Gia was a good friend. I closed my sketchbook and put on a smile. I had to at least look optimistic. Pouting not allowed. This job was the only one I had this summer, and I still needed a reference.
“It’s no problem,” I said slowly. I put the sketchbook back in my bag. “I can totally rework this plan. It’s a process, right? I’ll draft simpler ideas tonight.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” Shar said, grinning. “Rowan stopped by the house on his way to work this morning. He brought an extra drafting light for the flat and some colored pencils for you.”
“Rowan brought them?”
She nodded. “He’s so thoughtful. I’m going to miss him when he goes to university in September.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll take my lunch now. You girls hold down the fort.”
I sighed, putting my bag behind the counter. Rowan wasn’t being nice; the light was probably just so I would stop sketching in his precious backyard. But that didn’t explain the pencil crayons...was that payment for protecting Juniper? Honestly, it didn’t even matter right now. Not when my entire summer plan had just crumbled to the ground and I had to regroup.
Again.
Since the store was dead, and Juniper was coming in later to close anyway, Shar said I could leave after Gia’s lunch break if I wanted to. Clearly, she could tell I needed space to process the humiliating rejection this morning. I was grateful—I always thought best when walkingalone in downtown Toronto. Hopefully downtown Bakewell would do in a pinch.
It was a downright glorious sunny day, which was kind of rude, considering my mood. The streets were quiet, and I barely passed anyone as I made my way up Main Street toward home. Since I was alone, I allowed myself a good old-fashioned, adolescent-angst pout, because none of this was fair. The stupid parakeet, Nilusha’s broken leg, the manure on my red suede boots, Rowan Johnston’s smirk, and finally, Shar rejecting my plan for her store. I worked hard—and hard work wassupposedto pay off. Yeah, connections and talent and all that mattered, too, but if I made a plan and stuck to it, I was supposed to succeed.
Janmohammads always succeed.It was the family mantra. But apparently, I was the one to disprove it.
I closed my eyes for a second, trying to will away the tears. Last time I cried like this, my false lashes came clean off, and I didn’t want to scare the Bakewell kids playing at the flower playground. I pulled out my phone and called Matteo as I walked. I needed to hear his voice. I needed him to tell me it was going to be okay. But of course he didn’t answer. He wasn’t allowed calls at work. I texted him to call me when he could.
What was I supposed to do now about my FIT application? On the drive out here, Mom had said I needed to find a way to make Bakewell work for me while I worked for Bakewell.
Ugh. How, even? I called Mom.
“This isn’t going to work,” I said. “I need to come home.”
“Tahira...what happened? Are you crying?”
“Shar hated my proposal.”
Telling Mom should have helped. It normally felt like a weight being lifted when I told my parents my problems. But I’d told them only disappointing news lately.
“Do you want me to talk to Sharmin?” Mom asked. “I can try to convince her to let you do your plan.”
I exhaled. “I...I don’t know.” I’d rather not get what I wanted because my mommy stepped in—although that was how I’d gotten this job in the first place. “I mean, if she thinks she’ll lose business, I have to deal, right?” The store was her livelihood—and she knew what her customers wanted. “Painting the walls isn’t going to get me into FIT, though. Should I just come home?”
“And do what? We looked. There are no other suitable positions on short notice. No, you must stay and make this work. FIT is the most prestigious fashion school in the world. You know how competitive it’s going to be to get in. And even once you’re at the school, you’ll be competing against all your classmates for every opportunity there. You can’t just leave when it gets hard.”
But what if I’m not good enough to compete at FIT? In New York?I didn’t dare say that to Mom. She wouldn’t allow it. I was a Janmohammad. I needed to succeed.
“It’s about how you sell it, Tahira,” Mom said. “Do this smaller project for Sharmin. Get a great reference letter. And use your spare time to build up your portfolio so that it stands out in your application. Design something that goes viral.”
It was what I loved the most—designing. I turned onto Shar’s driveway. “Mom, I’ve been trying. I post new designs weekly, and none of them go anywhere. I might not be cut out for this.”
“Tahira, none of this. What do Janmohammads do?”
I sighed. “Succeed.”
“Right.Succeed.We’realwayscut out for this because weworkfor it. You are incredibly talented, but talent alone isn’t enough. Maybe you need to do some more creative thinking. Why don’t you call that fashion designer of yours?”
“I can’t call Nilusha now. We’re supposed to FaceTime on Thursdays for our mentorship.” Today was only Tuesday.
“Tahira! You need to be more proactive! She said she would mentor you; this is what mentors do!”
I was in the backyard by then. I dropped my bag on one of the lounge chairs outside the tiny house and flopped on the other one. Mom was right, of course. Even though she was kind of famous, or at least getting there, Nilusha had been incredibly kind the few times we’d talked. It was she who’d insisted on weekly calls. I felt awkward phoning her now, but I was desperate.
“Fine. I’ll text her,” I said. “But if she tells me to go back to Toronto, I’m leaving this place.”
