Passion for Fashion. Coleen McLoughlin
and the music pumping. I could also hear Summer sniggering, but I ignored that. I just pictured her as a horse with a bridle around her head and kept going.
“Great,” said Miss O’Neill, ticking her clipboard.
“I can do it?” I said, hardly daring to believe my luck. “Really, Miss?”
“Yes, really.” Miss O’Neill smiled. “Mel? You’re next.”
Choirs of angels were singing in my head. I was going to be a model and get to wear some super-cool clothes! I stood and grinned as Mel grooved down the imaginary catwalk, fluttering her arms at her sides like a little bird.
“Terrific,” said Miss O’Neill, as Summer and her mates groaned pathetically.
“I’m in!” Lucy squealed, running up to us all pink and breathless. “Miss Rodriguez said I was great! There’s going to be a band with backing singers, and I’m one of them!”
“And Mel and me are models!” I yelled back delightedly.
This fashion show was going to be the event of the decade!
It was pretty hard to concentrate on anything else for the rest of the day. Maths passed in a blur. The only thing I remember about it was Mr Hughes telling me off for sketching dresses in the margin of my maths book. (Hello? Working out the proportions of bust to waist to hips is totally about fractions.)
It’s not exactly a secret, but I’ve always wanted to work in fashion – not necessarily as a model, more on the design side. To create something original for someone to wear, that will make that someone feel a million dollars – that would be serious job satisfaction.
“Mum!” I yelled, running through the front door at full speed after school that afternoon. “Dad! Guess what!”
Dad put his head round the living-room door. “Let me see,” he said, doing one of his comedy frowns. “You’ve invented a device that brushes your teeth and your hair at the same time?”
Dad always says stupid stuff like that. But right now I was too excited to wind him up about it. “I’m going to be a model,” I said happily.
“I thought models had to be about ten feet tall,” said Dad in surprise. “And be older than twelve. You’re neither of those things, Coleen.”
I groaned. “Not like a proper Vogue model, Dad. A model in our school fashion show!”
“Who’s going to be a model?” said Mum, coming in the front door with Em.
“Me,” said Dad. He struck a stupid pose in the hallway. “I’ve always thought I had the nose for it.”
I fell over my words in my eagerness to tell Mum and Em my news.
“Fashion,” Em groaned, like it was the most boring subject in the world. She took off her crumpled jacket and slung it over the end of the stairs. It immediately slithered off and landed in a heap on the carpet.
“Thinking a bit about fashion wouldn’t kill you, Em,” I said, picking up her jacket and twirling it between my fingers. “You might learn that the dishcloth jacket is not a good look.”
“That’s terrific, Coleen,” said Mum warmly, putting her arm around me. “Well done. So what are you wearing?”
“There’s loads of stuff to do before we know that, Mum,” I said as we all went into the kitchen together. “We’ve got to work out a theme for the show, and write to all the boutiques in town to see if they’ll take part. Then there’s set design and music and scripts to write and learn. It’s not just about the clothes.”
“Scripts?” said Dad. “Since when do models talk?”
“Each section has to be introduced,” I said. “Our homework is to come up with a theme, and then argue it in front of the class next week. I’ve been thinking about it all day and I’ve come up with the best theme ever. I hope Miss O’Neill chooses it.”
“What is your fashion theme?” Em asked, doing silly quotey fingers around the “F” word.
Em should know by now that asking me to talk about fashion is always a mistake. You want me to talk? I’ll talk. And talk and talk and talk until your ears are ringing. And then I’ll talk some more.
“Time,” I said grandly.
“That’s a pretty big theme, Coleen…” Mum started.
“Dawn, morning, afternoon, dusk, evening, night,” I rushed on. “It’s perfect, and dead flexible. We can have misty-type dresses for dawn, maybe some sunrise colours for morning. Afternoon can be cool summer outfits in the blues of the summer sky. Dusk can be all moths and that.”
“Moths and that,” Dad repeated.
“Fluttery grey and black cobwebby stuff,” I explained.
“Plenty of that in the corners of your bedroom ceiling, Coleen,” Mum murmured from behind her cup of tea.
“Evening will be all glitter and sequins, and night could be…” I stopped. I hadn’t exactly worked out night.
“Duvets?” Dad suggested.
“Da…ad!” I wailed, pushing him as Mum and Em started laughing. “You never take me seriously!”
“Believe me, Col,” said Dad with a grin, “I do.”
He gathered me in and kissed me on the top of my head.
It’s hard to stay mad at him when he does that.
“Whatever you come up with,” Dad said as he released me, “we’ll all be in the front row of this fashion show, cheering you on. But promise me something.”
He looked so serious that I felt worried for a moment. “What?” I asked.
Dad’s eyes twinkled. “Promise you won’t forget your poor old dad when you get famous.”
I laughed, relieved. “Don’t be daft,” I said. “But you know what I’d really like?”
“A palace with a garden full of cantering white ponies,” said Dad promptly.
Em giggled.
“I’d really like to design the clothes as well as model them,” I said in a rush. “That would be…” I stopped because I couldn’t think of a word gorgeous enough.
“I think you might actually explode with excitement if you did that,” said Dad. “So maybe it’s not such a good idea. I don’t fancy sweeping up the bits.”
“Gross, Dad!” Em squealed.
“Who’s for a chocolate biscuit?” Mum said, flipping the kettle on for another cup of tea and reaching into the cupboard to take out the biscuit barrel.
“Me!” Em and I both shouted at the same time, pouncing on the tin.
“I don’t think so, Col,” said Em cheekily, snatching my biscuit and stuffing her face with it. “Chocolate is sooo bad for a model’s figure…”
That night, my dreams were full of rainbow silks and sequinned ribbons. For once, I couldn’t wait to pull on my uniform and run for the bus.
A huge black four-by-four roared up the road past me, choking me with the stink of petrol fumes. Coughing, I looked up to see Summer Collins’ stupid face grinning at me out of the tinted back window. Summer’s dad always drove her to school, like maybe his baby’s legs weren’t up to running for the bus like the rest of us.
What if Summer Collins gets to model all the cool stuff in the show and you get something tacky? a sneaky little voice whispered in my mind.
Coleen, I said firmly to myself, drowning out the sneaky voice, when it comes down to it, you will get something great to wear. And even if you don’t,