thirty

HERE’S AN IDEA © CHARLIE DEAN DESIGNS:

Why not make every second count from a looking-fantastique perspective? Whether your job is arresting people, curing arthritis, or collecting garbage there’s nothing to stop you from doing it stylishly! A police officer can pay careful attention to polished shoes and a hairstyle that looks sharp with a cap. A scientist can wear a saucy ensemble under her/his lab coat for when that Nobel committee comes calling. And the hero who collects garbage should wear wonderful muscles, tousled hair under the hard hat, plus perhaps a little scarf/bandanna appropriate for skin tone.

DATE: MAY 4

Days until fashion show: 0

Charlie Dean rallied. She pulled herself up by the bias tapes and went to work! She did not go to school on Friday because she needed every second to salvage the dress.

As my premier pas, I contemplated the damage done, and naturally I thought of Japan. The Japanese have a highly evolved sense of design, at least as sophisticated as that of the French. Most relevant to our case was kintsugi. This is a method of repairing an object and drawing attention to the broken places. In the case of pottery, kintsugi involves filling in the cracks with lacquer dusted with gold, silver, or platinum. The troubled history of the object becomes part of its beauty. Can you even stand the perfection of that solution? It’s part of the philosophy of wabi-sabi, which is the Japanese appreciation for the flawed or imperfect. It’s too much, really. When I have finally mastered le français, I may begin to study le japonois.

The damage to my gown was not as bad as it had at first appeared. Some seams needed to be repaired, and because I wouldn’t be able to fix the sequined section of the bodice, I decided to kintsugi it. This meant using a large fabric insert on the right side.

The repairs, if done well, would enhance my theme of the beauty to be found in neglected, forgotten, and injured places and people.

I tied off all the threads so no more sequins fell off. The sequined parts of the bodice were meant to suggest glittering, broken windows in an abandoned mall. I took apart the lining so I could get at the inside of the bodice. I pinned muslin into the damaged place, marked it, cut it, and basted it in place. Then I cut and sewed together several strips of pale metallic silks in silver and steel, taking the Pucci metallic mini bandage dress as my inspiration.

I laid the insert pattern over the stripes and cut it out. Then I sewed the metallic striped insert into the dress bodice and re-stitched the lining. Et voilà! Ooh la la! The section of gleaming stripes suggested not only kintsugi but also luxurious bandages wrapping the ribs beneath the glamorous gown! Layers of distress healed by fashion!

The dress was, if anything, even more beautiful and fascinating than it had been.

We, meaning the fashion show candidates, had been told that we could get into the dressing room at eleven a.m. to prep our models. The show started at one p.m. I was sure someone would be at the school long before eleven. I would arrive early and convince them to let me and Mischa in. That would give us an advantage, which is what one must seek in any competitive situation.

Several times over the course of the day and the evening, I called the number the police had left and checked whether they’d found Mischa’s terrible ex. When I called the last time, the male officer asked why I was still up, which was not his business and was condescending. He informed me they had not found Damon, and his tone told me they didn’t expect to. My only consolation was that Damon had seemed on his last legs on Thursday night. He was probably due for a big crash that would keep him down for days.

I finished all of my preparations at three thirty Saturday morning and allowed my gaze to rest upon the dress for a long while.

I went to bed, slept lightly but peacefully, got up at seven a.m., and prepared to meet the day that would change my life.

I packed the dress into a garment bag of my own design, and put the shoes, makeup, and hair supplies in a huge, hard-sided rolling case. I collapsed the crinoline and panniers and put them into a huge fabric bag. My outfit for the day, a highly structured little number, totally chic, 100 percent my own design, was laid out on the worktable, awaiting me. I’d burned a CD with the music and had saved it onto my iPad as well.

Then I sat in my meditation area. It was so peaceful in that moment, I could scarcely believe that less than forty-eight hours earlier a man had barged in, attacked Mischa and me, torn my gown, and tried to destroy my dreams. How beautifully and efficiently I’d recovered from that contretemps! Charlie Dean was resilience itself.

We would all get past this. Me, Mischa, my father. Even the awful ex. He had been burned in the fracas, which had probably taught him not to throw his weight around.

I set my timer for twenty minutes, rang my bell, and breathed.

Then I showered, assembled my coif, hid the bruise around my eye with a dramatic makeup application, ate a piece of fruit, put a handful of nuts into a darling little tin container, and put two bottles of mineral water in the Marc Jacobs bag I’d found at a thrift store in Red Deer.

My father says that I behave like a thirty-two-year-old who went to an Ivy League college rather than a sixteen-year-old living in reduced circumstances. I say it sounds like those Ivy Leaguers have the right idea about how to live!

At eight I knocked on my father’s door to wake Mischa, and at nine the two of us were on our way in her van.