Chapter 2: The Secret They Didn't Want Me to Discover
Vanessa didn't approach us immediately.
She stood near the auditorium doors, pretending to read a message while watching me from the corner of her eye.
Then she smiled.
That familiar, calculated smile.
"What's so exciting?"" she asked.
Lily quickly locked her phone.
"Nothing.""
Vanessa walked closer.
"Nothing?""
She looked at my face.
"You're practically glowing.""
I slipped my phone into my backpack.
"Maybe I had a good morning.""
Vanessa laughed.
"That's new.""
Lily stood.
"Don't you have somewhere else to be?""
Vanessa ignored her.
"Actually, I heard something interesting yesterday. There's a fashion competition happening this weekend.""
My stomach tightened.
She tilted her head.
"Apparently, they're looking for young designers.""
I said nothing.
"Wouldn't that be funny if someone from our school entered?""
Lily rolled her eyes.
"Wouldn't it be even funnier if you learned to mind your own business?""
Vanessa smiled.
"Relax, Lily. I'm only making conversation.""
She glanced at my backpack.
Then she leaned closer.
"Besides, I already have my prom dress. It's custom-made. Italian silk. My mother spent three thousand dollars on it.""
"Congratulations," I said.
Her smile faltered.
I had never answered her that way before.
She straightened.
"Don't worry. I'll make sure you get a good view of it.""
Then she walked away.
Lily watched her disappear.
"She knows something.""
"Maybe.""
"Emily, she's not going to leave this alone.""
I looked at the email again.
"I don't care.""
But I was wrong.
Vanessa cared very much.
And by lunchtime, I understood why.
I was returning a library book when I heard two girls talking near the lockers.
"Did you see Vanessa's latest post?""
"No. What happened?""
"She's going to be the face of the prom fashion campaign.""
I stopped.
The first girl showed her friend a photograph.
Vanessa stood in front of a white backdrop wearing an elegant silver gown.
The caption read:
Honored to announce that I'll be representing Westbridge High at this year's Young Designers Showcase. Dreams really do come true.
I stared at the screen.
The Young Designers Showcase.
The same event mentioned in my email.
I walked closer.
"Excuse me. What is that?""
The girl glanced at me.
"Oh, Vanessa got selected.""
"For what?""
"She's representing the school at the fashion gala. Her mom donated to the event, I think.""
My stomach dropped.
Vanessa hadn't been selected as a designer.
She was attending as a student ambassador.
But her caption made it sound as though she'd created the collection herself.
I took out my phone and checked the foundation's website.
There it was.
A photograph of Vanessa beside the event's promotional banner.
Underneath it:
*Student Ambassador — Westbridge High School*
I let out a slow breath.
She hadn't stolen my opportunity.
Not yet.
But she was already building a story around it.
That afternoon, I received another email.
This one came from the foundation's event coordinator, Margaret Ellis.
She explained that finalists would be expected to bring their completed designs for inspection the following evening.
The gala would take place Saturday night.
Prom was Friday.
I had less than forty-eight hours.
I hurried home after my shift at Miller's Bakery.
Mrs. Miller noticed my excitement as I tied my apron.
"What's going on, sweetheart?""
I showed her the email.
She read it carefully.
Then she looked up.
"Emily, this is wonderful.""
"I have to finish the dress.""
"Then we'll close early tomorrow.""
I shook my head.
"You can't do that.""
"I own the bakery.""
"But the customers—"
"Will survive one afternoon without cinnamon rolls.""
I laughed.
Mrs. Miller reached beneath the counter and brought out a small box.
Inside were several packets of tiny glass crystals, silver thread, and decorative beads.
"I bought these years ago for a wedding project," she said.
"Never used them.""
I stared at the box.
"Mrs. Miller...""
"Take them.""
"I can't.""
"Yes, you can. And when you're famous, you can buy me the biggest cinnamon roll in New York.""
I hugged her.
For the first time in a long time, I felt like someone believed in me without asking me to prove I deserved it.
That evening, I worked on the dress until my shoulders burned.
I finished the waistline, added a second layer of tulle, and carefully stitched the silver crystals around the crimson flowers.
At 10:40 p.m., my bedroom door opened.
I spun around.
Vanessa stood in the doorway.
"Wow.""
I immediately covered the dress.
"What are you doing?""
She stepped inside.
"I knocked.""
"No, you didn't.""
She rolled her eyes.
"Whatever.""
Her gaze moved to the sewing machine.
Then to the dress.
"Is that supposed to be your prom dress?""
"Get out.""
She ignored me.
"Wait. Is that the one I ruined?""
I didn't answer.
She moved closer.
"That's actually... interesting.""
I watched her carefully.
She touched one of the crimson roses.
"Did you make all this?""
"Don't touch it.""
She pulled her hand away.
"God, you're defensive.""
"Vanessa.""
She studied the dress.
For once, she wasn't laughing.
"Where did you get the idea?""
"It's my design.""
She turned toward me.
"Your design?""
"Yes.""
She looked at the sketches on my desk.
I moved to block them, but she was faster.
She picked up the notebook.
"Vanessa, put that down.""
She flipped through the pages.
There were dozens of sketches.
Dresses.
Jackets.
Even a collection of evening gowns inspired by different kinds of flowers.
Her expression changed.
"How long have you been doing this?""
"Years.""
She looked at the notebook again.
Then she laughed.
"Seriously?""
I reached for it.
She pulled it away.
"Vanessa!""
"Why didn't you tell anyone?""
"Because I didn't want to.""
She examined another sketch.
"These are actually pretty good.""
I didn't respond.
She closed the notebook.
Then she looked directly at me.
"Do you think you're entering the fashion gala?""
My heart started pounding.
"That's none of your business.""
Her eyes narrowed.
"You're not.""
I stared at her.
"What?""
"You're not entering.""
"You don't get to decide that.""
She placed the notebook on my desk.
"Emily, listen carefully. My mother has been working with the gala organizers for months. She knows the sponsors.
She knows the judges. She knows everyone.""
"Good for her.""
"And you think they'll let some girl from a bakery walk in with a homemade dress and steal the spotlight?""
I stepped toward her.
"Yes.""
Vanessa stared at me.
For a second, she looked genuinely surprised.
Then her smile returned.
"You're making a big mistake.""
She walked out.
I locked the door behind her.
At 11:15 p.m., I received a message from an unknown number.
*You should withdraw from the showcase. It would be embarrassing if your entry caused problems.*
I stared at the screen.
Then another message appeared.
*Ask your father why your mother's name is missing from the family trust.*
My blood turned cold.
I read it again.
My mother's name.
The family trust.
What did that have to do with my dress?
I immediately called Dad.
He answered after three rings.
"Emily? Is everything okay?""
"Can I ask you something?""
"Of course.""
"Why did someone tell me to ask about Mom's name being removed from the family trust?""
Silence.
Not the ordinary silence of someone searching for an answer.
A heavy silence.
The kind that told me I'd touched something I wasn't supposed to know existed.
Finally, Dad spoke.
"Who told you that?""
"I don't know. An unknown number.""
"Delete the message.""
"Dad—"
"Emily, I'm serious. Delete it.""
"Why?""
He exhaled.
"Because it's not something you need to worry about.""
I gripped the phone.
"Was Mom's name removed?""
Another silence.
Then he said something that made my knees weaken.
"Your mother left you something, sweetheart. Something I promised I'd protect.""
"What?""
"Not over the phone.""
"When can we talk?""
"Tomorrow. After work.""
I swallowed.
"Okay.""
But before I could hang up, Dad added something.
"And Emily?""
"Yes?""
"Don't tell Diane or Vanessa about this conversation.""
I looked toward my locked bedroom door.
"Why?""
His voice dropped.
"Because I don't think they know what I found.""
The call ended.
I stood motionless beside my sewing machine.
Outside, the wind pushed against my window.
Then my phone vibrated again.
This time, the message came with a photograph.
It showed my mother sitting beside a younger version of my father.
They were standing in front of a large building with a sign above the entrance.
*CARTER HOUSE — FASHION AND DESIGN INSTITUTE.*
On the back of the photograph, someone had written a date.
May you like
And beneath it, in my mother's handwriting, were five words:
For Emily, when she is ready.
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