six

FEBRUARY 10

Creative writing is another thing they don’t offer at our school anymore. It’s too bad, because my application to enter the Green Pastures fashion scholarship competition suggests I might be good at it.

I figured most of the applicants would be as eager to please as golden retriever puppies. My application would be the only snarly schnauzer in the bunch. You’d be surprised how many people like that. Schnauzers have their fans. I’ve always had an ability to withhold things from people in a way that makes them want to find out what I’m keeping back. Until I lose my mystique, that is.

I still remember when Mr. Tanaka, our woodworking teacher (this was back when we still had woodworking), tried to take a special interest in me. He said he thought I had the right temperament to work with wood. After that I tried to be how he saw me: calm, one with the grain and whatnot. He let me stay after class and even gave me a piece of purple heartwood to use as an inlay in the gift box project.

Oh man, nothing went right with that box. Seriously. I sunk a hole into it in the wrong place. Cut a tenon joint that broke off. And about halfway through the project, right in the middle of class, I lost it. I screamed some choice swear words and swept the pieces of the box onto the floor, and then I kicked them for good measure. I yelled a few more swear words before stomping out of the room, out of the school, and out of Mr. Tanaka’s special attention pile.

That is just one example of the many times the inner snap show that lies beneath my supposedly mellow exterior has been exposed.

Lucky for me, not long after that Gramps got me going on metalwork. The thing about metal is that it won’t put up with your bullshit. If you throw it on the floor, you’re going to cut your hand. If you try to stomp it, you’re going to hurt your foot. Metal is always the boss. Even a reactive person with low self-control, like me, has to keep a certain respect.

The basic point is that my calm-and-aloof routine is well-known to be bullshit, at least among those who know me, but for the purposes of my application, a little distance seemed like a better strategy than trying too hard.

I wrote all my answers as vaguely as I could get away with. I skimmed a few fashion design books from the library and read some blogs and fashion sites.

Under the section where we were meant to list our technical skills I put:

18" C-Thru transparent inch/metric ruler

hip curve

French curve

tape measure

blue dot paper

I have them and I know how to use them.

All lies. I have no idea what a hip curve and a French curve might be. Ditto blue dot paper.

I wrote that one of my specialties was “fitting shoulders” after reading how hard that is on a clothing design forum.

If I get into the competition, I had better watch a lot of YouTube videos about French curves and shoulder holes so I can find out what they are.

As for the part about my inspirations, I did not paste a photo of the Diabetes Society donation bin, which is where all my clothing inspiration comes from currently, but instead I looked up a bunch of fashion designers who make stuff that looks like rags and said they were my inspirations. I figure that if I get in, no one will be surprised when I make something ugly.

I am not just reactive. I may also be something of an evil genius fashion fraud, if I do say so myself. Now I just have to tell my friends that I actually entered the competition. I’m kind of dreading it, though I couldn’t tell you why.

Sardonic Quote for Embarrassing Mood Board

“I never touch sugar, cheese, bread . . . I only like what I’m allowed to like. I’m beyond temptation. There is no weakness. When I see tons of food in the studio, for us and for everybody, for me it’s as if this stuff was made out of plastic. The idea doesn’t even enter my mind that a human being could put that into their mouth. I’m like the animals in the forest. They don’t touch what they cannot eat.”

—KARL LAGERFELD