I stood at a drafting table attempting to carefully rip a seam. I’d sewn it incorrectly, and now I had to rip it out and try again. Closing this side seam had been a serious pain in my butt.
“Michael’s house is having a party tomorrow night,” Serena said as a means of greeting as she took her position across the table from me. “Michael texted to see if you were going to actually attend one of his parties this semester.”
“Did he?” I asked, looking up at her just as she snapped a picture.
“He did,” she confirmed, leaning onto the table on her forearms. “He asked what you were up to.”
“And what did you tell him? Because you know Friday is my lab night.” I finished ripping out the seam and began picking the pieces of thread from the fabric.
She snapped two more pictures. “You can miss one Friday lab night—it won’t kill you.”
I shrugged. I could miss a lab night, but I didn’t want to miss a lab night. Plus, I was so close to being done. All I had to do was finish the side seam I’d just ripped out and hem the bottom. One or two more Friday nights and it would be finished.
“How are you supposed to take pictures of me finishing this dress if you won’t let me work on it?”
She snapped another set of pictures. “I’ve already gotten some good shots, and I’ll get a ton more when you’re finally able to wear it.”
I sighed. Just thinking about finally getting to wear The Dress was amazing and terrifying at the same time.
“Is Cody going to be there?” I murmured. After the game the night before, despite how much fun it had been, I couldn’t shake the feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Yeah, maybe,” Serena said knowingly. She shrugged once. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Edie.”
I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, but it felt like it. I liked Hudson, but I had rules. Cody had been playing by the rules all along, but when it came to Hudson, the rules were the last thing on my mind.
“Hudson told Terrance he was my biggest fan,” I said, warming at the memory.
“It’s pretty goddamn obvious he is.” Serena snapped a picture.
I continued to pick at the cut threads.
“You like him, don’t you?” Serena broke the silence.
“Paris,” I said instinctually, though it hurt this time.
Serena huffed. “Forget Paris for five seconds. Do you like him?”
“Forget Paris? Seriously?”
“Do you like him, though?” she asked.
I cleared my throat. “No,” I lied, lifting my head as I pushed the fabric to the side. “Only as a friend.”
“Liar,” Serena replied. “Admit you like him.”
I crossed my arms. I would not admit that. Admitting that meant there could be a reason to keep me from going to Paris. Admitting that meant the possibility of regret. No. Edie Kits didn’t do regret, at least not big-scale regret.
“I don’t.”
“You do,” Serena said. “But I’ll let you deny it.”
“You’ll let me deny it?” I asked with a chuckle. “Gee, thanks, boss.”
She snapped a few more pictures.
“Can we talk about you for, like, two seconds?” I asked.
“I know what you’re going to ask, and I don’t want to jinx anything,” she said, coming around the table so she was next to me.
I lifted the fabric, laying one piece on top of the other as I began to pin them together. These photographs were more than just an assignment; despite how Serena viewed her talent, they had the potential to win her a spot in the annual student art showcase. “I know there’s a chance this project could win you some real attention,” I said, ignoring her comment. “Do you think you have a chance?” I asked, rummaging through the pin box for all the yellow-tipped ones. “Like, am I enough to potentially win this for you?”
Serena set her camera on the table before adjusting her hoodie. She pulled at the cuffs, tucking her hands in, only her fingers poking out.
“Answer the question,” I said. “Is this”—I waved over the pile of fabric that sat on the table in front of me—“going to make it?”
“I mean, maybe…” Serena pushed her hands out of her hoodie and into the front pocket. “I’d like to think that if I have the talent, then the subject doesn’t matter.” She tapped her left toe into the floor several times.
“And you do have the talent,” I said.
She dropped her head back, her face toward the ceiling. “I don’t know. A girl can hope, right?”
I laughed. “Someone with your talent doesn’t need to hope.”
“Boss,” she said, righting her head. “I know you’re all woo-hoo, girl power about what you do, but I’m not nearly as confident.”
“I know you aren’t,” I said, putting down the chalk pencil I’d been holding. “But you are good at this. I would never bullshit you about that.” I put my hands on her shoulders.
She let out a deep breath, her shoulders sinking a bit.
“Sewing machine.” I gestured with my chin toward the bank of machines.
“I guess all I can say is that I’m going to try my hardest to make this project interesting and relatable,” she said as she followed me to the sewing machine. “I feel like that’s the most important aspect … that people can relate to it.”
I adjusted the chair to my height and threaded the machine. “Absolutely,” I said. “I’m just saying that I hope that this project is relatable.”
She shrugged, pointing her camera in my direction. “I think everyone can relate to hard work and dedication to something they are passionate about.”