13. Piper
Piper
T uesday morning, I board my bus with a smile on my face and a spring in my step.
Not just a spring, a bounce. I’m bouncing.
That’s apparently what holding back laughing hysterically does to a person.
The look on Archie’s face when he drank the smoothie I’d made for him would have been enough to make me laugh.
But picturing what’s coming next for him has me close to kicking my feet and giggling.
I take a seat next to an older woman who I recognize from yesterday.
Like me, she waited for the replacement bus, then walked the block from the bus stop to Valente.
She entered through a side door while I went in the main entrance.
Today, to avoid another DJ Risky encounter, I take the seat next to her.
And maybe it’s my good mood, but I’m feeling chatty, and she looks friendly.
“Hi,” I say as I sit. “You work at Valente, right?”
Her smile is like a warm hug. “Si. Yes.”
“I’m Piper. I started an internship in the design department.”
“Julia,” she says with a heavy accent.
Between my broken Spanish and her much-better English, we spend the next twenty minutes getting to know each other.
She’s an accomplished seamstress who had her own shop in Guatemala before moving to LA almost twenty years ago.
Now, she uses her skills to do piecework at Valente.
Her eyes are warm and friendly, and when she pats my hand, I remember my grandma, who died when I was ten.
For the first time since being back in LA, I’m home again.
After getting off at our stop, we walk the block to Valente together, still talking. Inside, before we go our separate ways, I ask, “Will I see you on the bus after work?”
“I hope. My arthritis is acting up.” She holds up her hands and curls and uncurls her fingers. “I may be late tonight.”
My questioning look prompts her to add quietly, “I have to do two hundred seams before leaving.”
Before I can respond, Julia waves goodbye and hurries away.
I’m not bouncing anymore. It sounds as though Julia has a quota to meet, but I thought Valente paid by the hour, not by finished piece.
Piece work usually results in longer hours and lower pay.
Plus, workers do the same thing over and over for the entire day, “piecing” together the same parts of a garment before handing it to the next person, assembly-line style, to do their part.
It’s mind-numbing work—from what I’ve heard—and a lot of designers I’ve studied don’t like it.
At least the ones who want to honor and respect the entire production of their work, not just the finished garment.
Which is the kind of designer I want to be, and the kind of designer I thought Luca Valente was.
The thought troubles me all the way to the sixth floor where the designers work, and where I’m faced with other worries. As soon as I cross the threshold into the office I share with the other three interns, an air of competition hits me with the force of a hot, dry wind.
Unlike Julia, who was warm and friendly the second I sat next to her, my coworkers are only vaguely polite as I cross the room to my workstation. If today is similar to yesterday, there won’t be any connecting conversations, only clipped small talk.
We’ll all be applying for the same position at the end of this internship, so I guess it makes sense we’re not insta-besties. That fact doesn’t change the reality that I could use a friend.
But I’m determined to maintain my excitement about this internship despite the cold greetings from my co-interns.
When the junior designer, Anna, hands out assignments, for the second day in a row, I’m given the most boring job of checking fabric samples for defects.
I have a moment of panic that the six months ahead may be more drudgery than designing, but I quickly push it away.
All I can do is my best work, every day. Someone will notice, I’m sure of it.
The day is long, and I check a lot of fabric samples.
I also do a few administrative tasks, such as contacting material suppliers and re-checking the senior designers’ calendars to make sure they aren’t double-booked.
They’re important tasks, but also things that could be done by someone who doesn’t have a bachelor’s degree in fashion from the top school in the U.S.
And, when I finish the to-do list and the sample checking, I’m not given anything else to do. I sit.
This is all part of the learning process—I’m sure—but something isn’t right. I feel like a racehorse whose jockey spurs him out of the gate at full speed, only to yank him to a stop. Why would the recruiting designer fight to get me here, then give me nothing to do?
As the clock ticks closer to six pm, I occupy myself by making a mental list of questions I want to ask Anna—including those about the employees, like Julia, who do piece work. Not all at once, obviously. Maybe after I get to know her.
If I can get to know her.
Other than to give us our assignments, Anna hasn’t said much to any of us, and her face is completely unreadable.
I can’t tell if she’s bored or mad. She never smiles.
But earlier today, when she opened the latest file of instructions from the higher-ups, she let out a frustrated huff that’s made me wonder if her experience isn’t syncing with her expectations either.
A little before six, while the other interns pack up their stuff, I take my time watching Anna from the corner of my eye.
She has to be the last one out to lock up, so I don’t finish zipping my bag until they’ve gone.
Anna waits by the door, her hand on the light switch, an annoyed expression on her face.
“Sorry, I made you wait,” I say as I walk out the door. “I’ll hold the elevator while you lock up.”
“Thanks,” she says in a flat, tired voice.
After locking the door to our office, Anna follows me into the elevator. My gaze follows Anna’s to the numbers above the door as they light up at each floor. We’re at three when I finally open my mouth to ask her my question.
Anna, however, is the first to speak. “Your work is good,” she says. The corner of her lip curls upward in what could be a smile if she let it continue.
“Thank you. It’s not that hard to separate fabric or re-check calendars.” I force a laugh to hide my nervousness.
She huffs a laugh but doesn’t respond directly.
“How long have you worked at Valente?” I ask.
“Almost a year.” She grips her tote with both hands, her face as unreadable as ever.
“Do you enjoy it?” I wait behind her as the doors open, then follow her off.
Anna doesn’t answer immediately, and I debate whether I should keep following her and ask again or let us both pretend she didn’t hear me.
But then, she leans closer and whispers, “Sometimes,” before striding away in the direction opposite the way I need to go. “Be careful who you show your work to.”
I watch her walk to the parking lot—I don’t like her answer.
After my unusually long bus ride home that, fortunately, didn’t include any DJ’s or creepers, even though there was also no Julia to save me from them, I walk into the beach house fighting a smile just in case Archie is waiting for me, knowing I won’t be able to keep from grinning if he is.
Or, more likely, laughing.
After the boring day I’ve had, I’m ready for a bit of entertainment, and the other prank I pulled on Archie will do the trick.
Except the only thing waiting for me is the odor of dirty dishes which have only been added to since this morning, making two days’ worth of dishes. It’s Nightmare Ashley all over again, and it almost kills me not to drop everything and wash them.
“Archie?”
I don’t get an answer. For a second I’m tempted to search the house for him, but I worry that he’s lying in wait to get me back. So, I stay in the kitchen, which he obviously hasn’t touched and, therefore, is the safest place to be.
I set my bag on the kitchen table and my willpower reaches its limits. I find an apron and go to work. If I’m going to pretend this place is already Mom’s, I might as well treat it as though it is. Plus, if this smell gets any worse, I’m afraid it will never come out.
I’ve loaded all the dishes by the time Archie walks through the back door, his surfboard tucked under his arm, looking exactly like he did this morning when I left. Disappointing.
Except for the shirtless, wrapped in a towel part. Archie’s abs continue to not disappoint. Apparently, after I forced him to parade around in a micro-towel, he’s very comfortable walking around in a beach towel that hits him mid-thigh.
He stops short when he sees me at the sink and narrows his eyes. “Good day at work?”
“Fine.” I put the last plate in the dishwasher and slam it shut. “Good day at not-work?”
Archie’s lip quirks, and he bites back his grin. He can’t stop it from traveling to his eyes, though, where it flashes and disappears as quickly as summer lightning. “After your warning, I figured the only place I was safe was on the beach or in the water.”
Ignoring the hitch in my pulse, I cock my head to the side. “You sure about that?”
The corner of his mouth slides upward. He fixes his gaze on me, and there’s no ignoring my skipping pulse with his eyes burning through me.
“I’m going to take a shower.” He tips his head toward the bathroom down the hall.
“First one of the day?” I glance at my watch for effect.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” His eyebrow lifts.
I shrug. “It’s not that hard to tell.”
Archie snorts, then turns down the hall. He pauses in front of the bathroom door and before I can look away, he lets his towel drop.
I gasp at the same time he says, “oops,” before casually walking naked into the bathroom and closing the door behind him.
Did he do that on purpose? Did he know I was watching him?
My shock only lasts as long as it takes him to turn on the water. Then I let out my grin and wait, realizing he walked right into my trap. Literally.
He can’t say I didn’t warn him he might not be safe in the water.