Page 4 of Under the Shade of the Sycamore

This competition isn’t just an opportunity for me; it’s the moment I’ve been preparing for my entire life. I’m hungry, I’m original, and I know I can stand next to established designers and hold my own if given a chance. I’m not here to blend in. I’m here to leave a mark. Now to show you some of my fashions.”

I stepped aside and cued up FKA twigs “Glass and Patron” then cranked up the volume.

The four of them stomped the runway as if they were modeling the latest from Christian Siriano. Even the twins hit the pivot turn with such precision and flair I swore I was watching smaller versions of Tyra Banks. The clothes took center stage, the fits were precise, and the shot little runway ended with an explosion of confetti that we’d be vacuuming up for weeks.

Once the video was paused we all had a moment of sheer chaotic glee. Hugs, praise, and cheeks kisses were shared before the reality of the next step arrived on a warm gust through the open windows.

“Let me edit it down a little,” Ivy said after we rewatched it. “It’s a little longer than the requirements asked for. We can trim things.” She bounced off with the twins to change. Mom pulled me into the kitchen, still in her pale green running shorts and spandex tank top. “I have something for you. I don’t want you to argue, okay. This is something I’ve been saving for ever since you had to turn down FIT.”

“Mom…”

“Nope. No arguing.” She went to her toes to pluck a small metal tin that held flavored tea bags no one other than Mrs. Lickman from downstairs drank when she came up for a visit on Saturday afternoon. She turned to face me, pride the lid off, then pulled out a small, tight roll of bills.

“Mom…”

“Kinder I insist.” She pressed the money into my chest as I shook my head. “Kinder, do not make me use my angry mother voice. Take it. This will cover the fee for the passport you’ll need to fly to Paris.”

“Mom, I might not make the cut.” My hands hung at my sides. She pushed a little harder. Not enough to hurt but enough to make me feel it.

“You will. And if you don’t then you’ll have your passport for later. When you hit it big and need to fly around the world with your clothes to all those fancy shows.” I opened my mouth. Her dark eyes grew serious. “Kinder, don’t fritter away a chance like this out of your sense of family devotion. We all want you to go. We want you to win this contest, to follow your dreams, to soar. Your sisters will learn so much from you as they see you persevere to succeed. They’ll see that if you dream something you fight and claw to make any dream a reality. What better lesson can a big brother teach his little sisters than that?”

I blinked away the tears that were threatening. “This could pay for so much…”

“Honey, it’s paying for your chance to shine. Nothing is more important to a parent than giving their child that chance. Now take it. Don’t make me use your middle name.”

I choked out a soft gruff laugh then pulled her in for a hug. When we broke apart I took the money from her. It felt wrong. She’d worked double shifts for months just to squirrel this away for me. It felt greedy.

“I’ll repay you. I promise. If I don’t get picked I’ll grab a second job or something to repay—”

“Your happiness is all the repayment I need.” She gave my cheek a pat. The thunder of the twins and Ivy racing down the hall to dive into the celebratory chips, dips, and cold cans of sugary soda filled the small apartment. Someday I’d pay her back tenfold. That was a vow I made to myself and my father who was watching his boy with what I hoped was pride.

***

Meetings with Lonnie were usually short.

My boss wasn’t keen on me. I didn’t like him. Whenever we had things to share it was relayed with as little contact as possible. I still thought he assumed if he spent too much time with me he would get contact gayness. Or perhaps he was worried he might actually learn to like a queer person and wouldn’t that just turn his little hateful world on its flappy ear? Me going to him rarely happened but my mother had been harping on me for three weeks now to let Lonnie know I might be taking a long vacation from work. With the audition video surely in the hands of the producers of Étoiles de Style – it had been twenty-one days since Ivy had shown me the final cut then sent it off with a shout of merriment – Mom felt it was only professional to let Lonnie know ahead of the August 1 announcement on the shows new website. Every time I went to the webpage my gut clenched. And not only because it showed a glorious image of Claude outside his school but because I might maybe possibly could be standing on that street in Paris in a month.

Which was…yeah, dream come true but right now I was standing outside Lonnie’s office door coated with sweat and feed dust. Squaring my shoulders I knocked. He barked out a reply to enter so I slipped in, quickly closing the door to keep the cool air from the only air conditioner at the mill inside his personal space.

“Graham. Did you get the order for Millard Timony bagged and ready for pickup.”

“I did. It’s on the loading dock.”

“Good.” And there we were, two men who would rather be run through the roller mill to be ground into chicken feed than making conversation.

“I needed to talk to you about something,” I said and got a skeptical look. Like he couldn’t begin to grasp what I could possibly have to say to him. “I might need four to six weeks off in September.”

He blinked pale blue eyes. “You planning on getting sick?”

“No, I’ve auditioned for a television reality show set in Paris and I might need that time off to fly over to shoot the show.”

His lips quirked. “A tv show. In Paris.” The chuckle broke free. The asshole.

“Yeah, a fashion design show.”

“Right, of course.” He sat back to rest his hands on his big gut. It had been many years since Lonnie had worked the docks. Carrying hundred pound feed bags kept a man slim, toned, and strong. Lonnie was none of those three now. “A fashion show. In gay Paree. Why am I not surprised?”

I bit down on the inside of my cheek. “Right, Paris. Shooting could run—”