19. Flash Flood

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I wadded up yet another one of my sketches, tossing it on the floor with the others. A small pile of crappy designs began to form on my carpeted floor and it made my stomach sink.

I'd spent almost two hours trying to come up with designs for the fashion show. Nothing I came up with was good enough. Maybe it was the pressure of the short time-frame Coach Sanders and Principal Williams gave us when they green-lighted the show.

Apparently, Westbrook High had a booked social calendar. The only available date was in December. It was November. There was no way we could pull this off in that amount of time.

Or maybe my lack of decent ideas stemmed from the fact that I sucked at design. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't even really follow fashion. The only reason I began sewing in the first place was because I wanted a dress that was out of my parents' prince range. So, I made a duplicate myself, with a little help from Aunt Linda.

What was I thinking when I agreed to do this? Who did I think I was? The editor of fashion magazine tells me she likes my jeans and suddenly I think I can design an entire line of clothes?

Defeated, I got up from my desk, stepping over my crumpled up pile of failures and exited my room. Mom sat on the sofa in the living room, her phone pressed to her ear as housewives argued on the TV.

When I lowered myself beside her she mumbled a goodbye to the person on the other line before ending the call.

My brow raised at her suspiciously. "Who was that?"

"Oh, no one," she smiled, looking at the TV. "Just the hospital."

My lips tilted into a frown. It was Friday and she mentioned having the day off. Between my school work and now the fashion show I felt like I hadn't seen her much. "Are you going in?"

She sighed lazily. "For work, no. I'm just going in to make sure my shoulder is healing properly."

"When you're done with that and I'm done with tutoring maybe we can watch a movie?" I suggested. The whole fashion show thing was stressing me out and I needed to take a break.

"Don't you have clothes to design?"

So much for that plan.

"Yes, but..." My words trailed off as I tried to think of the right way to word my thoughts. Telling her I was in way over my head and the fashion show was going to do go down in flames might've caused her to worry.

"You're nervous?" She filled in for me.

That was a bit of an understatement. I nodded in agreement anyway, deciding against telling her about the huge weight I'd placed on my shoulders.

She reached out, clasping her hand around mine and offering up a supportive smile. "That's completely normal," she said, her voice soft and comforting. "Just keep in mind that they wouldn't have asked you to do this if they didn't have faith in you."

"They're cheerleaders. Their job is to be supportive, even if the team is losing," I retorted.

"It's not just the cheerleaders rooting for you. What about Victoria Hernandez? The editor of that fashion magazine."

My brow furrowed as I looked at her. I never told Mom about my conversation with Victoria because it was too good to be true: something that would have fizzled out before anything really came out of it. One of the most prominent names in the fashion world discovering me inside a farm-themed restaurant? Stuff like that only happened in movies or to people who weren't me.

"How'd you know about that?" I questioned.

"She called earlier when you were up in your room, hunched over your desk," she said, her brow creased with confusion. "I told you and you said to tell her you'll call her back."

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