The Allegra Biscotti Collection

shoot happen. All best, AB

Emma felt herself drifting that afternoon, mentally afloat, as she sketched madly in the margins of her world history notebook. Sheer, flowing tunics. A braided vine-like belt. Ms. Lyons’s words on Athens and ancient Greece flicked in and out, background noise serving only to add to design inspiration. A toga dress with gladiator sandals.

Suddenly, she noticed Jackson Creedon looking at her across the classroom with a strange expression on his face. She bolted to attention. Why is Jackson looking at me? He never looks at me! Then it hit her. She had been staring at him for the last five—God, was it ten?—minutes without even knowing it.

Her eyes grew wide. This was beyond mortifying. She quickly lurched back in her chair, pulling her textbook up to mask her face, which felt as if she’d baked it in the oven. Her hot pink hoodie knocked the strap from her messenger bag, and, as if in slow motion, the bag slid off the back of her chair. She lunged to catch it.

Too late! Fashion magazines flagged with dozens of Post-It Notes spilled out around her chair. A dozen random antique-coin buttons clanked and skittered in all directions across the linoleum floor. But worst of all, her sketchbook landed spine down, open to the page of Jackson in her redesigned soccer uniform.

The teacher stopped talking. Emma could feel everyone’s eyes on her. She had to get that sketchbook before Jackson—or anyone else—saw her drawings!

Emma hurled herself to the floor. She dove for her sketchbook and slapped it shut, shoving it deep inside the bag. Crawling on hands and knees, she grabbed at buttons right and left. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed something shiny near Jackson’s sneaker. A button. One of her buttons was sitting inches away from his foot! There’s no way I’m going over there, she vowed as she scrambled around scooping up the other buttons.

Finally she had all but one of them clutched in her fists. She spun around to clamber back to her desk. Just then, a closed hand thrust toward her and slowly opened to reveal the renegade button. It was Jackson’s hand. He carefully placed the shiny silver button in her open palm. It was still warm from his touch.

“Thanks,” Emma said. As she stood up, she sneaked a peek at his face. Maybe it was the post-traumatic stress of the whole embarrassing incident distorting her vision, but maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t imagining that Jackson was smiling at her.

She tucked the Jackson button into a small zipped pocket of her messenger bag for safekeeping. If she was ever going to use it, it would be on something super-special.

Emma jogged up the subway stairs and inhaled deeply when she reached the street. The sun was shining; the sky was azure blue; the air was crisp; the boy she liked had smiled at her and she had a button to prove it…and the stoplight was red, meaning that she could cross 34th Street. What a great day, she thought, practically skipping across the crosswalk and dancing around people who didn’t seem to notice or appreciate the amazing-ness of the afternoon. She leaped onto the curb and strolled up Fashion Avenue, humming and smiling.

Then her cell buzzed with a new text.

Ms. Biscotti: I need 3 brand-new pieces 4 Spring season @ Madison offices by Mon 11/2 4 the photo shoot. Pls confirm that’s doable 4 u. Thx. Ciao, Paige Young

Emma stopped, confused. Three new pieces…for the spring season?

Minutes later, she sprinted back to her studio, barely waving to Marjorie. She threw down her school bag and lunged for the garment rack where her finished—or in some cases, temporarily abandoned—designs hung.

Let’s see. There must be something here I could use that would be right for spring, Emma thought. She was much more adventurous with her original fashion designs than with the outfits she wore to school. It was easier to design for fantasy people whose lives were definitely far more exciting, dynamic, and glamorous than hers.

The two dresses she just finished were on the front of the rack. Too bad Paige had seen them already and now owned one that looked a lot like the pineapple-colored dress because they would’ve been perfect.

She loved the off-white cotton-linen corset dress she’d made during the summer, but somehow it didn’t feel special enough for Madison. The dusty rose and white geometric-print silk jersey dress would’ve been great, but she messed up the ruching big time. It was all bunched up and uneven in the back. There was no fixing that.

She could try finishing the fire-engine red coat that she constructed with her grandmother last spring, but hand-sewing all that embroidery on the collar and oversized cuffs could take two weeks alone. The only other thing she had was a Chanel-like sheath dress, but she’d made it in black wool tweed. Hardly springy.

The truth suddenly became crystal clear.

I’m going to have to make three new pieces…from scratch.

After dinner that night, Emma sat on her bed, surveying the chaos she had created. She’d ransacked her room looking for design ideas in every old sketchbook. Thousands of sketches, and nothing seemed cutting edge enough. She flipped through her work again. Party dresses with flirty hems and playful beadwork. Leather pants that fit like a second skin. Short skirts with hundreds of pleats. Long, flowy tunics with funky necklines.

Do I even know how to make half of this stuff? she wondered. Sketching is one thing. Constructing a few cute dresses is still basically one thing. But three perfectly finished pieces that work together like they’re part of a collection? How am I going to pull that off—alone and in two weeks?

Emma’s bedroom door swung open. William.

“What happened to your hand? Forget how to knock?” Emma said. Honestly, she didn’t know whether she was annoyed that he had interrupted her…or the teeniest bit relieved to have the unexpected distraction.

“Why should I bother knocking? It’s not like you’d let me in anyway,” William replied with a shrug.

“True but so not the point,” Emma warned. She was just about to kick him out when she had an idea. “Hey, since you’re here, maybe you could make yourself useful.”

William’s face lit up. “Really? I mean, sure, whatever.”

“Come in and sit.” She cleared off a tiny spot for him to perch at the end of her bed. Emma held up sketches of two different dresses to show William: one a fuchsia strapless tiered-ruffle mini, and the other a long-sleeved subtle A-line black one with leopard-print collar, cuffs, and pockets. “Which one do you like better: this one or this one?”

He scrunched up his face and then pointed to the strapless mini.

“Hmm. Okay, good.” She put down those sketchbooks and picked up two more, flipping to a drawing of an updated opera coat with three-quarter-length sleeves and big rhinestone buttons and shimmery trim, and another of a short-cropped gold jacket with bracelet-length sleeves and graffiti-like multicolored embroidery on the back. “This one or that one?”

“That one!” he said more enthusiastically this time, tapping the sketch of the cropped jacket with his fingers.

“All right…” Emma shuffled sketchbooks again and held up two more. “How about this”—swingy, wide-legged raw silk trousers in a cobalt blue—“or this?”—black satin skinny pants with zippers and studs and a baby-pink silk ribbon belt.

“This one!” He pointed at the wide-legged trousers, bouncing up and down on the bed.

Hey, this is actually good, Emma thought. He was helping narrow down some of her options.

“Now let’s go back to the beginning,” she said, reaching for the first sketches she showed him. “Why did you choose the strapless minidress over the leopard-print one?”

He blinked at her a few times.

“You don’t have to use any fancy fashion terms,” she explained. “Just tell me what you like about this dress in your own words. The color? The shape? A certain detail?”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to have a reason.” He shrugged and smirked. “I just kept going back and forth between what was in your left hand and what was in your right.”

“Out!” Emma screamed. She couldn’t believe he lured her into his little game. “Get out of here.”