Page 3 of Dropping the Ball

“She said she owed us a favor for signing her as the spokesperson for Copperhead Boots.” That was the first and most iconic Armstrong brand, started over a hundred years ago.

“We probably shouldn’t tell her that she’s the one who did us a favor,” I say.

“Exactly. Let’s see . . . what else. Oh, do you remember the gala theme?”

“Discovery,” I say. It’s supposed to be Met Gala meets Austin, but Madison wants it to focus on a different area of fashion industry reform each year. Except make it glam. This year, guests’ gowns must be by designers from underrepresented markets.

“Yes, and you already picked your designer, right? Wouldn’t want you stuck in something off the rack,” she says, smirking.

We buy off the rack, of course. They’re just very expensive racks. Is it pretentious? Maybe. But it’s mostly the consequence of growing up in fashion.

“I went with Maheen too,” I say. Maheen Sultana is the Bangladeshi designer Madison and Mom had chosen. “Keep it in the family and all. She took my measurements when I was in Dhaka, and we did a pattern fitting before I left. She’ll come up a month early to do fittings for you and Mom.”

“Good, because I have no idea what size I’ll be in three months for the gala.” She rubs her belly again. “All our other spotlight designers are booked for couture dresses too.”

“Love it.” It means so much income and exposure for them. Couture dresses are handcrafted, taking anywhere from a hundred hours for simpler pieces to thousands of hours for a royal wedding gown. (When we went to Givenchy for one of mysorority formals, the designer who did Meghan Markle’s dress told us the train alone took five hundred hours.) Maheen had a small team of tailors and seamstresses working on my dress, all of them being paid from the ten thousand dollars I would have spent on a couture gown in Paris. “You mainly want me to focus on the silent auction?”

Madison nods. “And this is where your house enters the picture. The architect for the gala also makes upcycled custom furniture, and—”

“Madison, I don’t want to live in an arts-and-crafts project.”

“Baby sister, I amoffended,” she says. “As if I would ever suggest that for your fancy-pants sensibilities. It’s not what you’re picturing. This guy’s thing is reducing construction waste, so he reclaims things like wood and tile from construction demolitions to repurpose them into new pieces. You’ll understand when you see it, but his aesthetic is exactly right for your house. So congratulations on having a date with me to check out his showroom on Saturday.”

“I don’t have time—”

“You never do,” she says. “Yet when have I lost one of these arguments?”

I look at her like she’s grown a second head.

She is currently growing a second head, technically.

“You lose at least half the time,” I say. We’re equally stubborn.

“Let me rephrase. When have I lost one of these arguments since I’ve been pregnant?” As if she can sense another objection coming, she changes strategy. “I want to spend time with you while I still can. Let me do your house.”

I snort. “You’re having a kid, not defecting to North Korea.”

“My dearly beloved only sister, I am nesting. I have done everything I can in our house, and Oliver might short-circuit if I make one more change. Your place is the perfect project for me before I push this watermelon out of my—”

“Fine!” I shake my head, unable to fight a smile. If I’m going to carve out free time for anyone, it’s Madison. “Yes, you transparent puppeteer, you can do my house. I’ll go with you on Saturday.”

And that’s how I end up in Micah Croft’s showroom, staring at the pecs. The Pecs.The Pecs.

Chapter Three

Kaitlyn

I struggle to findmy composure as I stand here in front of Micah Croft. No luck, so I fake it by offering him a smile.

Had Madison sneezed when we walked out of her house today? I learned about a Bengali superstition in Bangladesh this summer that sneezing when someone walks out of the house brings bad luck. Running into Micah, unprepared, is the worst luck I’ve had in ages.

“Hello, Micah.” I can’t fake my emotions, but I’m a pro at hiding them. I’m sure my face shows about as much life as my bare walls do. Curse those bare walls and this moment they’ve led me to.

“You know each other.” Madison acts like I’ve just won a jackpot, not run into a former classmate after several years.

“Micah was the valedictorian of my class,” I say. “We go way back.”

Madison’s eyes widen for a split second. She’d been out of the house for three years by the time I graduated, but even she had heard my furious rants about having to settle for salutatorian atthe last minute. She keeps her smile in place. “I didn’t realize you went to Hillview, Micah.”

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