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Chapter 1
SCARLETT
Asoftoday,Iwas six thousand five hundred forty days old. Thirty days away from turning eighteen, and for six thousand five hundred forty of those days, I have dreamed of being a fashion designer.
Okay, so maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration. It’s not like I came out of the womb drooling over the latest Marc Jacobs or anything. I did, however, fall in love with my first vintage Chanel at the age of four.
It was on a visit to my aunt in New York City where my mom and I scoured this amazing thrift shop in Soho. An hour later, they nearly lost me in the racks. From the moment I was born six weeks early to now, I’d always been petite, so it’s not like losing me in some cramped hole in the wall jammed to the brim with clothing racks and sale bins spilling with textiles was all that difficult. Still, when they discovered my tiny body hidden away in the corner, I was clutching a powder blue Chanel satchel to my chest.
My aunt snapped it up and sent it home with me.
Around seventh grade, I started thinking of my future in more tangible terms—how I could accomplish said dream. It was a year later I discovered Parsons, The New School for Design, and I knew. It was my destiny. The stepladder to my dreams. So many of the “bigs” had gone there before me—Marc Jacobs, Donna Karan, Tom Ford, Alexander Wang, Anna Sui. And soon enough, my name, Scarlett Rees, would be among the ranks. Hello, New York City; goodbye Lakeview, Virginia.
The noxious sound of the customer clearing her throat brought me back to the present, and I sighed, wistfully pining for my future as I quickly filled a pastry box with a dozen cookies, then handed them over. There were a lot of things I’d miss when I left for school next fall. My best friend Penelope and my family were definitely at the top of my list. Working at Batter and Bake, my parent’s bakery, was not one of them.
“I hope you have a super sweet day,” I said, plastering on a smile as the woman I dubbed Cranky Lady took her cookies. The minute her back was turned, my smile dropped, and I unscrewed my face. It had taken her nearly thirty minutes and a multitude of insults on the desirability of the remaining pastries before she’d settled on a purchase.
“Hey, do you have anything else for the sample tray?” a rumbly voice asked.
I glanced over at Topher, who hovered by the glass cases and the now-empty sample platter. Ever since he and Penelope became a couple, I’d gotten used to him hanging around. And it wasn’t so bad. Topher was actually pretty cool, despite the fact that he used to be a Royal, one of Lakeview Prep’s elite. But now he was kind of . . . well, let’s just say the blurred lines of where he fit in were much harder to define these days. And his near-constant presence was great as long as I didn’t mind feeling like a third-wheel. Which I didn’t. Most days.
“Did you eateverythingon there already?” I asked.
“It wasn’t me,” P raised her hands, then pointed. “It was him. He’s like a human garbage disposal.”
“Hey,” he said around a mouthful of crumbs of what appeared to be the last of the coffee cake samples. “I went for a swim this morning. You know how hungry that makes me.”
Penelope rolled her eyes, but when he wrapped his arms around her from behind, her expression softened, and she glanced back to kiss him on the cheek.
Ah, young love.
Must be nice.
I wouldn’t know.
“I’ll get you more.” I turned away and headed behind the glass display cases, mostly in an effort to feed Topher, but also to avoid watching the PDA I’d been witness to all afternoon.
I grabbed the sample tray, then picked up the pastry tongs behind the counter and swiped a couple lemon bars and chocolate chip cookies from the display, then closed it again. Much more and we’d sell out for the day, which meant I could close up early.
Hallelujah.
I started to cut the treats into bite-sized pieces when a dry hacking sound burst from the front of the shop.
My head jerked up in alarm and I scanned the room. My vision blurred past the chalk-white walls with colorful prints to the source of the sound. Cranky Lady sat at the little bistro table, hands wrapped around her throat, mouth open in a round O.
A sputtering noise gurgled from her chest while her face slowly turned an odd shade of purple.
“Oh my god, she’s choking,” Penelope yelled.
I didn’t think, didn’t even hesitate. My feet moved. I sprinted around the counter toward the woman whose face now resembled a blueberry and wrapped my arms around her body. I placed my knotted hands below her sternum and thrust upward with all my might, thinking how sad it was that this was the most action I’d gotten all year—possibly all of my high school career.
Thrust. Thrust.
Sweat beaded my brow. Time slowed as my mind raced.
I’d never performed the Heimlich on a real live person before, and I prayed to God I was doing it right while silently thanking our seventh-grade health teacher. Turned out she was right. Apparently, some things we learned in school would come in handy.
My heart pounded; adrenaline flooded my veins.
