I spread out the two fabrics side by side. The blue of the ornate lehenga fabric was the exact same heft and saturation as the plain green silk. The contrast in color really made the pattern of the fabric pop!
Somewhere I had a pattern for a fitted V-neck bodice. It took me ten minutes of rummaging in my pattern drawer to find it. I pulled my dress form to the center of the room and found a box of pins, a rotary cutter, and my heavy scissors. This could work.
“It’s genius!” said Rachel. “You’ve outdone yourself, Mini.”
I had FaceTimed Shayla and Rachel to show them the dress. I did a happy twirl and peered over my shoulder at the full-length mirror behind the door to my room. There were threads dangling from the neck, the blue tulle I’d layered lightly beneath the skirt needed to be edged, and the bottom of the concealed zipper had to be tucked and hand-stitched, but I was happy.
The firoza fabric had been transformed into the bias-cut skirt of my new dress, and the top was a fitted spearmint-green bodice with a deep V-neck, front and back. It was a neat little color-block dress that was totally made of awesome.
My room, on the other hand, looked like a disaster. It was covered in beads and sequins (from the lehenga fabric) and snippets of silk and thread too—but it was worth it.
“I agree,” Shayla said. “It’s epic!”
“It’s Masi’s fabric that makes it work,” I said. The blue fabric really was something special—all jeweled and magical and Arabian Night–ish—god knows how many hours of hand embroidery went into making a yard of it. “The rest of the dress is just a showcase for it.”
“It is,” Rachel said. “But it’s not just the skirt fabric. It has great structure, classic lines, and it fits really well. It’s outstanding, Mini. You look fantastic in it!”
“I don’t have any shoes to go with it.” I sighed.
“I think Mom just got some pumps from a sample sale. They’re that exact shade of blue and green—in your size,” Rachel said. “I bet she’ll let you borrow them.”
“You’re making my prom dress, Mini!” Shayla said. “I’m booking it now!”
“I will,” I said, covering a big yawn with one hand. I was so tired. “I owe you guys!”
“Get in bed!” Rachel said. “Zip the thing off and hang it up. You need your beauty sleep!”
And so I did.
Three days later I got dressed in the new outfit feeling like Cinderella going to the ball. I didn’t have glass slippers, but the pumps (Rachel brought them over from Turnabout) were even better.
My bag in spearmint green looked great with the dress too. Pink lips, smoky eyes, smooth hair, and the gold peacock earrings Mom had left for me in the safe-deposit box completed the look.
I was ready, or so I thought—I had no clue how crazy the evening was going to get.
“Who are you wearing?” the reporter yelled at me from behind the barricade.
This was un-believe-able. I had imagined a quiet cultured evening with slightly intimidating, snooty people. Not so, apparently!
Instead I, Mini Kapoor, was at a red-carpet event, clutching Vir’s arm with cold, panicked fingers, barely able to balance on my shoes because of nerves. It was supposed to be a concert of Indian classical music at the MIT campus. People rock up to those things in jeans. I mean, I went to the MIT SPARK and SPLASH programs here years ago.
“Argh!” Vir muttered. “I should have known.”
“Should have known what?” I asked.
“That it would be a media circus!” he said. “Anything organized by my stepmother turns into that. Somehow, I thought, since it was in Cambridge, Massachusetts, instead of Mumbai, Maharashtra, that it would be different!”
“But why’re they taking pictures of you?” I asked.
“Not me,” Vir said. “They’re taking pictures of you.”
And indeed they were.
“Is that a Mallika Motwani?” a woman’s voice said.
I was shocked enough to turn and stare at the questioner.
“It is definitely her signature lehenga fabric.” The woman pushed up her no-nonsense eyeglasses and glanced over me critically; she had a camera and a friendly grin—and a notepad. “That scalloped hem is pretty distinctive. It’s from her blue collection, isn’t it? The one she unveiled at this year’s DCW. Could you spin, please?”
I lost the deer-in-headlights stance and spun obediently, even managing a shaky smile—but I was secretly horrified. A fashion blogger who could ID Masi’s fabric! What were the odds?
“But the cut is completely different from her line,” the woman said. “She didn’t make the dress—so who did?”
“An… undiscovered local designer?” I said. It sounded lame even to me. “Thanks, we have to go in!”
“Vir, is it definitely over between you and KK?” someone yelled as we walked away.
My head snapped back. “What did he say?” I asked.
“Didn’t catch it,” Vir said. “They’re talking to someone else.”
Vir walked rapidly away from the reporters. “It does look like a Mallika Motwani,” he said. “I did see that at DCW. Not her typical style—is it? I like it.”
I stared at him in wonder. Did he say “her typical style”? Had the world gone completely mad? How the hell did Vir know about Masi’s typical style?
“What the heck is DCW?” I asked.
“Delhi Couture Week.” Vir grinned at me.
“Don’t you live in Mumbai?” I asked.
“We have a farmhouse in Delhi,” he said.
“A farmhouse? In a city?”
“Not a working farmhouse exactly. That’s just what they call it,” he said.
“Is it, like, a mansion with its own helipad or something?”
“How do you—”
“OMG, I was kidding!”
“Forget that,” Vir said. “I like Mallika, though. She’s great! She wouldn’t sell a lehenga that looked like your skirt to my stepmother—for any price!”
“Really?” I asked. Vir’s stepmother bought Masi’s clothes?
“It was really funny,” he said. “I’ve never seen
