Mom beamed at me. “That’s wonderful! You’ll have friends right next door!”
I nodded noncommittally as I stepped into the kitchen. Honestly, I didn’t need friends in Bakewell other than Gia. Work at the store, then work on my portfolio. That was the plan. Not hang out with country folk who put four-foot rabbits on their front lawn.
“I ended up hiring Juniper in the store part-time,” Sharmin Aunty said as she put some mugs on a tray. “Her father wanted her to work at the nursery with Rowan, but June was adamant she didn’t want to work there. You’ll like her—she’s a sweet girl. Last week, I took her to the jamboree in the town over to watch her brother and their friend in the rabbit obstacle trials, since their mother had to cover for the other doctor in town. You should have seen the little bunnies hop through hoops! I can’t imagine how long it took to train them.”
What? What was with this rabbit obsession? These kids sounded weird. Clearly, I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Or rather, I was a lot closer to Kansas than I’d ever been.
“You’ll have to keep the rabbits away from Tahira,” Mom said. “She’s allergic.”
Sharmin Aunty laughed, patting Mom on the arm. “I know, I know. You told me her entire medical history.” She winked at me. “C’mon, let me show you around while the tea brews.”
The inside of the house was really...well, country. Wagon wheel coffee table, dried flowers everywhere, and a lot more wood than I expected.Not as much pine as the granny flat, but still. My coolest aunty had gone full-on backwoods bumpkin since moving out here. The house was bright, though. And it smelled like masala chai, just like my home.
“It’s a bit small, I know,” Sharmin Aunty said as she showed me the living and dining room. “But I’ve had so much fun furnishing with antiques. I even picked up one of those old-fashioned sewing tables for you.”
I smiled. “Thank you.”
“I’ll have Rowan and Juniper bring it out from the garage. Oh, and here.” She handed me a stack of linens that were on the dining table. “I bought new bedding for the loft bed, but with my back there’s no way I could set it up. Do you mind, Tahira?”
I smiled. “No problem. I’ll do it now. I want to unpack some of my stuff before Gia gets here, anyway.”
I took the sheets and went back out the kitchen door to the granny flat. I took stock inside for a moment, looking around without having to praise it just to be polite. The apartment was minuscule, but it wasn’tthatbad. The window was huge, so the space was bright at least. There wasn’t much storage, but I could probably fit my sewing supplies under the table. I put the new sheets on my bed in the loft, then climbed back down and started unpacking my sewing machine and supplies.
I had just dug out my cookie tin filled with scissors, machine needles, bobbin thread, and other notions when my Instagram notification went off. I checked my phone. Of course—it was Sunday, and I had an alert set up for the Indie Fashion Weekly roundup. The account was run by theDashStylefashion blog, and every Monday they posted a prompt. Emerging designers like me could post an outfit or a fashion illustration inspired by the prompt, along with the hashtag #IndieFashionWeekly. Then on Sundays theDashStylepeople picked about five highlights of the best entries and posted them on their page. I wasn’t entirely sure who picked the posts that got highlighted, but it was a major boost for an indie designer’s visibility. I’d been doing the prompts for months, but my work had never been picked as a highlight.
I sat on the sofa and opened the page. The prompt this week was gray scale, which was so perfect for those shirts I’d made for that Graffiti Alley shoot. The photo I’d hashtagged #IndieFashionWeekly had over three hundred likes. For sure I’d be highlighted this time.
But I wasn’t. My stomach clenched. Why wasn’t I there? What was I doing wrong? I texted Matteo.
Tahira:Do you actually think I’m a good designer?
He wrote back immediately—which was so sweet of him because I was pretty sure he was still at that kid’s baptism.
Matteo:Of course. You’re amazing.
Tahira:I didn’t get featured on the Weekly Indie thing again.
Matteo:Ugh. You’ll get it next time. We can build up your profile, get you more followers. I’ll help you babe. Anyway, can I call you later? I’m still in church.
Tahira:No worries. Talk soon. Tell G I’ll see her tomorrow.
I rubbed the back of my neck as I stared at the picture of Matteo and me in our gray and white shirts. I had a healthy twenty thousand followers on Instagram. Maybe that wasn’t enough to catch the attention of this style blog?
I checked out the accounts that had gotten profiled this week. Most had more followers than me, but their designs weren’t really better than mine. Okay, maybe that one was pretty spectacular—but I could see puckering on the seam on one of the others.
So maybe it wasn’t my platform, or my talent. Maybe there was something else I was missing. A certain...spark.It factor.Originality.
I worked hard. Really, really hard. But without that certainsomething, it was all for nothing.
I sighed, chewing on my lip. This was ridiculous. My day had already been bad enough. Self-loathing wasn’t going to help with my Plan. I grabbed my iPad and opened the illustration of the shirt I’d been working on in the car. And it hit me.
Bell sleeves.
I quickly erased the Juliet sleeves and drew new sleeves that were tight around the upper arms and widened under the elbow. Yes. It wasperfect. I could do this. No more self-doubt allowed. Only confidence that the Plan would work.
After putting away my iPad and the rest of my sewing stuff, I hurried back out to the yard, where Mom and Sharmin Aunty were having tea.
“Sorry I took so long,” I said. “I was finishing a design.”
