After spending the weekend with her aunt,
Mickey concluded that Olive wasn’t that bad—at least not as bad as her
mom made her out to be. She was just a bit uptight. It was hard for
Mickey to understand how she
and her mom could be sisters, much less fraternal twins. They had the
same curly strawberry blond hair, though her mom highlighted hers and
wore it long and loose and Olive pinned hers back in a tight bun. She
recognized her aunt’s eyes as well—they were emerald
green, just like her mom’s. Too bad she hid them behind thick tortoise
shell glasses. Then there was her style: Olive looked like she had
stepped out of a time warp. She wore a ruffled pink blouse, long pearls,
and an A-line brown skirt. Maybe she was going
for a retro 50s vibe? It was the opposite of her mom’s ripped jeans and
vintage rock tee shirts. Maybe there had been some mistake and they
were switched at birth? Maybe her Granny Gertrude got confused and
accidentally picked up the wrong baby in the park
one day?
Olive was also a neat freak who insisted that everything be “spic and span” and in its place.
“Mackenzie, clean up after yourself!” she
scolded when Mickey left her sketchbook and colored pencils on the
kitchen table. No one called her Mackenzie; her mom only used it when
she was mad at her. It was a
name she barely recognized or answered to. But as many times as she
corrected Aunt Olive, she insisted on calling her by her “proper name.”
“Mom calls me ‘Mickey’ and I call her Jordana sometimes,” she tried to explain.
“I don’t care what you call your mom or she calls you. And you call me Aunt Olive out of respect,” she warned her.
Mickey wrinkled her nose. “Really? Mom says she called you Olliegator when you were little. I think that’s cute.”
Olive pursed her lips. “I’m an adult,” she replied sternly. Aunt Olive was an executive assistant at a big law firm, and she took everything very seriously. “Your mother needs to grow up.”
But that was exactly what Mickey loved
about her mom—how she was such a free spirit and never cared what anyone
thought or said about her. Mickey tried her hardest to be that way, but
sometimes it was hard.
For the first day of FAB, she set her alarm
for 6 o’clock so she would have time to style her outfit properly. She
was proud of how it had all come together. She’d taken a beaten-up denim
jacket from a thrift
shop and dyed it black before adding crocheted doilies for trim at the
collars and cuffs. It said exactly what she wanted it to say about her:
“I’m edgy but feminine.” And wasn’t that what fashion was all about? Not
just a trend or a style, but a reflection
of who you are and how you’re feeling? That was what Mickey loved about
designing the most, and what she had written on her FAB application:
“I love how you can speak volumes with a
single stitch. Fashion should be fearless! I want to be a designer who
always colors outside the lines and thinks outside of the box…”
She was pretty sure Aunt Olive didn’t see
it that way. Her idea of taking a fashion risk was wearing a skirt that
was hemmed above the knee.
“Does it really go together?” she asked,
noticing how Mickey had paired her jacket with a white tank top and bike
shorts, both of which were splatter-painted with green and yellow
drips.
“It isn’t supposed to go,” Mickey told her. “It’s supposed look creative, which is what FAB is all about. Pushing the envelope!”
She added a pair of green cat’s eye sunglasses.
“Well, it’s colorful,” her aunt sighed. “I’ll give you that. And so is your hair. Good heavens!”
Mickey had created green stripes in her long, wavy blond hair with hair chalk.
“Now for the finishing touch!” she said.
“No outfit is complete without accessories!” She slipped her feet into a
pair of black high top sneakers, tied the yellow laces, and grabbed her
bag.
“What is that?” her aunt asked, scratching her head. She squinted to make out the words on Mickey’s tote.
“It used to say ‘Louis Vuitton’—it’s a bag
you keep a really fancy expensive bag in. Which if you ask me, is pretty
silly,” Mickey explained.
Olive seemed puzzled. “You mean a dust bag? You made that out of a dust bag?”
Mickey spun the tote around. “Two of them, actually!” The other side read, “PRADA.”
“What? How? Why?” Olive asked.
“Well, it’s perfectly good flannel,” Mickey
replied. “And don’t you think it’s kinda funny? A statement about
recycling? I used two leather belts for the straps and jazzed it up with
some studding at the seams.
It cost me about $4 total at the flea market!”
She threw the bag over her shoulder and
glanced at the clock. It was 8, and the school bus would be along
shortly to pick her up on the corner.
“Your breakfast is ready,” Olive said,
handing her a glass of green sludge. This was worse then yesterday’s
quinoa and fruit concoction! She missed her mom’s breakfasts of left
over Chinese Take Out omelets
or cold pizza. But Aunt Olive insisted she start the first day of
school with “something healthy and nutritious.”
“Do you have any chocolate milk?” she asked, getting up to check the fridge for something edible.
“This is better for you. It’s fresh kale,
celery, cucumber, ginger and a touch of agave. It’s delicious.” She took
a big sip of her own glass and licked her lips.
Mickey wrinkled her nose. It didn’t look or
smell delicious. “I think I’ll grab something in the cafeteria,” she
said, pushing the glass away. “I’m too nervous to eat.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. She was pretty terrified for her first day at FAB. Just then, Mickey’s phone rang.
“All ready to conquer the world?” her mom asked.
“I think so, Jordana,” she replied.
“Ah, I see. We’re trying to sound very
mature this morning. Send me a picture of the first day outfit and call
me tonight. I want to hear all the deets.”
Mickey smiled. Her mom was trying to sound cool. “I will. Love you.”
As the bus pulled up to the corner of
Columbus Avenue, Mickey took a deep breath. This wasn’t just the first
day of FAB. It was the first day of the rest of her life. The first day
of everything.
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