Chapter 2: The Shadow Outside My Door
I froze with a pin between my fingers.
The sewing machine sat silent beside me. Burgundy satin covered the table, and the sketchbook lay open beneath a pool of lamplight.
The handle moved again.
I glanced at the clock.
12:17 a.m.
Vanessa usually went to bed before eleven. Brianna sometimes stayed up late watching television, but she never came to my room unless she wanted something.
I slid the sketchbook beneath a stack of fabric and reached for my phone.
“Who's there?”” I called.
The handle stopped.
For several seconds, nobody answered.
Then Brianna's voice floated through the door.
“Open up.””
I didn't move.
“What do you want?””
“Can you just open the door, Nia?””
The sweetness in her voice made my stomach tighten. Brianna didn't use that tone unless she was trying to get something past me.
I crossed the room but kept the door locked.
“It's late.””
“I know. I just want to talk.””
“Then talk.””
She sighed dramatically.
“God, you're impossible.””
I almost laughed.
Hours earlier, she had taken my gown while Vanessa twisted my wrist and slapped me. Now she wanted to talk as if we had argued over a borrowed hairbrush.
“I need to know what you're planning to wear to graduation,” Brianna said.
I glanced back at the burgundy satin.
“Why?””
“Because I don't want us wearing similar colors.””
I looked down at the fabric.
“You're wearing my white-and-blue gown. How would we look similar?””
Silence.
Then she snapped, “Don't be petty.””
I heard the scrape of her fingernails against the door.
“Vanessa said you were making something else. I just want to see it.””
My blood turned cold.
“How does she know?””
“Because she saw the light under your door.””
I hadn't told Vanessa about the sketchbook. I hadn't even told Brianna that I had another design.
They must have heard the sewing machine earlier, or perhaps Vanessa had been watching me from the stairs.
Either way, I wasn't opening that door.
“There's nothing to see,” I said.
“Fine. Keep your little secrets.””
Her footsteps retreated down the hall.
I waited until the house went quiet before returning to the table.
My hands were trembling so badly that I struggled to thread the needle.
The gown needed a fitted inner structure to support the weight of the layered skirt. If I cut the panels incorrectly, the entire silhouette would collapse. I had calculated the measurements twice, but doubt crept in with every stitch.
I could still hear Brianna's words.
I don't want us wearing similar colors.
She wasn't worried about matching me.
She was worried I might still have something worth showing.
I worked until two in the morning, stopping only when the needle broke.
The next morning, I left the house before Vanessa woke up.
I had twenty-three dollars in my wallet, a half-empty bus card, and a list of supplies I desperately needed.
The first fabric store opened at nine.
I arrived at eight-thirty and waited outside with my sketchbook pressed against my chest.
When the owner, Mrs. Alvarez, unlocked the door, she gave me a surprised smile.
“Nia Carter! You're here early.””
“I need help finding something.””
She held the door open.
“Tell me what we're making.””
I unfolded my sketch.
Her expression changed as she studied it.
“That's ambitious.””
“I know.””
“Structured bodice, layered skirt, hand-finished seams.”” She looked over her glasses.
“And when exactly do you plan to sleep?””
“After the competition.””
She chuckled, but the sound faded when she noticed my swollen wrist.
“What happened to your arm?””
I pulled my sleeve down.
“I fell.””
Mrs. Alvarez studied my face for a moment. She had known me since I was twelve, when my mother first brought me into the shop to buy scraps for my sewing projects.
She didn't believe me.
But she didn't press.
Instead, she carried the sketch to the cutting counter.
“Let's see what we can do.””
She helped me calculate how much satin I needed, then brought out several rolls from a discounted section.
One was a deep wine red, almost black in the shadows, with a subtle sheen that made the surface look like liquid.
I ran my fingertips over it.
“This is perfect.””
“It's been sitting here for months,” she said.
“The color is difficult to photograph, so nobody wants it.””
“How much?””
She told me the price.
My shoulders sank.
Even discounted, it was too expensive.
I counted my money twice, hoping the numbers might somehow change.
“I can buy less,” I said.
“I'll redesign the skirt.””
Mrs. Alvarez shook her head.
“No. Not if you want that silhouette.””
“I don't have enough.””
She studied the sketch again.
Then she disappeared into the back room.
When she returned, she carried a long cardboard tube and a bundle of fabric remnants.
“I have some offcuts from a theater project. The satin isn't identical, but it matches closely enough for the inner panels.””
I stared at her.
“Are you selling them?””
“I'm giving them to you.””
“I can't take them for free.””
“You can pay me back when you're famous.””
My eyes stung.
“I might not even finish the dress.””
“Then you'll learn something trying.””
She wrapped the satin and remnants in brown paper.
Before I left, she placed a small packet of needles and a spool of matching thread on top.
“Your mother used to say you had stubborn hands,” she said.
“She meant it as a compliment.””
I swallowed hard.
“Thank you.””
“Don't thank me yet. Show me the finished gown.””
I hurried home with the fabric held tightly against my chest.
For the first time since Brianna stole my entry, I felt something besides panic.
Possibility.
But the feeling vanished when I entered the kitchen.
Vanessa stood beside the counter, holding my competition registration papers.
Brianna sat at the island, wearing my white-and-blue gown.
The bodice had been altered with safety pins, and the skirt bunched awkwardly around her waist. One of the embroidered butterflies had caught on a bracelet and pulled loose, leaving a small thread hanging near the hem.
I stared at it.
“You damaged it.””
Brianna looked down.
“It's barely noticeable.””
“You pulled the embroidery.””
“Then fix it.””
I set the fabric bundle on the counter.
Vanessa lifted the registration form.
“What's this?””
“My entry paperwork.””
“I know what it is. Why does it say your garment must be presented in person?””
“Because I'm the designer.””
Brianna snorted.
“That's ridiculous. You didn't invent the dress. You copied things from the internet.””
I stared at her.
“You watched me draw every pattern.””
“And you probably copied those, too.””
Vanessa tapped the paper against her palm.
“Brianna will wear the gown at graduation. You're going to stop making this difficult.””
“What about the competition?””
“You can enter another year.””
I almost dropped the fabric.
“I'm not allowed to enter next year. The program is for graduating seniors.””
“Then you'll have to find another opportunity.””
“There isn't another one like this!””
My voice echoed through the kitchen.
Vanessa stepped closer.
“Lower your voice.””
“No. You took my gown, and now you're telling me to give up the only scholarship I have a chance of winning?””
Brianna rose from the stool.
“You're acting like I ruined your life.””
“You stole four months of my work!””
“I didn't steal anything. Vanessa said I could wear it.””
I looked at my stepmother.
“Did you even read the rules?””
“I don't care about the rules,” she said.
“I care about my daughter having a decent graduation.””
“And what about me?””
Vanessa's expression hardened.
“You always make everything about yourself.””
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
I had spent years trying to earn her approval. I had washed dishes without being asked, watched Brianna when Vanessa worked late, and kept quiet whenever she made comments about my mother.
I had believed that if I were helpful enough, patient enough, and talented enough, she might eventually treat me like family.
Standing in that kitchen, I finally understood how foolish that hope had been.
Brianna turned toward the mirror above the counter.
“Actually, the gown needs a few changes,” she said.
“The sleeves make my arms look bigger.””
“They're part of the original design,” I replied.
“Then change them.””
“No.””
She spun around.
“What did you say?””
“I said no. You can wear it as it is, but I'm not altering my own competition gown for you.””
Brianna's face reddened.
Vanessa stepped between us.
“That's enough. Go to your room.””
I grabbed my fabric bundle.
“Gladly.””
As I turned, Brianna caught the edge of the brown paper.
“What is that?””
“Nothing.””
She tugged.
I held on.
For a second, we stood pulling against each other, the bundle stretched between us.
Vanessa slapped Brianna's hand away.
“Stop it! You'll tear the fabric.””
I stared at her in disbelief.
She had twisted my wrist and struck me the night before, but she was suddenly concerned about fabric.
Brianna released the paper with a disgusted sigh.
“Whatever. I hope your ugly red dress makes you happy.””
I carried the bundle upstairs without answering.
Behind me, Vanessa called out, “And don't expect us to pay for any more of your little projects!””
I closed my bedroom door and locked it.
Then I spread the new satin across the table.
The wine-red color glowed beneath the lamp.
I placed my mother's sketch beside it and began marking the pattern.
For the next several hours, I cut, measured, and stitched. I made mistakes, unpicked seams, and started again. The fabric fought me at every curve, but slowly, the gown began to take shape.
At four that afternoon, my phone rang.
The caller ID showed an unfamiliar number.
“Hello?””
“Is this Nia Carter?”” a woman asked.
“Yes.””
“My name is Simone Reed. I'm coordinating the Young American Couture Competition.””
I straightened.
“Is something wrong?””
“I'm calling because we received a message concerning your entry.””
My stomach dropped.
“What kind of message?””
There was a brief pause.
“Someone has contacted us claiming that the gown registered under your name was designed by another student.””
I gripped the edge of the table.
“That's not true.””
“I understand. But the message included photographs of the gown being worn by someone else, along with a claim that you had copied the design.””
My eyes went to the empty hanger.
Brianna had stolen my dress.
Now she was trying to steal my name, too.
Simone continued, “We need you to attend a verification meeting before the final judging.””
“When?””
“Tomorrow morning.””
I looked at the unfinished burgundy gown.
The bodice wasn't complete. The skirt still needed three layers. I had barely enough time to finish the construction, let alone prepare evidence proving that my stolen design was mine.
“Ms. Reed, I can prove I designed it. I have my sketches, my measurements, and photographs of the entire process.””
“Bring everything you have,” she said.
“But I need to be honest with you. If the committee believes the entry involves plagiarism or a dispute over ownership, we may have to suspend your place in the competition.””
The call ended.
I stood motionless beside the table.
Then I heard laughter downstairs.
Brianna was telling someone on the phone that her graduation gown was going to make her the most talked-about girl in school.
I picked up my mother's sketchbook and held it against my chest.
They had taken my gown.
They had attacked my credibility.
But they hadn't taken the truth.
I opened my laptop and began gathering every photograph, design draft, and dated message I could find.
At the bottom of an old folder, I discovered an email from the competition committee sent four months earlier.
It contained a detail I had almost forgotten.
A requirement that every finalist submit a sealed design concept before construction began.
I searched my inbox for the confirmation.
The message appeared.
But when I clicked the attachment, the file was missing.
May you like
Someone had accessed my account.
And the login history showed it happened that morning, while I was at the fabric store.
