Queen of Babble

“That’s not it,” Shari says. “I mean, that’s probably part of it, but let’s face it, Lizzie. School was never your thing.” She nods at my sewing basket. “This is. And if anybody can fix that ugly dress, well, I guess it’s you.”

My eyes well up again. “Thanks. Only…I mean, what am I going to do about Luke? Does he…does he really hate me?”

“Hate might be a strong word for it,” Shari says. “I’d say he’s more…bitter.”

“Bitter?” I wipe my eyes with my hands. “Bitter’s better. I can deal with bitter. Not,” I add quickly, seeing the curious look Shari darts at me, “that it matters. Since he’s already got a girlfriend, and he lives in Houston, and I’m just coming out of a dead-end relationship, and I’m not interested in starting something new and all.”

“Right,” Shari says with one eyebrow raised. “Okay, then. Well, get to it, Coco. We’ll all be eagerly awaiting your creation in the morning.”

I try to laugh, but all that comes out is a hiccupy sob.

“And Lizzie?” she asks as she pauses on her way out the door.

Uh-oh. “Yeah?”

“Is there anything else I need to know?” Shari asks. “Any other secrets you might be harboring from me?”

I swallow. “Absolutely not,” I say.

“Good,” Shari says. “Let’s keep it that way.”

And then she stomps out of my room.

The thing is, I don’t feel at all bad about not telling her about the blow job. There are some things even your best friend doesn’t need to know.

When the Germans invaded Paris in 1940, fashion as the world knew it came to a standstill. The war put an end to the export of couture, and rationing to save resources for the war effort meant that items like silk, which was needed to make parachutes, were impossible to come by. Die-hard lovers of fashion, however, would not give up their stockings, and so stained their legs and drew seams down them to imitate the look of their favorite hosiery. Women who were not so artistically inclined opted instead to wear trousers, a look finally acceptable to a society becoming used to things like air raids and bebop.

History of Fashion

SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS

23

Gossip is news ru

– Liz Smith (1923-), U.S. journalist and author

Iwake to find a strip of lace stuck to my face. Also to an urgent knocking on my door.

I look around blearily. A wan gray light fills my room. I realize I forgot to close my drapes the night before. I realize I forgot to do a lot of things the night before. Such as change into pajamas. Wash my makeup off. Or brush my teeth.

The banging on my door continues.

“Coming,” I say, rolling out of bed-then staggering a little as a wicked head rush seizes my temples in a vise. This is what comes, I know, of pulling a diet-Coke-fueled all-nighter.

I make my way to the door and pull it open a few cautious inches.

Vicky Thibodaux, in a pale blue peignoir, stands in the hallway.

“Well?” she demands anxiously. “Are you finished? Did you do it? Could you save it?”

“What time is it?” I ask, rubbing my gritty eyes.

“Eight,” she says. “I’m getting married in four hours. FOUR HOURS. Did you finish?”

“Vicky,” I say, slowly forming the words that I have been going over and over in my head since around two in the morning. “Here’s the thing-”

“Oh, fuck it,” Vicky says, and throws her full body weight against the door, shoving it open, and me aside.

Three steps into the room, she freezes when she sees what’s hanging from the hook on my wall.

“Th-that…” she stammers, her eyes wide. “Th-that’s-”

“Vicky,” I say. “Let me explain. The gown that your dressmaker used to sew all that lace onto didn’t have enough structural integrity in and of itself to exist on its own without-”

“I love it,” Vicky breathes.

“-all the lace that covered it. In essence, your bridal gown was lace…and that’s it. So I-wait. You what?”

“I love it,” Vicky says. She reaches excitedly for my hand and squeezes it. She hasn’t once taken her eyes off the gown on the wall. “It’s the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen.”

“Um,” I say, relief coursing through me. “Thanks. I think so, too. I found it in the attic upstairs the other day. It was kind of stained, but I got those out, and fixed a few tears along the hem, and reattached one strap. Last night I adjusted the fit according to the measurements on your old dress. It should fit, so long as you haven’t shrunk-or grown-in the night. Then I spent about an hour pressing it…thank God I found an iron down in the kitchen…”

Vicky, I realize, is barely listening to me. She still hasn’t unglued her gaze from the glistening Givenchy.

“Um,” I say, “do you want to try it on?”

Vicky nods, apparently unable to speak, and begins stripping off her peignoir without another word.

I gently pluck the gown from its hanger. Vicky’s original dress-the lace disaster-hangs on another hook nearby. I’d put the two side by side in order to let her choose. Her original gown doesn’t look that bad-if I do say so myself. I managed to tone down the lace, though there was no way I could remove it all and still have a dress left. Instead of looking like something Stevie Nicks might wear, it now resembled something Oksana Baiul might sport at Barbie on Ice.

But next to the Givenchy, it hadn’t stood a chance.

Which was just what I was hoping.

I find myself holding my own breath as I drop the yards and yards of creamy white silk over Vicky’s head. Then, as she slips her arms through the straps, I step behind her to begin fastening the pearl buttons. One by one, they easily close. And she isn’t, I know, holding her breath, because I can hear her excited panting as she looks down at herself.

“It fits,” she cries excitedly as I get to the top buttons. “It fits perfectly.”

“Well,” I say, “it should. I moved the darts-”

Vicky whirls away from me. “I want to see,” she cries. “Where’s a mirror?”

“Um,” I say. “There’s one in the bathroom across the hall-”

She runs from my room, noisily banging the door, then just as noisily barges into the bathroom.

From which I hear, “Oh my God! It’s perfect!”

I find myself sagging against my bedroom wall in relief. She likes it.

I finally did something right, anyway.

Vicky barges back into my room.

“I love it,” she says. For the first time since I’ve met her, she’s all smiles.

And, smiling, Vicky transforms into an entirely different girl. She’s no longer the spoiled socialite who hates her brother and just about everyone else in the world.

Instead I get a glimpse of the sweet, engaging girl who chose to marry a phlegmatic computer programmer from Mi

It’s true, I guess, what they say about brides on their wedding day. They’re all beautiful. Even this early in the morning, with no makeup on, Vicky looks stu

“I love it, and I love you,” she gushes. “I’m going to go show my mom.” She leans over to plant a kiss on my cheek and pulls me into a surprisingly hard bear hug. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I will never forget this. You’re a genius. An absolute genius.”

Then, in a whirl of white silk, she’s gone.

And, completely exhausted, I fall back into bed, desperate for a few more minutes of sleep.

I’m able to snatch one, maybe two, more hours before I’m rudely awakened again, this time by someone hurling herself bodily against me. Someone who sounds very much like Shari as she says, “Oh my God, oh my God, Lizzie, wake up! You’ll never believe this-WAKE UP!”