Queen of Babble (28 page)

Girls who engaged in these activities soon earned themselves a special name—flappers—so-called because they were like baby birds, “flapping” the wings of their independence for the first time. In defiance of their parents and, in some cases, lawmakers, these girls bobbed their hair, hiked their skirts to knee length, and began paving the way for the fashion trendsetters of today’s youth (see: Stefani, Gwen, L.A.M.B designs, and Spears, Britney, banana snake halter top).

History of Fashion

SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS

21

It is vain to keep a secret from one who has a right to know it.

It will tell itself.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882),

U.S. essayist, poet, and philosopher

Okay. It’s all right. I can do this. I can totally do this.

I’ll just rip out the stitches. I have my sewing kit with me, with its seam ripper and stitch scissors. It’ll be a snap. I’ll just rip off all the lace and see what I’ve got to work with when I’m done. It’ll be fine. Just fine. It has to be fine, because if it isn’t, I’ll have ruined a bride’s big day. Not only that, but I’ll have let down all these people who’ve been so kind to me.

Okay. I have to do a good job. I have to.

Rip.

Oh. Oh, okay, that looks really bad. Maybe I’ll start with the butt bow. Rip. Yes, that looks better already. Good. Rip.

The thing is, one person, I know, wants me to fail. It’s so obvious that’s why Dominique said the things she did. Luke probably didn’t say any of those things—rip—about me having many talents, or being so accomplished. I can’t believe I fell for that. She only said those things because she knew if I heard them, it would be harder for me to say no.

And she wanted me to say yes so I could screw up.

It’s just—rip—why would she want me to screw up? What did I ever do to her? I mean, I have been nothing but nice to her.

Well, okay, there was that thing about telling Luke’s mom that he wants to be a doctor. She might be a little peeved about that, seeing as how she wants to move to Paris.

And then there’s the fact that I let her little plan about converting Mirac to a lipo-recovery hotel slip.

But I never told Mrs. de Villiers that Dominique was the one who came up with it.

So why would she do something so incredibly bitchy? She knows as well as I do this dress is a lost cause.Vera Wang couldn’t salvage this thing. Nobody could. What was Vicky thinking? How could she possibly ever have thought—

“Lizzie?”

Chaz. Chaz is at my bedroom door.

“Come in,” I call.

He opens the door and pokes his head inside.

“Hey, what are you doing in here? We need you out—”

His voice trails off as he takes in the mess my room has become. Snowy fields of lace lay…well, everywhere.

“Sweet mother of God,” Chaz says. “Did the Sugar Plum Fairy explode in here?”

“Bridal gown emergency,” I say, holding up Vicky’s gown.

“Who’s getting married?” Chaz wants to know. “Björk?”

“Very funny,” I say. “Anyway, don’t expect me back at the bar anytime soon. I’ve got my hands full up here.”

“That’s kinda obvious. But not for nothing, Lizzie…do you even know anything about fixing wedding dresses?”

I am trying hard not to let him see me cry.

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” I say brightly.

“Yeah. I guess we will. Well, don’t worry, you’re not missing much down there. Just a lot of windbags going on about their yachts. Oh, hey, listen, what’s going on between you and Shar?”

I sniffle, and rub my nose with a shoulder as if it just tickles and isn’t running.

“She found out I didn’t actually graduate,” I say.

Chaz looks relieved. “Is that all? Jesus, the way she’s carrying on, I thought you said something about Mr. Jingles. You know she still feels guilty about that—”

“No,” I say. “I just neglected to inform her that I haven’t finished my thesis. And she found out.

Somehow.”

You know, it serves me right. Luke telling Shari about me not graduating, I mean. Since I told his mom about the doctor thing.

It’s just that I physicallycan’t keep a secret. What’s his excuse?

“Didn’t finish your thesis? Jesus, that’s nothing,” Chaz says dismissively. “You can crank that puppy out in no time. I’ll tell Shar to cool it.”

“Right,” I say, sniffling. When he throws me a questioning look, I say, “Allergies. Really. And thanks, Chaz.”

“Okay. Well. Good luck.” Chaz looks around the room speculatively. “Looks like you’re going to need it.”

Then he leaves.

I let out a little sob but quickly pull myself together. I can do this. I can do this. I’ve done this hundreds of times to dresses at Vintage to Vavoom, dresses no one wanted to buy because they were too ugly. A few swipes of my scissors and a velvet rose here and there, and…voilà! Parfait!

And we were generally able to sell them at a fifty percent markup.

I’ve just managed to get the wings dripping from the sleeves off when there’s another knock at the door.

I have no idea how long I’ve been working, or what time it is, but I can see outside the tiny diamond-shaped window at the end of my bed that the sun is setting, turning the sky a brilliant ruby color.

I can hear laughter drifting up from the lawn and the clink of silverware. The guests are eating.

And, having helped to carry in the food from the delivery truck it arrived in, I’m pretty sure, based on what I’ve seen, that what they’re eating is delicious. I’m pretty sure, in fact, that truffles and foie gras are involved.

“Come in,” I say in response to the knock, thinking maybe it’s Chaz again.

I am totally shocked to see that it’s not Chaz at all, but Luke.

“Hey,” he says, letting himself into the tiny room, then looking around, clearly concerned.

And why shouldn’t he be concerned? The place looks like a confetti factory.

“Chaz just told me what’s up,” he says. “I had no idea they’d roped you into this. This is completely insane.”

“Yeah,” I say stiffly. I am determined not to cry. At least, not in front of him. “It’s insane all right.”

Hold it together, Lizzie. You can do it.

“How did they talk you into this?” he wants to know. “I mean, Lizzie, no one can possibly make a wedding dress in one night. Why didn’t you say no?”

“Why didn’t I say no?” Oh no. Here come the tears. I can feel them, hot and wet, behind my eyelids.

“Gosh, Luke, I don’t know. Maybe because your girlfriend was standing there telling them how talented you said I was.”

Luke looks taken aback. “What? I didn’t—”

“I realize that,” I cut him off. “Now. But at the time, I don’t know, a part of me was hoping it was true or something. You know, that you had said something nice about me. I should have realized, of course, that it was all just a trick.”

“What are you talking about?” Luke asks. “Lizzie—are you crying?”

“No,” I insist, lifting a wrist to wipe my streaming eyes. “I’m not crying. I’m just really tired. It’s been a really long day. And I really don’t appreciate your doing what you did.”

“WhatI did?” Luke looks totally confused.

He also, in the light from the little lamp by my bed, looks totally hot. He’s changed into his party clothes, a collared white linen shirt and black trousers with a razor-sharp crease down the front of each leg. The white shirt brings out the deep tan of his neck and arms.

But I will not be swayed by masculine hotness. Not this time.

“Oh, right,” I say. “Like you don’t know.”

“Idon’t know,” Luke says. “I don’t know what Dominique said that I said, Lizzie, but I swear—”

“I’m not talking about what you said to Dominique,” I interrupt. “I already know that was a lie. But why…” My voice catches. So much for refusing to cry in front of him. Oh well. It’s not like he’s never seen my tears before. “…why did you tell Shari about my thesis?”

“What?”His expression, in the lamplight, is a mixture of incredulity and confusion. “Lizzie. I swear. I never said a word.”

Wow. I really hadn’t expected that. You know, denial. I’d fully expected him simply to come clean…to admit he’d done it and ask for an apology.

Which I’d been willing to accept, of course, on account of my own guilt for having spilled the beans about him to his mom. It’s true things would never be the same between us, of course. But maybe, with time, we might have been able to build up some modicum of mutual trust…

But to stand there and deny it? To myface ?

“Luke,” I say, my disappointment causing my voice to throb a little, “it had to be you. No one else knew.”

“Itwasn’t, ” Luke says. A glance at his face shows he’s no longer feeling incredulous or confused. Now he’s mad. At least if his frown is any indication. “Look, I don’t know how Shari found out about your not graduating. But I didn’t tell her. Unlikesome people in this room, I can keep a secret. Or are you not the one who told my mother that I want to go to medical school?”

Oops. In the silence before I reply, I can hear more rattling of silverware from below, along with the chirp of crickets, and Vicky’s voice, crying out very distinctly, “Lauren! Nicole! You made it!”

I swallow.

I. Am. So. Dead.

“Well,” I say, “yes. Yes, I did. But I can explain—”

“Do you really think,” Luke interrupts, “that it’s okay for you to go around accusing people of failing to keep a secret when you obviously can’t keep one yourself?”

“But—” I say, feeling all the blood drain from my face. Because he’s right. Of course. I’m the biggest hypocrite in the world.

“But,” I say again, “you don’t understand. Your girlfriend—your uncle—everyone was going around saying you were going to take that job, and I just thought—”

“You just thought you’d get involved in something that was none of your business?” Luke demands.

I. Am. So. Stupid.

“I was trying to help,” I say in a small voice.

“I never asked for your help, Lizzie,” Luke says. “Help was never what I wanted from you. What I wanted from you was…what I thought we might have—”

Wait. Luke wanted something from me? Luke thought we might have—what?

Suddenly my heart starts pounding a mile a minute. Oh my God. Oh my God.

“You know what?” Luke says suddenly. “Never mind.”

And he turns around and stalks from the room, closing the door very firmly behind him.

Some argue that the rise of Hitler—and Fascism—can be blamed for the return, in the 1930s, to longer skirt lengths and the restrictively tight waistline, sending women into corsets once again. The onset of the Depression made it nearly impossible for ordinary women actually to own the expensive Parisian fashions they saw sultry stars wearing in the movies—but talented seamstresses who could imitate the designs with less costly fabrics found plenty of business, and the “knockoff” was born at last…long may it live (see: Vuitton, Louis).

History of Fashion

SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS

22

Gossip is charming! History is merely gossip.

But scandal is gossip made tedious by morality.

—Oscar Wilde (1854–1900), Anglo-Irish playwright, novelist, and poet Can I just say it’s really hard to snip straight when you’re crying so hard you can’t see?

Well, whatever. Who needs him, anyway? I mean, okay, sure, he seems really nice. And he’s definitely good-looking. And smart and funny, too.

But he’s a liar. I mean, obviously he told Shari about my thesis. How else could she have found out? I don’t know why he couldn’t have just admitted it, the way I did, about having told his mom about his secret dream of being a doctor.

At least I did that for a good cause. Because I suspect Bibi de Villiers is the kind of woman who, upon learning her child has a secret dream, will do everything in her power to see that that dream is achieved.

Should a mother like that really be kept in the dark about her son’s most heartfelt ambition?

I was actually doing Luke aservice in telling his mother. How can he fail to see that?

Oh, all right. I’m a busybody and a loudmouth and a big stupid jerk.

And because of it, I’ve lost him…though the truth is, I never really had him. Oh, sure, there was that moment this morning, when he bought me the diet Coke—

But no. That was clearly all in my head. There’s no doubt about it now. I am destined to live and die alone. Romance and Lizzie Nichols simply do not mix.

And that’s just fine. I mean, there have been plenty of people who have had perfectly happy, fulfilled lives without a significant other. I can’t think of any right now. But I’m sure there have been. I’ll just be like one of them. I’ll just be Lizzie…alone.

I’m trying to angle my scissors beneath a particularly tight row of stitches when there’s yet another knock on my door.

Seriously. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

The door opens before I even have a chance to say “Come in.”

And, much to my surprise, Dominique is standing there, looking tall and cool in high-heeled Manolo slides and a low-cut slinky green dress.

I shake my head.

“Look,” I say, “I know it looks bad, but it’s always worse before the storm. I’ll get the dress done if people would just leave me alone so I can work.”

Dominique steps into the room, looking around carefully, as if afraid there might be trip wires across the floor, instead of just mounds and mounds of lace.

“I didn’t come here about the dress,” Dominique says. She stops by my open suitcase and looks down at the jumble of vintage dresses and Sears jeans that are lying there. Then she smirks.

“Look,” I say. I have really taken about all I can mentally stand. “If you want me to finish this thing by morning, you’re going to have to leave me alone, okay? Tell Vicky I’m doing the best I can.”

“I told you,” Dominique says. “I’m not here about Victoria or her dress. I’m here about Luke.”

Luke? That causes me to lay down my scissors. What could Dominique have to say to me aboutLuke ?

“I know you’re in love with him,” she says, lifting my family-size pack of Tums from the top of the dresser and examining it closely.

I stare at her openmouthed. “Wh-what?”