Chương 9
“I hate this.”
I put my hand between her shoulder blades.
“I know.”
“I hate that Aunt Lauren was wrong and it still hurts.”
That sentence stayed between us.
Because there it was.
The part nobody had applauded away.
Winning had not erased the birthday dinner.
The runway had not cured humiliation.
A room full of important people standing for Emily did not silence one cruel voice in her head.
I understood then that I had secretly hoped it would.
Maybe Daniel had too.
Maybe that was why watching Lauren drop her bag had felt so satisfying.
It had looked like balance.
Real life rarely balanced that neatly.
Emily lowered her hands.
“Can we go?”
“To school?”
She nodded.
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
I started the car.
Halfway there, she said, “I want to talk to Celeste about doing one interview.”
I glanced at her.
“One?”
“One.”
“Why?”
“So I can say what I actually want to say before everybody else decides for me.”
That afternoon, Celeste arranged a video call with a fashion journalist named Marisol Vega.
She was not the biggest name requesting Emily.
That was why Emily chose her.
Marisol had written about construction, textile waste, and emerging designers before the scandal attached itself to the collection.
The interview happened at our dining table.
Daniel and I stayed in the kitchen.
We could hear enough to know when it became difficult.
Marisol began with the clothes.
For twenty minutes, they discussed deadstock wool, seam placement, and why Emily had chosen not to hide darts in the charcoal jacket.
Emily relaxed.
Her hands started moving when she talked.
Then Marisol asked about Lauren.
Emily went still.
“I knew we’d get here.”
Marisol smiled faintly.
“We don’t have to.”
“You probably do.”
“I probably do.”
Emily looked toward the laptop.
“What do you want to know?”
“Whether that incident influenced the collection.”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
Marisol blinked.
“No?”
“The collection was finished before the dinner.”
“That’s important.”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you think people connected them so quickly?”
Emily thought about it.
“Because it makes a cleaner story.”
I stopped chopping an onion.
Daniel looked at me.
Emily continued.
“Cruel aunt insults fat girl, fat girl becomes fashion designer, cruel aunt gets embarrassed.”
Marisol did not interrupt.
“But that’s not what happened.”
“What happened?”
Emily looked down at her hands.
“I was already a designer when she said it.”
The room went silent.
Even Daniel stopped moving.
Emily looked back at the screen.
“That’s the part I wish people understood.”
“She didn’t create the thing that proved her wrong.”
“I had already done the work.”
Marisol leaned closer.
“And what do you want people to understand about the work?”
Emily smiled a little.
“Ask me about the jacket.”
Marisol laughed.
“Tell me about the jacket.”
So Emily did.
When the interview was published two days later, the headline did not mention Lauren.
It read simply: EMILY CARTER WOULD RATHER TALK ABOUT THE JACKET.
And for the first time all week, that was exactly what people did.
The article changed the conversation, but it did not make the attention disappear.
For the next two weeks, Emily learned the strange difference between being known and being seen.
People recognized her in places where she had once been invisible.
A woman stopped her in the cereal aisle at H-E-B and asked whether her daughter could take a picture.
A freshman at school left a handwritten note in Emily’s locker that said, I wore a sleeveless top today because of you.
Emily read it twice and slipped it into the pocket of her backpack.
Then, that same afternoon, she found three anonymous messages telling her she had been chosen only because fashion companies were afraid of being criticized.
She deleted them.
Then she opened the trash folder and read them again.
I caught her doing it at the kitchen counter.
“You know that feature is supposed to help you not read things twice.”
She locked her phone.
“I was checking something.”
“What?”
“That they were still stupid.”
“And?”
“They are.”
She stood and carried her glass to the sink.
I let her have the lie.
Some nights she wanted comfort.
Some nights comfort felt like somebody trying to argue her out of pain.
I was learning the difference.
Lauren did not call.
For almost a month, she disappeared from our immediate family orbit with an efficiency I might have admired under different circumstances.
She stopped sending pictures to the family group chat.
She skipped Sunday dinner twice.
When Daniel’s mother asked whether anyone had heard from her, everybody suddenly became fascinated by food.
Madison, however, kept texting Emily.
At first, the messages were practical.
Do you still have that chemistry study guide?
Then they became less practical.
Do you think silver shoes are actually ugly or is my mom right?
Finally, one Friday evening, Madison appeared at our front door carrying the Gucci bag Lauren had given her.
Emily opened the door.
“You drove two hours to show me your purse?”
Madison rolled her eyes.
“I’m returning something.”
“To me?”
“No.”
She stepped inside.
“To civilization.”
Daniel looked up from the couch.
“Hello, civilization.”
Madison laughed.
“Hi, Uncle Daniel.”
She held the bag out to Emily.
“I want you to sell it.”
Emily stared at her.
“What?”
“Sell it.”
“It’s yours.”
“I know.”
“Then sell it yourself.”
Madison frowned.
“I don’t know how.”
“You’re eighteen.”
“That feels unnecessarily judgmental.”
“It is.”
Madison walked into the living room and dropped onto the armchair.
“I want to donate the money.”
Emily remained standing.
“To what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“That seems poorly planned.”
“I thought you’d know.”
Emily gave her a look.
Madison sighed.
“Fine.”
She picked at a loose thread on her jeans.
“I want it to go somewhere that helps girls learn sewing or design or something.”
Emily’s expression changed.
“Why?”
Madison’s shoulders lifted.
“I don’t like looking at it anymore.”
May you like
“That’s not a reason to donate the money.”
“It is for me.”
