“Whoa.” I lean over and inspect the space where Australia used to be. Nothing. “You did a fantastic job.”
Mei says nothing but packs away the brushes and paints with the grim satisfaction of a woman who has accomplished the impossible. Then she hands me the wig.
“Am I Fangli for this?”
“Yes.”
I tuck my short hair in and let the wig fall down my back. Maybe I’ll grow my hair out. I wonder if Sam prefers long hair or short.
Nope. No, I do not wonder that, not at all. It is a matter of utter indifference to me what Sam prefers.
Mei takes me back into the main room of the suite where rolling closets have been set up. I stop dead in the door as a man and a woman pop out. They’re dressed identically but in opposites, his white shirt and black pants offsetting her black shirt and white pants. Both have long black hair in braids that frame appraising pursed lips and cheekbones that can be seen from the stratosphere. I’m almost certain they’re multiracial and I stare without shame because it’s such a thrill for me to see people who look a bit like me and who are around my age. If only I had known more people like me growing up. Or even now. Anjali once told me she could go home to her parent’s village and be surrounded with people who looked like her, spoke her language, and knew her history for generations back.
Maybe it would be stifling. I’ll never know because there will never be a place like that for me, a community of people who share my history and family.
But this isn’t the time to dwell on the lived experiences of individuals creating a biracial identity in modern North America, because these clothes are my jam. If Fangli’s closet is timeless luxury, these two are also high-end but with an edge. I can tell they run the sort of store that has three shirts hanging on a rod and a DJ. I’m intimidated by their coolness even as I’m panting to see what they have. “Local designers,” says Mei. “Trace and Hendon from House of Swing.”
I can handle this as long as they don’t ask too many questions. We shake hands and then the woman, Trace, jumps in by asking about my design philosophy.
“My design philosophy,” I echo.
“Right,” she encourages me. “What do you want to accomplish?”
Besides not being naked? I struggle for an answer before I remember one of the artist’s statements in Fangli’s art summary. “I value the ability of line to arouse the emotive state,” I plagiarize.
They contemplate this before Hendon smiles. “Good. Now tell us…”
Before I’m forced to elaborate on whatever the hell I said, Sam comes into the room. I really need to get that key from him, number one, and why is he here, number two?
“When Fangli told me you were coming, I wanted to stop by,” he says. “I admire your work.” Both Trace and Hendon straighten up and smooth their hair. Sam has that effect on people when he tries, and for some reason, he’s trying now. Or is he genuinely interested in fashion design? I think he might be, because in less than a minute, he has them talking about their own philosophy and pulling out clothes that illustrate different factors.
I’m left to my own devices, which is good because I can browse through the racks as they talk. I pull out an elegant dress, a black-and-white sheath that drops straight down from the shoulders, and rub the material between my fingers. It feels like a thick satin but without the shine.
I look over my shoulder to see Sam watching me. He turns from the conversation to pick out a hanger. “Try this,” he tells me. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt and his biceps flex as he hands me the mass of black fabric. Both Trace’s and Hendon’s eyes are glued to his arm. I tear my gaze away.
“I like this dress,” I say.
“You can try on both.” Then he directs that smile at me. “This will suit you.”
It’s an easy request and I really have no reason to not try on the…whatever it is he’s holding out…but I balk. I don’t want him dressing me and thinking he knows what suits me better than I do myself. But Trace and Hendon nod in approval and I bend. I don’t want to embarrass anyone. Plus, Fangli would probably try on the damn thing.
I take them both and a few other items that catch my attention and bring them into the bedroom. The first thing that goes on is the sheath dress I chose. I frown. Although it looked good on the hanger, once on, it hangs and weighs me down, forcing me to wriggle under the heavy material pulling against my shoulders.
Fine, it’s a no-go. I pull on high-waisted wide black pants with little buttons on the hips and a black shirt and then, joy of joys, slip into a pair of closed-toe flat slides. So comfortable. No heels. I bite my lip as I wonder whether I’m supposed to go out so they can see. I guess I should? Would Fangli normally? Mei isn’t around to ask; she disappeared when Sam arrived.
I’ll go out as if I want to match another shirt to the pants. Then they can see me and comment but it’s not like I’m seeking suggestions. Fangli wouldn’t need advice. She probably legit has a design philosophy.
All three make an identical approving expression when I come out but Sam is the one I focus on. He tilts his head to the side, then reaches out for a pale-pink shirt. I try to not make a face because I never wear pastels. He gives it a shake and I take it back into the room.
Damn Sam, I think when I pull it on. The shirt is perfect. Once on, the color becomes more of a mood. I feel…pretty? Yes. It’s a very pretty look. I look at the mirror appraisingly. I’ve never been pretty. Cute was about as high as I ever rose in the looks hierarchy, which, according to me, goes:
Gorgeous/Stunning
Beautiful
Pretty, and on the other side of the spectrum, Handsome
Striking
Attractive
Cute
[Then, way down]
Unique
Yet this pink is magical. I come out with a little bit of swagger, and Trace and Hendon both say “Yes” in unison. Sam doesn’t say anything but the look in his eyes reminds me of that first day when he walked across the room, looking at me like I was the most important woman in the world, the only person who mattered to him. Right now, his attention is focused on me and only me, but unlike last time, it doesn’t seem like a challenge.
It’s overwhelming. I go back to the room and untangle the black thing Sam gave me, which turns out to be a jumpsuit that’s tight around the ankles with a collared top and an open back. No way to wear a bra. Huh. I give a bit of a jump and decide I’ll have to find those plastic disks you glue to your boobs to keep them in place.
Since I don’t have them now, I’ll have to own it. I walk out and the designers both come over to start fussing over the fit. Sam crosses his arms but he looks in my eyes, not at the neckline or the free-flying girls. It’s as if he sees me, Gracie, and I wonder if it’s truly me and not Fangli, or something between them that could never be.
It puts me off-balance and I drop my eyes first.
Fourteen
I take the pants, the shirts, and the jumpsuit but say no to the dress. Sam lingers until the room is empty, and I try to forget he saw me two hours ago madly searching for my towel with half my face ripped off. When I was mostly naked.
“Art show tonight,” he says. “Fangli thinks you’re ready.”
“Fangli’s hardly even seen me as her.” I take off the wig to air out my brain for a few minutes. “Where is it?”
“Don’t you know?” He adjusts his sleeves.
I shrug. I haven’t been keeping track of what events are coming since Mei has been teaching me pretty much on the fly.
“The Museum of Contemporary Art.”
“Am I buying some art?”
“No. You’re interested in supporting local artists and you’re there to admire. It’s a private showing of a private collection.”
“Will there be media?”
“Possibly. There’s not much point in having expensive things and important people admire them if no one knows.” He yawns. “I can deal with that.”
“I can do it.”
He looks like he’s going to argue but instead checks his watch. “We leave in an hour.”