Favor for a Favor
As soon as I left the locker room, I dialed Feb’s number, praying as it rang that she was still on this continent.
“Allo?” a distinctively French voice answered.
“Feb?” I said. It was so like my sister to chameleon herself into whatever her pet project du jour was.
“Non,” the voice responded. “It’s Jade, chérie. Is this my model? Is this Flan?”
“Oh … oui,” I said, already feeling nervous about thinking I could get Jade to agree to my plan. “Where are you guys?”
Jade sighed heavily into the phone. “We are at a boite, at Marquee. Your sister is working out a business deal with the owners to host an after-party for our little show. It’s very boring, ma petite, but what can I say?” And then she sighed her incredible weight-of-the-world sigh.
I imagined Jade lounging out on the golden banquettes at Marquee, yawning as she watched Feb in power-mode ascend the arc-shaped staircase that led to the VIP room so she could work out the details for a blowout after-party.
“Okay,” I said. “I was going to head home and study, unless—”
“Darling, you’re young,” Jade interrupted. “School can wait until another day. Come keep me company, and we’ll talk all about your modeling career.”
I gulped, but then I thought about the field hockey team….
“I’ll hop in a cab and meet you there in twenty,” I said.
“Ah, but don’t rush! I do not like all this rushing you New Yorkers do. Take your time, yes? We shall be here….”
People complain about having to wait in lines around the corner just to get to the front door of Marquee, but when the taxi dropped me off on Tenth Avenue at seven o’clock on Thursday, there wasn’t even a red velvet rope outside the door. A security guard eyed me warily as I pushed through the door.
“I.D. please,” he barked.
I wasn’t used to having to show my nonexistent I.D. to anyone. Usually, I was on the guest list or on the arm of my sister or brother. At least I was still dressed uncharacteristically as a punk rocker…. Maybe I’d pass for at least eighteen.
Then I heard Jade’s voice call out, “Is okay. She’s with me.”
Immediately, the security guard made himself scarce. I grinned at Jade and joined her in the candlelit lounge.
I’d been to Marquee a couple of times before, once for Patch’s eighteenth birthday party and once for some publicity thing SBB was doing for Peter Marcus’s hair-care line. Both times, the clientele had been the eye candy—the place was always jampacked with gel-haired guys in dark suits and Hermès ties and girls with a hundred different couture variations on the same little black dress.
Tonight, the place was practically empty except for Jade Moodswing, all in black again and standing out dramatically against the shimmery gold wallpaper. Jade motioned to a bartender hanging out behind the enormous mahogany track lit bar. In seconds, he whisked over a refill in a martini glass for her and a bottle of Paul & Joe Pellegrino for me.
Jade gave me the closest thing I’d seen to a smile, which was really more of a friendly pout and said, “How have you been since the night I so brilliantly discovered you?”
“Good,” I said, thinking about all the running around I’d been doing since then. “Busy, but good.”
Jade took a tiny sip of her martini and said, “I hope the busy schedule is leaving you enough time for modeling. We’re going to get started next week, and I’m still waiting for you to say bien sûr. The show is Thursday at five thirty.”
A few days ago, I’d been unsure about saying bien sûr to modeling because I wasn’t sure I was model material. Now it was also a question of scheduling. Resisting the urge to pull out my day planner (which I’d been doing a lot of these days) in the middle of Marquee, I scanned my brain for conflicts.
Thursday was SBB’s big night of potential Wardrobe Sabotage at the premiere, but that was later in the night, and I could probably squeeze this in first. My head swam thinking about how busy I’d been this week, just keeping up with life at Thoney, hanging out with Alex, courting votes for Virgil, getting involved in field hockey … whoops! I’d gotten so mesmerized again by Jade’s chicness that I’d almost forgotten what I was doing here in the first place.
“Jade,” I said, “I have a favor to ask of you.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And here I thought I was the one asking favors of you.”
“It’s just—” I tried to think of a cool way to dress up what I wanted to ask Jade to do. I could see Feb’s silhouette behind the Frank Lloyd Wright–style glass windows of the VIP room upstairs. Her arms were flailing wildly in the air, and I heard her shout the words, “We’re just not going to pay that ridiculous price unless you can guarantee that people will literally feel transported to the south of France.”
I realized I might only have a few more minutes alone with Jade. Feb was the queen of storming out on a conversation if she didn’t get her way.
“The thing is,” I said, “I just joined the field hockey team at school and we’re in desperate need of new uniforms. And the first game is in less than two weeks. And we don’t have a way to raise the money and have them ordered and shipped and—”
“And you were wondering if I would help you with your uniforms?” Jade said, crossing her legs.
I nodded sheepishly. It sounded a little preposterous to ask a rising design star for help with athletic wear, but Jade’s face brightened as she seemed to think about it.
“Chérie, I will tell you a story. Last week, I sat in on filming of American TV show with Heidi. I believe is called Project Runway? Wonderful people, you Americans. Get such a bad reputation.” She turned to face me. “What I’m saying is, chérie, your little favor reminds me very much of one of these … challenges? I like it. Maybe it will help me keep my mind off the Armory show all the time. A little fun. We can sit down next week and look at some samples—”
“Jade, thank you so much!” I said, resisting the urge to tackle her with a giant bear hug.
Jade held up a finger to stop me. “I will love to help you, Flan, on one condition.”
“Okay,” I grinned, knowing what was coming. “I’ll be your model.”
Jade beamed, raised her martini to my Pellegrino, and said, “Parfait! This is good news. I will design skirts for hockey, you will do catwalk, and you can bring all of your friends to the show. Everything we do together is brilliant! You shall see …” But then she sighed and fell back against the bar in complete exhaustion after all that enthusiasm. “Yes,” she said, “so American, so brilliant …”
Speaking of brilliant, I had to pat myself on the back for this one. A French fashion designer to the rescue for our field hockey uniforms? The girls on the team would be très psyched about this one.