25. Piper
Piper
T he one thing that gets me through the rest of the day is the idea that Archie and Frankie—I hope—will have “dinner waiting” when I get home tonight.
That’s the touch point I come back to over and over while Anna and I anxiously wait for the right opportunity when she can show me the mockups of Valente’s Fall capsule collection on her work computer.
Even after Arianna returns to her own office, we wait for everyone else to leave, too. Anna won’t take any chances getting caught showing me the designs, but once our office is empty, we lock the door, and she pulls up the file. As soon as she opens the first photo, I gasp.
“That’s my design,” I say. “Did the senior design team send you this?”
Anna nods. “In a secure file. Corporate monitors our work emails to make sure we’re not sharing designs that haven’t been released yet. I could get in trouble just for showing you this.”
“You mean to make sure no one steals them?” The irony isn’t lost on me. Valente doesn’t want the work they’ve stolen from me to be stolen from them.
With each swipe, my stomach cinches tighter, like someone’s yanked a drawstring from the inside out.
Obviously, I didn’t invent Japanese boro.
And I’m not the only designer using the process of layering fabric to mimic the patchwork garments Japanese working-class people wore out of necessity in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.
But I don’t know any other designers besides me, who used New York City and boro as inspiration for an entire line of clothes.
Valente’s mockups aren’t exact copies of the designs I included in my portfolio, but they’re undeniably close.
Different colors, slightly different styles, but some of the names are the same.
Like the City Lights Patchwork Coat. It’s longer than the one I designed, but still a duster-style coat pieced together with deep navy, charcoal, and black vintage fabrics.
They’ve used more muted colors than the bright yellow, white, and silver patches my duster included, but they’ve included the same hidden inner lining with a graffiti-style print made from repurposed scarves and deadstock fabric.
The kicker, though, is the handwritten MetroCard tag with the story of the inspiration behind the piece. Worn on a rainy walk through SoHo. The exact words are included on my portfolio page and in my handwriting in my sketchbook from last year. Dated and everything.
The taste of acid creeps up the back of my tongue, and I grip the edge of the table to stay grounded. “What do I do? How do I get my portfolio back?”
Anna scoffs. “You don’t. It’s in production and your designs weren’t copyrighted. They did it to me, too, with their first ready-to-wear line.”
“Your designs were included in that line?”
“Not included. They were the line.” Anger simmers in Anna’s voice even as her face stays neutral.
“When I realized what they’d done, after the line was public, I talked to an attorney friend about holding them accountable.
That’s how I know it’s impossible. Valente has the upper hand, and they know it. ”
“Oh Anna,” I say, watching how her shoulders slump as she relays the details. “Those designs were what made me want to work in their ready-to-wear division,” I say, which pulls a sad smile from her. “Did you tell Luca Valente?”
“Of course.”
“And?”
“To quote Luca Valente himself, ‘I gave his designers permission to use my ideas when I shared my portfolio.’ Even if I hadn’t, he pointed out that there were at least seven differences in every garment.”
I know what she’s referring to. We talked about it in a class I took at Parson’s. For a design not to be considered a copy of someone else’s, there have to be a minimum of seven differences. But those differences can be as small as the way a stitch is done.
“Are you serious?” My stomach turns as I scroll through all the pictures and look for what Luca and his team have changed. They’ve stolen years of work from me. Basically, everything I started working on my Freshman year at Parsons. “There’s got to be something we can do. Sue or something.”
“Even if we had the money to sue, they’ve already covered all their bases.” Anna takes her laptop back from me and closes the file.
I think of Malcolm and his army of lawyers. If I still had a relationship with him, he’d be able to stop Valente. Money and power go hand in hand, and he’s got loads of both.
But the idea of him helping me only makes me more bitter. Money shouldn’t determine who will win or lose before a battle is fought.
“We have to do something,” I say, without conviction. I want to fight but Valente is a Goliath, and I don’t know how to use a slingshot.
Anna shuts off her laptop. “The only thing I’m doing is keeping my head down and my designs to myself until I have enough experience to move onto something better.” She grabs her bag, ready to leave. Possibly ready to leave behind what she’s told me, too.
But I’m not. I follow her to the elevator, clinging to the need for justice. “You may be able to let it go, Anna, but I can’t.”
“If you figure out how to bring them down, let me know.” The cynicism in her tone tells me how likely she thinks that possibility is.
“In the meantime, if you tell anyone I showed you the Fall line, I’ll deny it.
No one junior to me is supposed to see it.
This is the first time they’ve allowed me a preview of what’s coming. ”
We’re silent on the elevator and as we walk out of the Valente building until we get to the parking lot.
“I’m sorry, Piper,” Anna says as she walks toward her car, and I head toward the bus stop.
I reply with a slow nod. I don’t have any words.
When I get to the bus stop, I’m surprised to see Julia there since she’d told me she’d likely be staying late today. I try to smile, but then I notice the tears in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I put a hand on her shoulder.
“They let me go.”
“What? When?”
She needs this job. The restaurant where her husband worked as a chef burned down in the LA fires. Now they’re both out of work.
“Today. My arthritis. I can’t meet my quota anymore.” She wipes at her eye and says something in Spanish I don’t understand.
“But…you’re not supposed to have quotas at all, Julia.
You should be making minimum wage, not being paid by the piece.
” My reasoning makes no sense, even to me.
Julia’s only confirming what I’d already suspected Valente was doing.
Honestly, I should be less surprised that they’ve stolen from me.
The signs of unethical business practices were all around me from day one.
Julia’s problem with Valente, however, feels more solvable than mine. “I can help you find an attorney. They can’t fire you for a disability.”
Julia shakes her head and sends me a look as if I should already understand why she hasn’t done that already and why she put up with Valente’s abuse in the first place.
She’s undocumented. She can’t report Valente for workers' comp violations without the risk of being deported.
“I’m sorry, Julia. This isn’t right.”
She offers me a sad smile. We both know I’m powerless to do anything. If I can’t keep them from stealing from me, how can I keep them from stealing from anyone else?
“Don’t worry, mija. I’ll be okay. I’ve been through worse. My family will help me plan what to do next.” She pats my hand with a confidence that I don’t have about my own situation. Julia has family to pull her through.
I have…me.
“How was your day?” she asks as she pulls an orange from her bag and begins peeling it.
“Fine.” I can’t tell her about what Valente has done to me without admitting I don’t have anyone to help me plan what to do next.
“Do you have plans for the weekend?” She hands me a section of orange.
I hesitate, then bite into the orange. Tangy juice fills my mouth while tears fill my eyes. I can’t tell her that my only plans are not only to plot revenge against Valente but also to undo my already plotted and executed revenge against Archie.
“Oh, Julia,” I sigh-cry. “I did something really stupid.”
Maybe it’s the black bandana she’s used to hold her hair back that makes her look vaguely like a nun, but I confess everything.
I tell her about the trash bag full of stinky fish I put in Archie’s room and how I justified it by telling myself that Archie expects to be catered to and given what he wants.
I admit to judging him for living off an allowance from Malcolm and spending ninety percent of his life without a shirt on because he doesn’t have a job.
I leave out that I don’t mind the no-shirt part.
But I tell her the truth about why I’m living in the house. I was born to a beautiful, stubborn woman who snagged a rich guy, then wouldn’t finalize a divorce until she got something more than the bare minimum from him. I didn’t earn the privilege through any talent or work of my own.
The wider Julia’s eyes grow, the more I realize I’ve enjoyed all the privileges of wealth that, from the little I’ve learned about her, I doubt Julia’s ever experienced. Most people in the world haven’t.
When I finish, though, it’s the sushi Julia’s most concerned about. “Everything will stink. The whole house!”
“I know. What am I going to do?”
Julia goes quiet, and a ridiculous lump forms in my throat.
If Archie really did come to my bus stop to make sure I was okay—after everything I said to him this morning, and everything I’ve done to him this week—that’s maybe the nicest thing anyone has done for me.
Mom says I’ve been independent since birth, and I believe her, but circumstances have also forced me to be more independent than I sometimes want to be. Everyone likes to be taken care of. There are times when all I’ve wanted was to be looked after.
Malcolm filled that need for a while, but I recognize now that he cared for me because he wanted to shape me into who he thought I should be. When I wanted to be my own person, he didn’t care about me anymore.
But Archie was trying to take care of me this morning, even after I refused to let him. Even after I’ve done everything to push him away. Not just push him away— drive him away.
“I know what to do,” Julia says, pulling me out of my thoughts. “My padre was a fisherman in Guatemala when I was a girl. He chartered boats for rich Americans who wanted to catch big fish.”
She smiles, but there’s a sadness in her eyes. “His clothes always smelled like fish. I remember Madre washing everything in vinegar and leaving coffee grounds around to absorb the smell that lingered after he was gone.”
“Did it work?”
She nods. “Vinegar works on everything. You don’t need expensive cleaners.”
Knowing I can undo some of what I’ve done once I’m home alleviates a little of my guilt.
“Thank you,” I tell her, reaching out to give her arm a squeeze. “Are your parents still in Guatemala?” I ask her.
Julia shakes her head slowly. “Padre drowned before I turned ten. Madre passed a few years ago. She raised me and my four younger brothers alone. We were very poor.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
She smiles. “He was a good man. He watches over me.”
“I’m sure he does.”
I consider how Julia’s life might have looked being raised—along with four siblings—by a single mother in a fishing village in Guatemala, compared to my own life as the only child of a single mother who married rich men so we could live in Beverly Hills, and I could attend private schools.
I’d give it all up to be able to confidently say I have a father watching over me. Or somebody who loved me enough to protect me.
Julia and I don’t say much on our bus ride.
I’m not sure how to comfort her beyond telling her that if I can come up with a way to help her, I’ll do it.
I hope the promise doesn’t sound as empty to her as it does to me.
The longer I sit next to her, the more helpless I feel to do anything about my own situation, let alone hers.
On top of feelings of helplessness, I wrestle with anger and regret. The more I dwell on Valente's actions, the more I consider Archie's revelations about Malcolm taking his "Surf City" earnings.
I may have been na?ve in trusting Luca Valente with my designs, but at sixteen-years-old, Archie wasn’t wrong to trust his own father.
No wonder Archie is fighting so hard to keep the beach house. It’s his only security. Without it, he’ll have to return to Australia. He has no other way to support himself, especially if Malcolm cuts him off.
Malcolm’s put him in the same position he put Mom, forcing Archie to be entirely dependent on him.
I doubt Archie believes he’s capable of living any other way, just like Mom didn’t either for so many years.
Archie’s wrong, but that’s what Malcolm’s done to him.
Malcolm’s interest in taking care of people is about making them helpless enough to believe they need him.
It’s not about caring at all. It’s about control.
After our conversation last night, I understand Archie’s perspective better now, but that doesn’t change the fact that Mom needs the house as much as he does.
Maybe even more. The house is all she’ll ever get from Malcolm, but Archie’s his son.
Malcolm could always change his mind about the trust fund and his threats to cut off Archie.
That’s unlikely, but Archie still has the option of going back to Australia and living the comfortable life he’s always lived.
I quickly brush that idea away. Archie deserves the chance to live up to his potential and working for Malcolm won’t allow him that, but also…I’d likely never see him again.
The thought of saying goodbye to Archie forever carves a hole in my chest deeper than the one Valente’s already dug.