Page 11 of Silent Comrade
“All right, darling.” Tachi leaned a hip onthe counter and tilted her head. “Then what can I do to help? Kicka boy’s butt? Cheerlead? Ply you with alcohol? What?”
“How about let’s burn off some steamtonight? Dancing!”
Tachi’s mouth drooped. “Can’t. Have towork.” She leaned back against the counter, her long legs taking upthe scarce room in the kitchen area. “Need the tips from the pole,or my part of the rent and the monthly student loan payment isn’tgoing to happen. Slave to the grind, so to speak.”
A giggle burst from Britt. Her friend rakedin good money. “Sounds fair. I should work on my collectionanyway.”
Tachi didn’t meet her eyes. “Got your modelslined up?”
“Yes. And for the millionth time, it’s teenfashion. Don’t get all bent out of shape. You’re not exactly asixteen-year-old’s image of … well, actually, youareasixteen-year-old’s dream. But the theme isn’t ‘excited teenagers.’It’s more about teen confidence.”
Tachi waved her buff nails. “Sure, sure. Youcouldn’t afford my fees anyway.”
****
After a not-so-exciting afternoon class onmarketing, without the new guy in attendance, Britt spent severallong hours in the fashion lab. Her corner table sat away frommurmuring classmates, near a window. Her little nook was surroundedby forms draped with various fabrics. Pins winked on severaloutfits. Britt rolled her shoulders as she scooted the stool up tothe table so she could guide material through the foot of theSinger. The sewing machine chugged along, dropping straight seamsinto the fabric. The rhythmic noise was mind-numbing, butsatisfying. It felt good to bring a concept to life with her owntwo hands.
Pacing the work space, she added new ideasto the project board and adjusted the order of the show. She builtthe theme in a more organic manner. The first two models wouldstart out with the more muted yet trendy clothes, then the colorsand fabrics would become brighter, the clothing cuts edgier throughall six looks. Even though each senior collection was a small partof the larger SCAD fashion show, Britt pretended that this was allher own fashion show. Britt even had her dream lineup of musicincluding Sia, Lizzo, Little Mix, and a healthy helping of Beyonce,all playing through her earbuds on repeat. Anything to stay in thecreative mood.
Her heart leapt as she considered nextweek’s event. The SCAD fashion show typically attracted the Who’sWho of Atlanta fashion. Students had launched entire careers withtheir collections. Pull this project off, and it could open doorsfor Britt that she couldn’t even begin to imagine. Screw it up …she’d be serving a lot of coffee. Not that being a waitress wasbad. It wasn’t. But it didn’t fulfill her dream of designing forHaMo or Always Youth lines. Heck, designing for anyone.
A wave of uncontrolled anxiety hit her sohard, she staggered back on her heels, thoughts of failure whirlingthrough her brain. Her hands shook, heart raced. Throat closed up.Air wouldn’t move. She stood facing the window so the otherstudents in the lab wouldn’t notice her having a standing heartattack.
What should she do? She was going to die. Atiny voice in her mind said,You won’t die. You can be okay.Okay, she sucked in a lungful of air. She could take care ofherself. Britt had the tools. Thanks to several years of therapy,she knew what to do to abort the panic. She had practiced so manytimes with the therapist and on her own.
Britt stood utterly still, hands pressed toher sides, letting herself feel how solid and stable the ground wasunderneath her feet. She was safe. This location was safe. Sheloved working in the fashion lab. No one would ever hurt herhere.
Safe place. Breathed in.
Safe place. Breathed out.
Feel the ground. Breathed in.
Solid. Stable. Breathed out.
Then she anchored herself by identifyingthings based on her senses. What could she see, smell, andtouch?
She opened her eyes and stared at thewhiteboard bolted to the wall next to the window. Inhaled the cleancotton scent of cloth and the light oil smell of warm, workingsewing machines. Crumpled the hem of the brown cardigan in herfists. Knit material. Soft. Familiar.
Safe.
After a few more minutes to breathe andanchor, and Britt had come out of the worst of the panic, thankGod. She wiped her cramped, sweaty hands on her cardigan and turnedback to the table.
A few hours later, after completing anotheroutfit, she leaned back, rubbing her forehead and rolling her tightshoulders and neck. Only a few students remained in the lab.Twilight outside. She checked her watch: 7:00. Wow, no wonder herback ached and her eyes burned. Her stomach growled. Time to gohome.
Early morning shift at work tomorrow, thenmidmorning classes. Classes with Al and Jenna. Fabulous.
After tidying up her workspace, she pulledon her long-discarded loafers and her cardigan and slung thebackpack over a shoulder. With a wave to the remaining studentsstill working in the lab, she ducked out of the classroom.
“Hi.”
Britt yelped and jumped back, nearlydropping her backpack.
Al looked up from where he leaned againstthe white hallway wall and stowed his phone. A flick of his gazeover her, and his eyes narrowed behind those black-framed glasses.The ghost of a wary smile curved his mouth.
Her stomach took a nosedive. No. Thatreaction wasn’t interest, it was jitters. Also, she was pissed thathe’d stood her up. She was anything but…
Then he did that puppy dog eyes thing withthose dark-red eyebrows, somehow making her feel guilty for beinggrumpy. Unable to stop herself, she smiled back at him. Then wentback to what she hoped was a mean scowl.
