Free Material Girls by Elaine Dimopoulos Page A

sketches in earnest, Winnie handed me a familiar piece of paper and patted my shoulder.
    It was a one-shoulder, leopard-print dress with an attached gold belt. I’d submitted it along with my puma dress, thinking it might spin nicely off the safari line Torro was promoting. Feeling myself flush, I turned to Winnie. “What do I do now?” I asked.
    â€œHead up to Garment Construction with your sketch. You’ll advise a patternmaker on a prototype of your garment. Good luck!”
    I rode the elevator with some drafters whose sketches had also been selected. When the doors opened, the bustle of Garment Construction electrified me. Patternmakers and drafters ran around the room, clutching giant fabric bolts or wheeling half-garbed dress forms. Everywhere, scissors snipped, sewing machines clacked, and people shouted over the fray.
    Patternmakers approached the group of us as we emerged. I held my selected sketch tightly. One guy with a receding hairline and goatee nodded at me. “Come on then,” he said. “What’ve you got?”
    He introduced himself as Vaughn, glanced quickly at my drawing, and led me to the high shelf of animal-print fabrics.
    I stood on my toes to look them over. “What if I can’t find what I have in mind?”
    â€œThere’s something there that’ll work,” he said. His voice was brusque but not unkind. “Trust me. Besides, you don’t get to custom order your own fabric until you’ve had something like ten sketches approved.”
    Together, we settled on a print that I was happy with. The leopard’s spots were the way I’d imagined—about the size of my thumbnail and densely packed. Then we found a stiff and shiny gold material for the belt. Vaughn’s experience as a patternmaker was evident as he traced the dress’s lining and positioned it on the dummy, asking me for input as he folded and puckered. In no time, we captured the silhouette I had created in my sketch. Honestly, I felt it was coming along even better than I’d hoped.
    â€œHow long do we have?” I asked as Vaughn dug into a bin of belt buckles.
    â€œA week for difficult garments that require custom ordering. Everything else they like us to finish in under three days. Yours is simple—it should be ready for the fourth floor tomorrow morning.”
    I had to ask. “Do you think I have a good chance?”
    Vaughn shrugged his shoulders. “You never can tell with these things.”
    I couldn’t sleep that night. I envisioned people walking down the street in my dress, going to work, going out afterward in it. I thought what it would be like to wear it
myself
and casually mention that I’d designed it for the Torro-LeBlanc line. Even my mother would have to be proud of that. I woke Braxton up with a call to share my excitement. I chattered on, full of nervous energy, hugging the bear he had given me.
    â€œWow, Marl. I never thought you’d like being a drafter so much,” he said when I finally paused.
    â€œYeah, I don’t know why drafters get such a bad rap,” I told him. “Creating clothes is fun.”
    After a drowsy goodbye, Braxton hung up. I lay on my back, clutching the bear, imagining my look coming down the catwalk again and again.
    The next morning at work, Vaughn and I examined the dress with a critical eye and decided to raise the hem two inches to better reflect current skirt lengths. He steamed the fabric and added the finishing adjustments.
    â€œI love it! Thank you,” I exclaimed. I had the sudden urge to hug him but settled for an awkward arm squeeze.
    â€œGood luck,” said Vaughn. He smiled. “I hope to see you up here again soon. For ex–Superior Court, you’re actually not insufferable to work with.”
    I laughed, pushed my creation to the elevator with pride, and headed to the fourth floor.

    The rejection happened so fast I didn’t have time to cry.