Chapter 2: The Secret Hidden in the Seams
By two in the morning, my bedroom looked like a tiny fashion studio.
Fabric scraps covered the floor. Silver thread tangled around my fingers. A half-empty cup of cold coffee sat beside my mother's photograph, and the sewing machine rattled so loudly that I had stuffed a towel beneath its legs to soften the sound.
I had cut away nearly a third of the original skirt.
The remaining blue satin formed the foundation of a darker, more dramatic design. I'd layered charcoal tulle over the damaged areas, shaping it into soft, uneven waves that moved like smoke when I lifted the dress.
The crimson streaks had become roses.
Not printed flowers. Not cheap appliqués glued onto fabric.
Actual dimensional roses, sculpted from the stained satin itself.
I cut each paint-marked section into petals, singed the edges carefully to prevent fraying, then layered the pieces around tiny crystal centers. The result looked almost alive.
My phone buzzed.
*Lily: Are you awake? Please tell me you're awake.*
I typed back with one hand.
*Me: Unfortunately.*
Her reply came immediately.
*Lily: Something happened. Something HUGE.*
I glanced at the clock.
*Me: It's two in the morning.*
*Lily: I KNOW. But listen. The Bellamy School of Design is sending judges to prom tomorrow night.*
I stopped sewing.
The Bellamy School of Design was one of the most prestigious fashion programs in the country. I'd spent months studying its scholarship requirements and watching interviews with its graduates.
I'd even downloaded the application.
Then I'd looked at the tuition costs and quietly deleted the file.
Lily sent another message.
*Lily: They're awarding one full scholarship to a graduating senior who creates an original formalwear design. The judges are looking for someone with actual creativity, not just expensive clothes.*
I stared at the screen.
*Me: Are you serious?*
*Lily: Dead serious. Ms. Reynolds announced it at rehearsal. She said the judges want to see the dresses in person.*
My heart began pounding.
I looked at the gown.
The dress was original. Every line, every flower, every detail had come from my own hands.
But it wasn't finished.
And I had less than sixteen hours before prom.
*Me: I don't know if mine is good enough.*
Lily called immediately.
"Don't you dare say that," she said when I answered.
I could hear traffic in the background. She was probably in her family's car, returning from her grandmother's house across town.
"Lily, you haven't seen it.""
"I don't need to. I've seen your sketches. I've seen what you can do with a needle and a pile of fabric nobody else wants.""
"This is different.""
"Of course it is. That's why you should enter.""
I looked at the roses spread across my worktable.
"What if they laugh?""
"Then they'll be laughing at the wrong people.""
I swallowed.
"Vanessa ruined my dress.""
Silence.
"What?""
"She poured red paint all over it tonight.""
Lily's voice changed instantly.
"Tell me you're joking.""
"I wish I were.""
"Did you tell your dad?""
"He wasn't home. And Vanessa knows exactly how to make things sound like my fault.""
"That doesn't make it your fault.""
"I know.""
But knowing something and believing it were two different things.
Lily sighed.
"Listen to me. Don't waste tonight trying to figure out why Vanessa is cruel. Make something she can't take away from you.""
After we hung up, I sat motionless for a moment.
Then I turned back to the dress.
At three fifteen, I began embroidering the bodice.
At four, I attached the first line of silver thread.
At four thirty, the machine needle snapped.
I stared at the broken metal.
"Oh, come on.""
I rummaged through my sewing kit, found a replacement, and started again.
By five, my fingertips were sore.
By five thirty, the crimson roses had climbed from the left hip to the shoulder, their edges outlined in silver. I added tiny crystals to the centers, placing each one with tweezers.
The dress caught the light whenever I moved it.
It no longer looked like a ruined blue gown.
It looked like midnight after a storm.
I was attaching the final layer of tulle when my bedroom door opened.
I spun around.
Vanessa stood in the doorway wearing silk pajamas and an expression of theatrical disbelief.
"What on earth are you doing?""
I covered the bodice instinctively.
"Knock next time.""
She ignored me and walked farther into the room.
Then she saw the dress.
Her steps stopped.
For several seconds, she didn't speak.
I watched her gaze move over the silver embroidery, the dark layers, and the crimson roses. Her mouth opened slightly.
"What did you do?""
"Fixed it.""
She stepped closer.
"No, you didn't.""
I straightened.
"You're looking at it.""
Vanessa reached for one of the roses.
I caught her wrist.
"Don't touch it.""
Her eyes snapped toward mine.
"Let go.""
"Not until you promise to keep your hands off my work.""
She yanked her wrist free.
"Your work?"" She laughed, but the sound came out thin.
"You cut up a cheap dress and glued some flowers on it.""
"I sewed every piece.""
"Whatever. It still looks like a costume.""
"Then you won't mind if I wear it.""
Her expression changed.
It was small, almost invisible, but I caught it.
A flicker of panic.
"You cannot wear that.""
I felt something cold settle inside me.
"Why not?""
"Because it's ridiculous.""
"That's not what you said when you saw it.""
She glanced toward the open doorway, checking whether anyone was nearby.
Then she lowered her voice.
"Listen carefully. You're not going to walk into prom wearing that thing and embarrass my family.""
"Your family?""
"Dad has spent years trying to make you feel included. Don't turn this into some pathetic performance.""
I looked at her hand.
Red paint still stained the skin beneath her thumbnail.
"You mean the performance you started when you destroyed my dress?""
Her face hardened.
"You have no proof.""
The words landed between us.
I hadn't accused her of anything she needed to deny.
Yet she'd gone straight to the one thing that mattered.
Proof.
Before I could respond, she stepped backward into the hall.
"Put on something else tomorrow," she said.
"Or don't come at all.""
Then she left.
I stood staring at the doorway.
The house was quiet again, but the feeling in my stomach had changed.
Vanessa wasn't merely embarrassed that I'd salvaged the dress.
She was frightened.
And frightened people made mistakes.
I returned to the sewing table and reached for the dress's inner lining. I'd removed it earlier because the paint had soaked through part of the seam.
Something stiff rustled beneath the fabric.
I frowned and slid my fingers into the narrow pocket sewn inside the lining.
My mother had added that pocket years ago, back when she'd altered the gown for me after I bought it secondhand. I'd forgotten it was there.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
The paper was creased and stained blue at the edges, but the handwriting was unmistakably my mother's.
My fingers trembled as I opened it.
The note contained only one sentence.
If someone ever tries to make you ashamed of your work, remember who paid for the materials.
I stared at the words.
I had paid for the dress. I had paid for every crystal and every spool of thread.
But the note seemed to be referring to something else.
At the bottom, beneath my mother's signature, was a name.
*Evelyn Hart.*
I knew that name.
Everyone at school knew it.
Evelyn Hart was the founder of the Bellamy School of Design.
And my mother had written her name on a note hidden inside my prom dress.
Before I could make sense of it, my phone lit up with another message from Lily.
*Lily: One more thing. The judges asked Ms. Reynolds to check whether any students have family connections to the school.*
A second message appeared.
*Lily: Why? Because apparently they're looking for someone whose mother studied there.*
I looked at the note again.
Then at the dress.
Then at the name written in my mother's careful handwriting.
May you like
For the first time, I wondered whether my mother had left me more than a sewing machine.
And whether Vanessa knew it.
