8. Zoe
Chapter Eight
ZOE
O ne eye is on the pages of the fashion magazine, and the other peeks through my bedroom window for signs of my father in case he shows up earlier than usual.
It’s Saturday, and he is mostly overworked on this day of the week. However, I know him well enough not to allow myself to get too comfortable, even on afternoons like these.
I flip a page with a model who has been tagged a rising star, and I see why. Her grace on the runway, even in still photos, appears unmatched. With the right designer, it will be easy for her to rise to fame.
I keep flipping, eagerly wanting to get to the page where Valerie Moore is meant to be featured to discuss her next collection. She is my role model and for good reasons. Her style is sublime yet so different and perhaps provocative to most who do not understand its depth.
I smile as I see her picture on the page in a simple white beach dress with slits lined by black threads to highlight the charcoal of her hair. And then there is a rich blue sequence to line the neck, a subtle detail I think is intended to pop her sea blue eyes.
She doesn’t just make clothes. She makes personalities, and through her choice of clothes when interviewed, I can tell she is a simple, yet strong woman.
She is the kind of woman I dream to be someday.
I keep reading as she discusses the fashion industry's transition into a new phase and the need to foster young minds to keep it thriving.
Someday, I will be just like her. I smile, resting my arm on my sewing machine and my head on it, taken by the driving force of her motivation.
I read to the end, and she wraps up by saying… I shoot up, sitting straight.
There is a contest!
I stand from my stool, stumbling over myself as I go to my bed, refusing to take my eyes off the page.
Valerie Moore is hosting a contest for aspiring fashion designers. The winner will showcase their work at Milan’s Fashion Week and intern in Valerie’s fashion studio.
I hop on my bed, squeaking in elation.
Yes, yes, yes!
All I need to do is enter the contest. I will give it my best shot, dig deep into my well of inspiration, and come up with something that will undoubtedly get me to work with her.
I rip the page off and dump the rest of the magazine on a pile of fabrics in the corner.
I have the basic materials, but I must go shopping for more. I need… I need something just like Moore’s statement but also something that screams a new girl is on the block.
Then I need a model. Oh, no, I need a model.
My anxiety creeps in at the near impossibility of that. I have no friends. I always kept everyone away so no one will find out about my father.
I don’t talk much to people in school, not enough to have anyone want to go through the stress of modeling for me. Not to mention, I would need someone discreet and suitable; not just anybody will do.
I grunt and drop flat on my bed, training my eyes on my ceiling.
Is the universe telling me to give up?
He’s perfect.
I use my water flask to mask my face as I check him out. Virgilio. The recluse. He doesn’t talk to anyone but doesn’t need to talk to people like most wannabes to be noticed.
He is a natural.
He is tall enough, his kohl hair knotted behind his head, engrossing bottle-green eyes, lean but athletic, and he has that charisma when he walks. He seems carefree, as if he doesn’t care who is watching, but carries himself with a finesse that shows he is intentional.
The problem here is how to approach him.
The bell goes off to end the PE training, and students, including Virgilio, start to file back into the school building.
I rip my water flask off my face and snap the cover back in place, not comfortable with the way my stomach is flipping over and knitting around my intestines, but positive that I must do what I need to do to get me him.
He will be my model for the contest.
I stalk past the sea of sweaty bodies and the chattering buzz of the worn-out students. I keep stalking until I get to my locker, then open it to get my backpack out while watching him doing something that has his jawline stiff by his locker.
I clutch my backpack to my chest, find relief in a deep breath, and then head over to him.
The way he stiffens tells me he is aware someone is standing beside him.
“Hi,” I wave, freeing one hand from clutching my backpack like a bullet shield.
“I don’t want to talk,” he keeps working in his locker.
“Virgilio,” I take one bold step of pulling the door of his locker a little wider, and he shoots into the action of pulling away and slamming it shut, protecting whatever is in there.
“I said…” he pauses. “You.” He turns to his locker and locks it with the key. “What is it?” He seems less irritated, knowing it’s me, and I hold on to that for courage.
“This will sound funny and crazy, but…” I pfft.
“You sound funny and crazy every other day, Zoe. What do you want?” He interrupts me, shrugging.
At least he knows me by my name. “You…” I stutter, and he lifts his eyebrow in an upside-down V, “I mean, not you, your help…” I scramble for words, his brow rising to touch his hairline. “I need a model to enter a contest, and you would be perfect for it.”
Better. I breathe.
“How much are you paying me?” He pulls out the key from his locker, giving his full attention to me now as he leans his shoulder on the frame of the locker.
Pay him?
I open my mouth to say something, but I’m lost for words and find myself spurting incoherent sounds as I stare at him in shock. I didn’t think he was going to ask me for money.
“How much do you want?” I clear my throat.
“Two hundred and fifty bucks,” he doesn’t waste any time answering as if he had that exact amount on his mind for something else.
“Two fifty?” My eyes pop. “That’s robbery,” I stab one finger at him.
“This contest doesn’t mean that much to you?” He slips the key into the pocket of his burgundy track pants, then zips up the sweater with our school logo to conceal the sweaty, plain white shirt he had while training.
“It does, but two-hundred and fifty bucks is too much, don’t you think?” I try to reason with him.
“Then leave me alone, Zoe.” He shrugs.
“Fine,” I can’t leave him alone. It’s him I want, now more than ever, because putting my money into it makes me feel like I’m onto something. “I will give you the money.”
“You have it?” He twists the side of his lips.
“Deal or no deal?” I won’t tell him about my savings and make him ask for more.
“Deal,” he shrugs, “Whenever you need me…” he turns and saunters off.
Paying him and getting the things I will need for the contest will cost me all my savings and some, but it’s an investment I’m willing to make to see my dreams come true.