Fairest of Them All Page 7

  Manuel encourages Brutus to walk up and down in front of the judges, and Brutus wags his tail and looks like he’s smiling with his tongue hanging out. Brutus is definitely working it.

  “Love the top hat,” Josie M. gushes. “I can see one of the big pet-store chains picking that up as a July Fourth item.”

  “It’s a fantastic, fun look, but I’m not thrilled with the construction,” Bailey Haberli says.

  She’s tough. I’m getting more nervous by the minute.

  Hugh goes next. He has a beautiful greyhound rescue named Dante, which for some reason seems the perfect match for Hugh. He’s designed his dog model a Hermes costume, complete with winged booties and a winged cap, and a cape of shimmering gold. The judges love it. When Hugh comes backstage, he’s flushed with pride, and it looks like he’s grown an inch or two taller from confidence.

  “Good boy, Dante,” he says, hugging his model. “You slayed out there on the catwalk!”

  “Thou shouldst taketh yond hound home,” I remark. “Thy puppy dog’s so ad’rable and sweet.”

  Hugh looks at me, confused. Dante wags his tail. I wonder if his previous owner spoke Shakespeare to him.

  “Uh . . . what?”

  “Alas! Alack! Mine own words art coming out strangely, and I knoweth not wherefore.”

  “Why are you talking like that?” Hugh finally asks.

  I shrug and shake my head, because if I talk, it’s just going to be more Shakespeak. He gives me a strange look—I can’t blame him—and suddenly walks away like I’ve got cooties.

  Maybe I do. Is this weird Shakespeak thing contagious?

  Meanwhile, Lazlo is getting high praise for the practical raincoat with big, colorful buttons he made for his wire-haired terrier, Biggles. The judges can see it being sold in a high-end pet store on Madison Avenue.

  Mia’s next up with her brindle pit bull, Bruiser. She’s made him this biker jacket with a little helmet. I can just picture him riding in a sidecar. Mia may not be the friendliest person in the group, but she’s definitely talented. The judges think so, too. There’s no way she’s going home.

  When Iris walks onto the runway with Bobby, a border collie–shepherd mix, I realize with a sick feeling in my stomach that I’m next, and I’ve got to figure out what to say to the judges when they ask me about my design. I’m going to sound like a total weirdo when everything comes out in Elizabethan English instead of my usual New York–speak. Like I’m trying to be someone and something I’m not.

  But I have no idea what to do about it. Instead, I check Flash over one more time, straightening his jacket and making sure the hat is angled just so.

  I have this sudden, terrible feeling that the judges are going to hate me and what I created, that everything about it is wrong with a capital W. But it’s too late to do anything about it. They’re already critiquing Iris—things seem to be going well for her.

  They’re going to hate mine. They’re going to hate me. This is going to be a total disaster. I’m going to be completely humiliated, for everyone—including my parents—to see on national television, and then the judges are going to send me home.

  Iris comes back smiling, and Bob gives me the thumbs-up and mouths, “You’re on!”

  I’m momentarily blinded by the spotlight as I step out from backstage. No one warned me about that. So I’m trying to keep up a confident smile while not tripping over Flash or accidentally falling off the edge of the runway.

  After a minute of light blindness, my eyes adjust and I see the judges sitting in their chairs halfway down the runway. Flash and I walk past as we were instructed, and then turn around and walk back to stand in front of the judges.

  I live with famous people, so you’d think it would be no biggie for me to stand in front of these celebrity judges. But to me, my parents aren’t celebrities, they’re just Mom and Dad. It’s the people I’m about to talk to who are really famous.

  “Aria, tell us about the thought process behind your design,” Bailey Haberli says.

  I hesitate. The judges are waiting. There are at least three cameras filming me from different angles.

  “Yea, verily this hound doth hail from ‘this royal throne of kings’—aye, and queens—‘this scepter’d isle . . . This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England. . . .’ ”

  I pause, offering an internal thanks to my grandparents for taking me to Shakespeare in the Park, especially to Grandpa Thibault for declaiming his favorite soliloquies on the cab rides home. I’m hoping that slipping in a bit of Richard II now will work into the excuse that I hope I can think of before anyone asks me why I’m talking like this.

  “Flash doth be an English Jack Russell. Yond inspireth me to maketh a twe’d doublet and de’rstalk’r. Prithee, behold!”

  The last thing I want to do is to have to talk more, so I get Flash to do a little circle. He seems to like being on the catwalk and really hams it up for the judges, looking extra cute, like he’s smiling. I wish I had all the treats in the world to give him.

  “How did you construct the deerstalker?” Josie McGillicuddy asks me.

  Oh, this is going to be fun. What I get out sounds like this: “I cutteth out six pieces and did sew the coronet togeth’r first, and then putteth on the flaps, but I hadst to maketh sure to leaveth openings for Flash’s ears.”

  I’m starting to sweat from anxiety. I hope it doesn’t show up too much on camera and that the judges don’t think I’m a complete jerk for speaking like this, especially because I still don’t know why it’s happening.

  “It’s a really great look,” Mallory Anderson says. “But I have to ask, since no one else has, what’s with the whole . . . speaking-in-Shakespearean-English thing?”

  This was what I was afraid of—and luckily, I’ve just thought of Lie Number . . . 15, I think it is.

  “ ‘Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise.’ ” I quote the one thing I remember from Love’s Labour’s Lost because it mentions fabrics. “Shakespeare is the language of England and ’tis also the soul of fashion.”

  “Fair enough,” Mallory says. Then she starts laughing. “Uh . . . I think Flash needs to get back to the Great Outdoors, stat.”

  I look down, and Flash is hunched over, pooping on the runway.

  “Fie, Flash, ye churlish, onion-eyed hugger-mugger!”

  To be honest, I’m not even sure what that means. I hope it doesn’t have to get bleeped out and I don’t get kicked off the show just for saying inappropriate words in front of the judges.

  Luckily, when I glance over at said judges, they seem more amused than freaked out. Bailey Haberli is wiping away tears of laughter.

  If dogs could look up and shrug, that’s totally what Flash would be doing to me right now. He’s giving me this Hey, you dressed me up in this stupid outfit and dragged me out here when I had to poop—what did you think would happen? expression.

  “CUT!” shouts the director. “Cleanup on aisle four!”

  One of the volunteers from the shelter comes out with a baggy and scoops up the poop. Flash grins at the judges sheepishly, his pink tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth, like he knew he wasn’t supposed to poop inside.

  I just stand there awkwardly, taking one last look around the Teen Couture runway, because I’m pretty sure this is the last time I’m ever going to see it except on TV. I’m definitely going to be the one kicked off the show after this.

  Once the runway has been sprayed with disinfectant and cleaned, someone comes with a clapper and says, “Aria Thornbrier and Flash, Take Two.”

  “That’s a really great look,” Mallory Anderson tells me again. “Have you been to the United Kingdom before?”

  “Aye, I wenteth with mine own parents,” I say. “The fields of England art fair as a thousand fragrant posies. And the warm libations and cakes.”

  What I don’t tell her is that we were staying at the country house of Lord Whittington, the great-great-great-great-grandson of the famous Dick Whittington, L
ord Mayor of London. The place is a cat lover’s paradise—they’re all descendants of Dick Whittington’s cat, Mrs. Puss. That was also the weekend we discovered I am seriously allergic to cats—I ended up in the hospital in an oxygen tent, which was a load of laughs. But before cat dander deprived me of the ability to breathe adequate oxygen, Lord Whittington showed us around the grounds while sporting a spiffy country-squire outfit. Plus fours, tweed jacket, walking stick, the whole shebang.

  “Warm libations and cakes?” Mallory says. “Do you mean . . . tea and scones?”

  I nod to save myself having to speak anymore.

  “I could go for some tea and scones right now,” Josie McGillicuddy says. “With a bit of jam and clotted cream.”

  “You and me both,” Bailey Haberli agrees.

  Flash barks and wags his tail.

  “Sounds like Mr. Flash wants in on teatime.” Josie laughs. “Thank you, Aria.”

  And with that, the director gestures for me to start walking backstage.

  Just let me make it back there without me tripping and falling—or Flash deciding he needs a pee, I think.

  I do. Or rather, we do.

  Iris and Manuel accost me immediately—

  “Ay, when he pooped in the middle of judging . . . I thought I’d lose it!” Manuel says.

  “We were all back here trying to smother our laughter so the mics didn’t pick it up,” Iris tells me.

  I just smile and nod, because I’m trying to keep talking to a minimum. We watch the runway happenings on the backstage monitor. Jesse is in front of the judges with Cuddlecakes, for whom he created the most masculine outfit he could think of—camo gear. The two of them seem to have developed a mutual dislike, which is evident from the way Cuddlecakes stands with his butt facing Jesse and Jesse holds the dog’s leash almost at arm’s length. The judges like the workmanship but aren’t crazy about the design—they think the outfit overwhelms the tiny dog. Jesse isn’t happy. You can tell by the way he yanks the leash to get the dog to walk back up the runway with him. Cuddlecakes doesn’t appreciate being yanked and runs up behind Jesse and bites the heel of his shoe.

  “Twoo wuv,” Pez jokes as she gets ready to take her turn on the runway.

  Jesse’s face is thunderous as he walks backstage. He thrusts Cuddlecakes’s leash at the shelter volunteer and growls, “I never want to see that runt of a dog again as long as I live.”

  “You have to take him down the runway for the judges’ decision,” Bob tells him. “No getting out of that.”

  I’m worried about Cuddlecakes. The look Jesse throws at him is murderous. And then he swings around and his eye catches mine, and I shiver because it’s as if there’s a laser beam of pure, cold anger directed straight into me.

  What did I ever do to him?

  I rack my brain to think of anything I could have done to cause offense, and I come up with a great big zero—unless finding him dreamily adorable is a crime.

  Wrapping my arms around my waist, I take a seat in the corner and review the situation.

  First, I passed out. Ever since then, whenever I speak, the words that come out of my mouth are old Elizabethan, Shakespearey stuff. Jesse, who had been friendly to me before, just looked at me like he hates me.

  I haven’t a clue what’s going on, but whatever it is, it’s beyond weird.

  When all the contestants have been in front of the judges, Bob takes us to another room, where a spread of cookies and fruit is laid out so we can snack our worries away while the judges make their decision.

  We’re all looking at one another, wondering who’s going to be the one who gets cut—but of course no one wants to say that.

  Well, except for Pez. “So who do we think is getting voted off the Island of Misfit Clothing Makers?” she says.

  “Me,” Manuel says. “They hated my workmanship. I’m a disgrace to my abuela.”

  He bites into a cookie gloomily, brushing the crumbs off his jeans.

  “No, it’s going to be me,” Marissa says, twisting a lock of her blond hair between her fingers. “They hated everything about my creation. I’m doomed. DOOMED.”

  “I don’t know—it could be Jesse,” Pez says.

  Jesse’s reply will have to be bleeped if they don’t edit it out of the footage.

  “We’ll know soon enough,” Lazlo says. “There’s nothing we can do now but wait.”

  He’s right, but waiting isn’t easy.

  Since I don’t want to talk, I decide to check my phone. There’s a text from Sophie: So? How’s the next famous fashion designer? TELL ME ALL!!!

  Another one from Matt: Any good gossip? Famous people? SPILL BABY! SPILL!

  Nina: Break a leg! And stay away from sharp objects. Well, you know what I mean.

  That’s when it comes back to me. . . . The blood on my fingertip. The needle falling to the table, as if in slow motion. The dizziness. Then . . . nothing.

  And now, every time I try to say something, it comes out in Shakespeak.

  No. It couldn’t possibly be . . . I’m a Modern Twenty-First-Century Girl. I believe in science.

  It’s just a coincidence.

  Or is it?

  Just then, Bob tells us the judges have made their decision and it’s time to head back down the runway. We meet our canine companions backstage and one by one strut down the catwalk for what we hope isn’t the last time.

  Flash is sitting quietly at my feet as if he senses my nerves. He’s such a sweet dog, even if he poops at inopportune moments. I hope he ends up with a family that loves him.

  “Well, here they are, your ten contestants,” Arthur Dunn tells the camera. “Judges, have you made your decision?”

  It’s a rhetorical question, because of course we already know they have.

  “It was a difficult decision because you all came up with some fabulous designs,” Josie McGillicuddy says. “But we did pick a winner.”

  “The standout, for both design and construction, was Hugh Waters,” Bailey Haberli announces. “Hugh and Dante will be featured on the cover of the January issue of Dog Lovers Digest.”

  “Congratulations, Hugh!” Mallory Anderson says.

  I want to tell Hugh how happy I am for him. But the camera’s red eye is on, and I’m worried how my strange Shakespeare speech will play for it.

  So I just keep quiet, grin, and give him a thumbs-up.

  Hugh’s smile could light up Rockefeller Center. Dante’s tail-wagging sends a breeze down the runway.

  “But, unfortunately, we’re going to have to send someone home,” Arthur Dunn says. “Judges, have you decided who is going to be cut?”

  “We have,” Mallory Anderson says, looking very solemn. “Again, it was a tough choice to make . . . but, Marissa, I’m afraid you will be leaving us tonight.”

  Marissa gasps but then recovers.

  “We’d love to see you push yourself more, Marissa,” Josie says. “Try thinking out of your own box.”

  “You’ve got talent and a good eye,” Bailey tells her. “Open those eyes to some new experiences. It’ll improve your work.”

  “Thank you,” Marissa says. “I’m grateful for the advice.”

  “Well, there you have it,” Arthur Dunn tells the camera. “Join us next week for another round of Teen Couture!”

  “CUT!” the director shouts.

  I look at the clock. It’s four thirty. I need to get home soon or my parents are going to freak out. They might already be freaking out, for all I know—we have to leave our phones backstage in case they interfere with the sound.

  Bob is giving us instructions.

  “We need you back here next week—same time. We’ll e-mail you anything you need to know about the challenge in advance. Do not be late. Great job, everyone.”

  As we head off the runway to get our stuff, I decide to risk speaking to Marissa. I’d be a jerk if I didn’t say anything, but I’m probably going to sound like one if I do.

  “Fare thee well, Marissa. I wilt miss thee.�
��

  She looks at me, puzzled.

  “The cameras are off. Why are you still speaking like that?”

  I wish I knew. But I have to come up with some kind of excuse, fast.

  “I allow that it is odd, but practice maketh perfect.” Her impeccably arched eyebrow is still raised. Whatever. I can’t stop speaking this way, so I’ll try saying something nice.

  “May Fortune travel forth with thee.”

  “Uh . . . yeah. Thanks, Aria. Good luck to you, too.” She smiles, and as she walks away, she calls back over her shoulder: “Try not to faint.”

  Blood on my finger . . . dizzy . . . faint . . . and now all the words that come out of my mouth are from sixteenth-century England.

  Something is wrong and I have to figure out what.

  I’m going to need all the luck I can get.

  Chapter Eight

  “HOW WAS THE SOCCER GAME?” Dad asks me when I get home, exhausted and worried about what’s the matter with me.

  I stare at him blankly, Mozart sniffing at my ankles, before I remember that that was Lie Number 10—or was it Number 11?—about where I was supposed to be today.

  “ ’Twas ill fought. We hath lost.”

  My father gives me the What strangeness doth emerge from your piehole look that everyone gives me the minute I open my mouth.

  “You ‘hath’ lost?” he says. “Was this a soccer game or a joust?”

  Ha, ha. Methinks thou doth jest too much, Pater.

  As I’m trying to figure out what to say, Dad watches Mozart nosing me jealously. “What’s up with him? Were you with another dog or something?” he asks.

  Poor Mozart must smell Flash. He’s very possessive about his humans.

  “Th’re wast a stray cat on th’commons,” I say.

  Dad gives me a strange look but then starts singing something about a stray cat howling at the moon on a hot summer night, and that’s my cue to escape to my room to avoid any further questions. While my dad looks impressive in all his princely gear, his singing leaves a lot to be desired.

  When I get to my room, I immediately start googling speech afflictions to see if there’s anything about suddenly being able to speak only in Shakespearean English. But the Internet, usually the font of anything I need to know, yields nothing. Zero. Zip. Every symptom seems to lead to the fact that I’ve got some awful brain tumor and I’m going to die within the next two months if I don’t seek urgent medical attention NOW. RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE.