Page 49 of Under the Shade of the Sycamore

Broken hearts were a medical condition I guess. God knows mine had been paining me for days now. “We wish him a speedy recovery. Yes, yes, our director is tapping his watch. I do tend to talk too much I know. Let’s get our designers out here shall we?”

Our names were called, one by one, to wave, bow, and smile before being sent backstage to supervise the models. Which was where we belonged.

We’d drawn straws – actually they were numbered bobbins in a hat box - days ago to set up who went when. For the ready to wear section I was second. For the red carpet this evening I was last. Closing a show could be bad, or it could be good, it all depended on the wow factor of the clothes. I’d poured my fucking heart, soul, tears, sweat, and whatever else I owned into my final designs. I prayed they would be good enough. Right now some divine intervention and some Alka-Seltzer were all I needed. Tomorrow my needs would be vastly different one way or the other…

***

Nighttime in Paris was magical.

Nighttime with the Eiffel Tower behind you and your clothes being walked under the lighted tower is beyond anything a young guy from North Dakota could have dreamed.

Closing the show was working well for me. I felt the judges had enjoyed my ready to wear looks if one could make assumptions on four people with no expressions. It was the vibe I’d told Mickey after the day show had wrapped and we’d been whisked up the tower to sip champagne, take photos, and do even more confessionals. Looking out over Paris, my nose tickled by find bubbly, I felt the pull of France – and this city – in the depths of my being. I didn’t want to leave. Ever. As my final piece was strutted to perfection by Monique I watched with a mixture of pride in my accomplishment and abject fear of losing.

Losing would mean going home with my Mom in two days. Never coming back. Never seeing Claude again. Never getting out of the fucking feed mill…

No, no. Nothing but positive vibes. The energy you sent out you got back tenfold Ivy always told me when I grew dour. Watching the sixties look inspired by that memory of my parents I knew I’d done the best I could and now it was all in the hands of the judges. Enzo and Zara had shown well. Mickey’s designs had been exceptional. He was my biggest competitor. When my Jackie O dress disappeared into the darkness I threw my head up, patted my father’s hat into place, and made my designers bow walk hand in hand with Monique. The guests stood to applaud my clothes but they’d done the same for the other designers. Still it felt good to see world famous designers clapping for my work. Even if it were merely being polite I’d take it.

There was a cut in the filming as we shared hugs with our models. A commercial cut I called it where they would slip in ads before returning to the show. I gave each of my models a kiss on their cheek and glowing compliments. There would be no show without the women and men exhibiting our clothes on the catwalk.

“Designers to the stage for final judging,” Camilo shouted as he darted around sound crew and cables stretched out like snakes writhing around in a mating frenzy. “You all did amazing. Seriously, I could not pick a winner. The judges will be hard pressed.”

We shook his hand before stepping out onto the runway. The judges we had come to know and like so well – even if they were harsh at times – all nodded at us as we took our place side-by-side.

“Welcome back designers,” Soline said, her evening gown of soft silver glistening in the lights shining down on us. The crowd applauded politely as we murmured a weak hellos. “You four made this decision very difficult. Each of you brought us clothes that were incredibly lovely. Your ready to wear collections were young, hip, and elegant. The red carpet looks were to die for. Honestly, I saw four gowns that made my little heart falter as I gazed on their beauty!”

The gathered guests laughed as did the other judges. “It was a close call for the paramedics but I pulled through. But you are not sweating bullets to listen to me gush about your clothes.”

“We don’t mind,” Mickey chimed up, always the chatterbox. Everyone laughed.

“No, I suppose not,” Soline smiled. “Still there is a party at the L’Éclipse Dorée to attend afterwards, plus a little thing like your futures so I will stop blabbering. The four of us have tallied the scores of your six designs, taking the totals for your day looks and your red carpet looks then adding any extra points we may award for excellence in hair, makeup, and accessories. In the event of a tie the final decision would have been made by me but, Dieu merci, there was no tie.” She was stretching this out on purpose. If one of us died from the wait it would be on her dark head. “The winner of season one of Étoiles de Style is…” another long dramatic gap as we all sweated through our shorts. “Mickey Blake! Second place is Kinder Graham. Third to Enzo Piras and fourth to Zara Akello.”

I sucked in a sharp breath of disappointment before making sure to plaster on a smile as Mickey leaped into the air in joy. Enzo, Zara, and I clapped as did everyone else in attendance. Looking out at the crowd even my mother was applauding but her sad eyes were on me. I blew her a kiss to say it was okay even though it very much wasn’t okay at all.

The losers were escorted offstage while Mickey was given a big fake check, a handshake from Carlton along with a frilly decorative plaque with his name engraved on it as a new student at the Barrons Academie.

Things were kind of blurry after that. There was a fucking confessional to tape in the privacy of a small trailer where I did my best to not be too shitty and sour. Being able to hug it out with Mom before having a camera shoved in my face had helped. Nothing eased the pain of a loss better than a mother’s arms. It still hurt but not quite so deeply. Mom met me amid a crowded swatch of trailers that were already being hooked to trucks to haul away. It was truly all over and done with.

“Kinder,” she cooed as I gathered her into my arms.

“I let Dad down,” I coughed out as I buried my face into her shoulder. Even with a foot of height on her she was and would always be the strongest. Tears I’d been holding back escaped.

“Nonsense, oh honey, that’s not at all true.” She pulled back to look at me. I turned away. “Kinder, look at me. Look at me, baby.” So I did. More tears rolled down my cheek/ She reached up to straighten the old hat atop my head. “I was wondering where this got to when I was looking for dressy clothes to bring to Paris.”

“I let him and the hat down,” I whispered amid the beeping of trucks and the shouts of crew members.

She gave the hat a firm tug. “You did no such thing. Your father is incredibly proud of you. He always was and always will be. You did you very best. The homage to us on that night so long ago…well, it made me cry. Dad would have too if he had been here. Never doubt that we’re incredibly overjoyed and thrilled with your growth and talents. You showed such dedication and worked so hard. How could we be anything but proud. And you should be as well. What you’ve accomplished without having a degree is beyond impressive. This is just the beginning, honey. Your world will be a different place tomorrow I just know it.”

“I love you so much,” I tearfully confessed before hugging her to me once more.

“And I love you. Okay. Phew. Good. Yes, we’re good. Yes?” I nodded. “Good. Okay I will meet you at the club. That lovely Camilo arranged a limo for the family. A limo! Can you imagine me in a limo?!”

Yeah, I could. And I had so wanted to gift her that kind of ride for the rest of her life. Ugh, losing wasn’t fun at all. I handed her over to Camilo who was gathering other family members just as he had us for weeks.

The three runners-up were whisked away from the Eiffel Tower to a nightclub deep in the dark bowels of the city. Once inside we were swallowed up by media people, famous stars and starlets, and the judges. I found my mother seated at a table with the other family members on the second floor of the club. Fiber optic stars rotated around on the ceiling as French dance music throbbed through the marrow of my bones.

I dropped down beside Mom, nodding politely at the other family members as they greeted their melancholy offspring.

“Honey, you did great,” Mom said for the tenth time. “What an experience! We’ll talk about Paris forever.” She gave me a stout side then whispered into my ear. “They said bottle service here starts at fifteen hundred Euros. Does that mean every bottle of bubbly they open costs fifteen hundred Euros?”