1
Caitlin
* * *
A loud knock draws me from my sketches.
“Come in,” I say reluctantly, already knowing who’s on the other side.
My stepmother saunters in the room and perches herself behind me, looking over my shoulder at my designs. Her age is beginning to show, but Fiona’s always known how to take care of herself. Her make-up is subtle and her blonde hair is swept into an elegant coif. Unfortunately, her personality is really lacking, especially when it comes to me.
“Why are you bothering with these silly drawings?” she asks, looking down that pointy nose at me. “Do you actually think this is good?” Then, she sweeps her arm carelessly over my desk and the designs float like leaves onto the floor. “There. That’s where those horrific drawings belong.”
I take a deep breath, trying to keep my cool, even as my heart races.
“Are you here for a reason, Fiona? I’m really busy, actually.”
She sniggers.
“Is that any way to speak to your dear stepmother?”
I don’t respond because I’m used to Fiona’s nasty attitude. Once she leaves my bedroom, I’ll pick up my sketches and get back to work. After all, I’ve learned not to listen to her feedback. My stepmom may tell me I’m terrible, but that won’t stop me from working towards my fashion design dreams.
“Of course, you’re silent like a deaf-mute. This is so typical, Caitlin. What an ungrateful little brat. I wish your father’s death hadn’t saddled me with the likes of you.”
Fiona continues on her rant, but I tune her out. Instead, I look at her like I’m listening, but my ears hear nothing. My stepmother is pretty, there’s no denying it. She’s tall with a wispy frame, and probably could have been a model back in her younger years. Even with the fine lines around her eyes and mouth, she’s still very attractive with her spun-gold hair.
But really, Fiona’s chances of being in front of a camera are non-existent because of her poor personality. Who wants to work with someone who’s always spewing epithets and being nasty? Moreover, Fiona’s burned every bridge that could have led to a modeling career. She snaps at everyone, right and left, and never seems to be in a good mood. However, now my stepmother has these ideas that she’s going to be a fashion designer; that is, as soon as she saves enough money to quit her job as a bank teller.
I have to give her credit: even though she has a full-time job at Apple Bank, Fiona does design, and even cut and sew sometimes in her free time. The problem is that her stuff isn’t great. Often, the seams are crooked and the sleeves don’t fit right. I’ve seen her trash a few of her creations in frustration because they’re obviously not very good, even to the untrained eye.
But some of the designs turn out okay, and you’d think that at the very least, Fiona would wear her own creations. But that’s not my stepmother’s way. Instead, she spends all her money buying clothes by famous fashion houses like Chanel and Saint Laurent. She loves designer duds, and frankly, the flashier, the better.
Today, she’s wearing Valentino. The dress does nothing for her thin figure and frankly, looks like fabric draped over a twig. Why does she think this puce color looks good, anyways? I swear, if Fiona dressed down a bit, she’d appear a lot more beautiful.
But apparently, my stepmother is clueless. I have no idea how she’ll succeed as a fashion designer when her own clothes are so bad, but hey, it’s not my job to teach her. If she thinks poorly cut garments, hanging threads, and crooked seams are the key, then more power to her.
Meanwhile, my stepmother rips into me again.
“What a fucking ungrateful brat. I’m trying to offer you constructive criticism on your designs and you never listen, Caitlin. You’ll never get anywhere in the design world unless I help you, but you can’t even hear my words. Seriously, you should win an Oscar for your deaf-mute act.”
I manage to keep my expression still.
“No, I’m just thinking,” I say in an even tone. “But I’m really busy right now, Fiona. Can we talk later?”
My stepmom sniggers again.
“You have no talent, so there’s nothing to talk about!” Then, she sweeps out of the room, the door banging shut behind her. My shoulders sag with relief as the tension exits my body, but the truth is that sometimes I worry Fiona is right. What if I actually suck? It’s not like I’ve made huge amounts of progress with my own fashion line, so I’m hardly one to talk.
I’ll die before I ask Fiona for help, though. That’s out of the question.
I glance at the sketches on the ground. They’re good, and I know it. I made them for a blog I run, and I have a few followers. Evidently fashion aficionados are interested in the entire creative process, so they like to see my designs even if they’re only on paper. I’d love to be able to make these dreams real, however. I’d love to have physical goods for women to try on, instead of only seeing my ideas in 2-D.