Page 17 of Under the Shade of the Sycamore

“I’m going home,” Dante said as tears began to stream down his cheeks. I felt so bad. We all got to our feet to say goodbye among hugs and well wishes. We hardly knew each other but every one of us knew how much it hurt to have our art torn apart. Much like an art critic bashing an oil painting or a book reviewer maligning a novel. That shit cut deep. These were our ideas, our creations, our sweat, tears, and yes blood at times – needles and shears are sharp – on display.

Cameras rolled, sound techs hid in corners, and Dante forced a smile then was given a firm handshake by Claude.

“You possess much talent or you would not have been chosen. Keep refining your work and someday we will see you at Paris Fashion week,” he told Dante then opened the door for him to exit. With a wobbly wave the first designer was gone. The door closed. Claude gave us all a firm look. “There is now one less. Take what you have learned today, store it away with your prized shears, and remember your lessons. Go now. Eat, sleep, rest. Tomorrow a new challenge will be presented to you.”

“Merci, Claude.”

And out of the lounge we were led to a tiny room where we all gave our thoughts about the first competition and losing Dante. I was honest. That was what they wanted we’d been told. I said I’d liked Dante and his creative eye but the critique from Claude had knocked him off his game. Maybe I was just tired as hell and things were rolling out of my mouth when they shouldn’t be but they asked for the truth so I gave it to them. I admired, and yes secretly lusted after Claude, but his comments had sank Dante.

Thinking on what I said that night as I lay in bed listening to Mickey singing an old Beastie Boys song in the shower I had to wonder if the candor the producers so craved was going to bite me on the ass when I saw Claude tomorrow.

Chapter Eight

As it turned out it was a Chihuahua in a navy vest that bit me the next morning.

Monsieur Pamplemousse was nervously pacing the student lounge that the producers had requisitioned for us when we sat down to feast on delicious pastries delivered by a local pâtisserie. Unknowing that the little turd had a thing for les pains au chocolat - a chocolate croissant for us Americans – I carried my tiny cup of French press made for me by Esme at the coffee bar in the far left corner to sit down on a round hassock. The dog sat on the floor beside me as various crew members shuffled in and out for coffee or an éclair.

Pamplemousse pawed at my calf as I sipped and ate, my sight moving over the comings and goings of the production crew. I’d not expected to see Soline here but I had thought maybe Claude would be around. He was the owner of the school as well as being one of the two major stars. Paloma stood by the window with a cup of something hot, a wheel-shaped pastry, and a look of tension as she discussed something with the crew in French.

“No chocolate for dogs,” I told Pamplemousse with a friendly smile. He dug at my leg again then added a sad whine. “Sorry, they say its toxic for dogs. Where’s Claude? Why isn’t he toting his dog—Hey!” The dog began tugging on the cuff of my patchwork jeans. Coffee dribbled over my fingers as I tugged free only to have him grab my pantleg once more. “Bad dog. Bad!”

“Give him a bite,” Mickey chuckled so I dropped a chunk of my breakfast on the floor. The dog gave my cuff one final shake before pouncing on the bite of croissant like a starved hyena. I shot to my feet. My fellow designers found the loss of my last bite of baked good humorous. I flipped them off. That made them laugh louder. Leaving the dog to pester the others I slipped up to one of the sound techs, a skinny dude with a nose ring whose was Ramone. His gaze left his phone when I stepped up.

“Sorry to be a pain but Claude’s dog just bit me.”

He peeked around me then settled bored brown eyes back on his cell. “He does that.”

“Oh, well, maybe Claude should teach him not to do that,” I fired back, upset over the loss of the bite with the most chocolate in it. I’d been saving that for last.

“Why don’t you go tell him yourself. He is outside under the sycamore puffing away his frustration over his viewing of yesterday’s dailies.”

With that he walked off leaving me to stare at his back.

Shit. Dailies. I’d just learned last night what that term meant. Mickey was a veritable encyclopedia of TV terms. The dailies were a quality check on the unedited footage shot the day before. This way they could see what, if any, scenes needed reshot for any reason. If Claude had seen my clip about Dante then he might be pissed off. Shit. Shit.

“Shit,” I mumbled as I jogged off to find my way to the shady quad.

It took a few moments, and some horrid French on my part to convey what I needed from students rushing to classes, to locate the outdoor area. When I pushed outside the air was cool as well as thick with cigarette smoke. I waved off a cloud from a small group that were taking final puffs before they entered the academie for their first class. Claude stood off to the side, alone, in a striking dark suit with a soft blue shirt. His gaze zeroed in on me as I carefully picked my way down a winding path of buttery stepping stones. I passed a few benches with small brass plaques on the back, the song birds and the whisper of the wind through the sycamore leaves was pleasing to the soul. His hazel eyes bored into me as he took a deep drag then exhaled.

“Are you smoking?” It was a stupid thing to ask. I mean, Duh Kinder, he was standing next to a tasteful tall ashtray with a cigarette in his hand. God, I was such a hick at times.

“All of Paris smokes. Did you wish something, Kinder?” He tapped his ash into the silver urn.

“Aren’t there rules about smoking on campus?”

“As I said all of Paris smokes. This is private property, there are no children present, and we are outdoors. Smoking indoors is not allowed.”

“Oh well, okay. I guess that’s okay.” Ugh I was stupid. Here I stood, a bumpkin from Nowhere, North Dakota, getting preachy with this international fashion icon.

“Thank you for giving me permission. Perhaps I should ask you for your approval after I give my opinions on up-and-coming designer’s work? It seems you have strong feelings about my critiques. Would you wish to take my place?”

Fuck. So he had seen the dailies.

“I…no, I no. No, never. I just…” I blew a strand of hair from my eye. “I just said what I felt about things. The producers told us to be honest. They said to make sure to show emotion and passion.”

“Hmmm.” He took another inhalation then let the smoke escape his nostrils.

I shoved my hands into the deep pockets of my jeans. “I meant no disrespect. I would never talk shit about you. I just said what I honestly felt. That your comments nudged Dante into a tailspin of self-doubt.”