Free Be Strong & Curvaceous by Shelley Adina Page A

of samples, you made that jacket.”
    “Yes. During winter break.”
    She reached over and held it open with one hand, taking in the collar, the lining, and especially the hem. She could probably tell how hard I’d worked to make the notching lie smooth and flat in both lining and fabric, while the contrast piping stood out the way it should, without bumps or puckers. “Very nice. Be sure to come back when you’re out of school, okay? I don’t see many students with skill like this. I could teach you a few things that would make these tailoring details easier.”
    “Thank you! Thanks so much.”
    I was still reeling from her compliments, even though a summer job was far from a sure thing, as I floated out the door and got back on the bus.
    At noon I was still a little delirious as I got off near a
taquería
and got myself a burrito for lunch, liberally laced with hot
chilés de arbol
. By two, my optimism had begun to fade, after half a dozen personal rejections and one proposition by the nasty guy stocking shampoo at the drugstore, and by three, I was trudging up the hot sidewalk, wondering what on earth I was doing this for.
    Sure, I wanted to show the people who mattered in the fashion world what I could do. But did I really need imported fabric at a hundred and change a yard? If Tori Wu would interview me on the basis of a few sketches and a jacket, did I need to create a dress and enter the show at all?
    Or was it more than the show?
Come on, Carly, have the guts to at least be honest
. I wanted what the show could do for me—over and above an internship. I wanted to walk up to Brett Loyola in a dress that had been photographed for everything from the
Chronicle
to whowhatweardaily.com. I wanted him to see me as a success . . . on my own . . . not just as Mac’s roommate. Once he saw me that way, maybe it wouldn’t matter to him that I didn’t come with a pedigree. I couldn’t help it that something about him could make me forget to breathe every time I saw him. Call it chemistry. Call it craziness. But there was no telling my body or my heart to forget about him. I wanted him to see me, and I wanted it to be on
my
terms.
    So. Onward.
    I’d come halfway back to school and was waiting for the next bus when something caught my eye in the window of the photography shop behind me.
    PICCADILLY PHOTO
    Help Wanted
    The sign was tiny, as if whoever had put it there wasn’t sure they wanted help at all. Still, it took about six milliseconds before the bell on the door was jangling behind me. A tall, gray-haired guy who could double for Sir Ian McKellan (See? She may be a lovable dork, but Lissa’s movie collection is really rubbing off on me) came out from the back at the sound.
    “May I help you?”
    He wore a Glengarry plaid vest and faded jeans, and a silk scarf at his wrinkly throat. But his eyes were very kind, and he moved with the dignity of someone who might once have been a soldier.
    I took a step forward, hand outstretched. “My name is Carly Aragon, and I’m a junior at Spencer Academy.”
    “Are you, now?” His grip was strong. Ouch. “Surely they haven’t taken to flogging the streets for fund-raising.”
    I grinned and surreptitiously flexed my fingers. “No, it’s just me doing the flogging. I’m looking for a way to pay my school expenses, and I saw your sign in the window.”
    “Aha. Have you developed photographs before?”
    “Um, no.”
    “Worked behind a counter?”
    “No, but I’m in AP Chemistry. It can’t be as hard as that.” I squelched a flutter of panic at the thought of what Gillian called “thirdterms” next week. Had I done nearly enough studying? No.
    “Done any customer service work at all?”
    “Just charity events with my mom.” Back in the days when having to do something like find a job would never have entered my head.
    “Useful experience. What else can you do?”
    I thought fast. “I can keep things clean. And smile at people and make them glad they came.