The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(89)
All around us, girls are scrambling to finish costumes, stitch pieces that have come loose, touch up mascara. The nervous energy is unreal. I haven’t had much time to talk to the other designers; we’re all focused on helping our creations look spectacular.
“You’re freaking out.” It’s not a question. L looks at me in the rectangular mirror that is propped on the folding table given to us by the fashion show. “Look at me. Look at me, Michael-Grace Martin. You’ve got this. We’ve got this. This is who we are, and that’s all we can be today, okay? We’ve got all of this.”
I let out a breath. L isn’t just talking about the show. It’s the auction. The case. Matteo. My job. So much at stake everywhere. “How do you know exactly what I’m thinking?”
“Because I know you.” Latifah squeezes my shoulders, then turns back to the mirror to fluff her spectacularly tall wig.
“Michael-Grace Martin and . . . Latifah Nile?” The crew member reading our names stumbles over L’s and gives us a double take. I don’t blame her. With the wig, L is six foot five of sea-witch fashion fabulousness.
“Let’s go,” I mutter, straightening my own simple white pantsuit, accented with bright-blue stilettos, a chunky gold necklace, and my fire-engine-red glasses. The blue has faded in my hair, but I dabbed in some blue powder near the roots this morning for an intense ombré effect. Though I wear my makeup more toned down than Lawrence’s, I’ve penciled in my lighter brows with a blue tint and wear blue-purple lipstick. My battle armor is on, and I’m ready to go kick some ass.
We wait for what seems like forever in a decidedly unglamorous back hallway while the show proceeds in the ballroom. Slowly our line inches forward, and finally it’s our turn.
“Right in here. Watch your . . . hair.” A girl dressed in black and carrying a clipboard holds open a side door in the hallway so L can duck slightly into the well-lit runway. The glare of the lights blocks most of my vision of the large ballroom, but it doesn’t matter. I watch every strutting step Latifah takes up and down the catwalk. She owns it like no other model could. My Ursula the Sea Witch costume looks fantastic under the lights. The bodice is hand-dyed black-green tulle with glitter, woven and overlapped to create the effect of seaweed around the neckline. The frothy neckline gives way to a leather bustier with shell buttons up the front and laces up the back, giving Latifah an even fuller figure. The leather wraps over L’s hips, giving way to a sexy, seductive mermaid-style skirt, green parachute material peeking through the darts just enough to look like seaweed underneath sheathed tentacles.
At the end of the catwalk, L executes a perfect spin, revealing the last surprise of the costume. The skirt flares out at the bottom in points, mimicking tentacles reaching out. The crowd breaks into applause, and L grins as she shimmies back toward me. I cannot fathom this costume on any other person. L embodies my vision for it perfectly.
We’re the last runway model, so we don’t have too long to wait until we’re all called back up onstage to showcase the amazing costumes shown. The bright stage lights are glaring, and I can’t really see many people past the front row. I wonder briefly if the Golden Arrow is in attendance, watching me.
We stand up front while the judges tally their votes, and I lean in to L. “So we’re all set? For afterward?”
“Everyone’s dressed in their appropriate costumes and ready for action.”
The host, Auburn Elo—well-known geek fashion maven and my personal hero right now—approaches the mic. Her voice booms out as she thanks the audience for attending and announces that there will be two winners. The judges’ pick and the audience pick.
“The judges’ pick is . . .”
I hold my breath. I can imagine her saying my name. Several times over.
“Kelsey Maya, for the Black Widow!”
The crowd yells, but I deflate. I didn’t win. Tears fill my eyes. Everything I’ve done. Everything I’ve worked for. But I square my shoulders, a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds. This isn’t the end. I’m still here. I still did this, and I’m still going to do this as a business. This exposure can only help me, even without a crown. I don’t need any more proof that I should take a chance on myself. L is hugging me fiercely. I pat her arm.
“I’m sorry, L,” I say.
“What are you talking about?” She picks me up and swings me around. “Aren’t you listening? We just won the Audience Favorite!”
I look around in astonishment. Latifah hugs me to the glue-scented tulle neckline of her dress, and I am shocked to find I’m crying. Zero to sixty. I’m so excited and happy. Everything is a blur of disco lights, thumping music, and happy tears.
“We won!” I say, leaning against the wall backstage and closing my eyes. I don’t even care that it wasn’t the judges’ favorite. My heart doesn’t know the difference. I’m basking in the euphoria of knowing I’m finally on the right track scaling back on the writing and pursuing costuming. It’s not what I ever planned, but it feels like the universe gives its nod of approval. In a world of mortals, I most definitely feel like Wonder Woman right now.
“I wish we had time to soak it in.” L’s already at the makeup station, though she’s not disrobing like I thought she would be. “Vince just texted me and said that someone wearing a T-shirt with a golden arrow painted on it just walked into the auction and asked about the painting.”