embroidered daisies. Clara taught me how to embroider and it’s always been one of my favorite ways to upcycle. I love getting lost for hours in hand-stitching, the intricate details I can create, how it adds personality to almost any basic item.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’m obsessed with your makeup.”
Trevor’s eyes widen. “She speaks!”
Lila slides a ten-dollar bill across the table, wordless.
I am the worst.
“Sorry. It’s… been a week.”
Trevor snatches the bill, waving away my words as he reapplies cherry ChapStick. “How long?”
I raise my eyebrows. “What?”
“When my ex dumped me, I didn’t leave my bedroom for two weeks.”
Is it that obvious?
“Eight days.”
“Damn,” Lila whispers.
They pass another ten to Trevor and I swallow, so embarrassed that they’re betting on if I will speak, my relationship status, and who knows what else. How much broken disaster energy did I radiate last week? A lot, clearly. I need a rebrand. Now.
“It’s more of a hiatus than a breakup.”
“Insta imitating life?” Trevor asks.
“Um—”
I’m cut off by Mal bringing the break to an end. “Okay. I, for one, am so ready for our first crit session. Every week, crit is an invaluable opportunity to receive feedback from your fellow designers. Remember that today we’re presenting rough drafts. Perfection is not required. Rather, during a presentation I want you to ask yourself three questions. Is the narrative of this brand clear and compelling? What differentiates the piece from competitors? And is it sustainably scalable? You may not be able to answer that last question yet, but by the end of week four, you will. And remember, participation in the crit is not only encouraged, but also required.”
Mal continues to set critique guidelines and expectations, then asks for a volunteer to go first. My hand shoots toward the sky without hesitation. It’s meant to convey confidence, that I’m not as thrown as I am by a casual reference to my hiatus and last week’s flop. Delete it from the main feed. When Mal says my name I stand and set up, connecting my tablet to the projector.
“Y’all! I am so excited to share a design for a closet staple inspired by silhouettes and textures that defined nineties fashion, but made for today—”
Presenting is easy as long as I pretend there’s a camera in front of me, like it’s just an IG Live. I share the mood board, my inspiration, and speak to how the versatility of the design will resonate with my audience. Honestly? With a little more work I would post this.
I finish the presentation, my pulse spiking as Mal examines my design.
“Thanks, Fitz.” Her tone is neutral, her expression unreadable as she opens up the floor to student feedback.
Immediately my design is deconstructed by eleven pieces of contradictory feedback. It’s a lot to process, a critique in real time, to my face. Compliments are sprinkled throughout, at least—on the detail in my sketches, on the potential of the outfit, on the swatches I added this morning to show a variety of fabric combinations. I try to hold on to that.
But then Lila raises their hand. “It looks like an Instagram ad.”
Their tone? It’s not a compliment.
“Can you elaborate, Lila?” Mal asks.
Please don’t.
“Sure.” Lila pulls out their phone and opens Instagram to show everyone one, two, three ads for outfits that are, admittedly, a similar vibe to my design. “See? Every brand is targeting me with their version of this dress. I don’t see a unique voice or point of view. I just see an influencer chasing trends.”
Um.
I have no clue why Lila is coming for my throat like this.
“I mean, if the shoe fits…,” someone behind me mutters under their breath.
People snicker.
And that’s the moment it hits me, truly hits me, that these people are not my audience—they’re my peers, all with platforms and social media presences of their own. I’d been prepared for critique on my clothes, but not on, like, my entire identity as a creative.
“Harsh,” Trevor says.
But Mal agrees with Lila. “I see a well-conceived, on-trend dress. Last week, I saw a well-constructed, on-trend outfit. But… I still don’t see you, Fitz. In your next crit, I’d love it if we could see a piece that shows us who you are as a designer. Don’t make something Instagrammable. Make it for yourself.”
I nod, unable to even formulate a coherent question. Like, aren’t I here because my looks are Instagrammable? How is this suddenly not the goal? It does not compute. I sink into my seat, Mal’s words ringing in my ears as the now-familiar pressure builds behind my eyes.
Even at FIT, I don’t fit.