RoseBlood(25)

I search for some way to bring up the costumes for the opera, and am just about to find my tongue when she speaks.

“My husband told me about your performance yesterday.” Her voice is silky, like her palm brushing mine as she hands me back my ticket. She delivers each word in perfect English with no French accent. I’m curious as to her personal story—how she met her foreign husband and ended up here. “He’s not one for being at a loss for words, but he said I’d have to hear you to believe it. He said there was nothing to compare it to. How long have you been practicing?”

Practice? I’ve never had to. My face flares to the pitch of a bonfire. Mom clears her throat nervously. Before I can concoct a believable lie to save us both, a familiar Southern accent bursts over my shoulder.

“There you are!” Sunny steps up to the counter beside me, her welcoming grin so wide I can see two crooked teeth on her lower jaw that I didn’t notice yesterday. Her freckles clump together with the strain of her facial muscles, heightening that harlequin mask effect. She’s plaited her hair into a messy side braid. A spray of fake velour flowers weave in and out, the same red as our matching clip-on ties.

“Madame Fabre, you gals have something in common.” Sunny takes the muffin the teacher holds, crinkling the paper lining as she hands it to me after pinching off a piece to stuff in her mouth. “She’s a fashionista. I saw patterns and such in her baggage.”

I smirk. Last night, I mentioned to Sunny how much I’d like to be a part of costume design. And now she’s provided the perfect introduction. I’m bursting with a thank-you that has no chance to slip out before Headmistress Fabre takes over again.

“Is that so? Well, I could use the opinion of another seamstress. Did you see the scene that was playing on the TVs? The nuns?”

“I saw most of it,” I answer, eager to finally showcase a talent I actually had to work at to master.

“I need to decide on a fabric that’s inexpensive but versatile and durable. There’s a comic relief scene in act four that takes place at a tavern. We use the same actresses for both settings, so that means two times the costumes—nun habits and tavern wench uniforms. If I’m not careful, we won’t have enough money left over in our budget for the lead roles’ costumes.”

I furrow my brow. The last look I got at the TV, the nuns were hopping around the stage, their eyes huge and wild, as if possessed. “It needs to be comfortable enough they can move around . . . lightweight so they won’t get overheated under the stage lights. But it should look sturdy and heavy—like authentic nun habits. Right?”

Madame Fabre nods. “Exactly . . .”

Blocking out the clang of silverware being dumped into a divider, I track a glance over Sunny’s hair again and the tiny velveteen flowers—how the fluorescent light gilds certain petals, making them shinier than others, depending on the direction they lay. “You need a fabric that has a nap. Like velour. Cut it on the bias, then finish all the seams with a serger so the robes are reversible. When the light shines on the front for the nuns’ robes, it will be matted and dark. On the reverse side, it will be a different shade and texture—shinier and brighter. Convert the wimples the nuns wear on their necks and heads to bonnets and aprons that can cinch the waists on the wenches’ uniforms, holding up the robes’ hems after they’ve been folded at the knees for short, poufy dresses. Same pattern, same accessories, totally different look. And you’ll only have to buy enough fabric for one set.”

Headmistress Fabre smiles—a spread of white teeth behind plump lips. “That’s brilliant.” She offers me an extra muffin. “On the house, for your help.”

I nod a thank-you but the muffin on her palm stalls across the counter as she rethinks.

“Say, how would you feel about helping me out after classes? I’m going to start taking measurements tomorrow so that once the elimination and final auditions are over, we can jump right into cutting out the patterns. And we can start on the costumes for the supporting roles immediately, since they’ve already been chosen. We’ll be sewing from four until dinnertime at least two or three nights a week. It’ll earn you extra credit.”

Sunny elbows me. I glance at her, then at Mom who’s taking a cup of coffee from one of the students behind the counter. “That sounds great,” I answer. Grinning, I pass Sunny the muffin she’s already sampled, and take the other.

“Perfect.” Madame Fabre gives me a cappuccino for my free hand. “It’s about time we get a student who knows a thing or two about a needle and thread.”

Smiling, Mom pats my arm. “Look at that. Behind the scenes, just like you wanted. But keep your grades up in all your classes.”

“I personally guarantee no health homework,” Madame Fabre says. “And I have some influence with the social studies professor, so we’ll see that you get time in class to finish work in there.” She winks.

“Mrs. Fabre is a gal of many hats.” Sunny slips in the remark, smirking as she stuffs another bit of muffin into her cheek.

The teacher laughs. “And that’s Sunny’s not-so-subtle plea to borrow one of my hats for the outing this coming weekend.” She purses her mouth in thought. “I’m thinking my floppy fedora . . . with the daisy on the side.”

Sunny beams. “The one that just so happens to match my daisy tights?”