Chapter 2: The Secret in the Showcase Office
I read the email four times before sunrise.
Each time, the words seemed to grow darker.
Copied from another student's work.
I'd drawn every design in my notebook. I'd stitched every sample with my own hands. I'd spent lunch breaks sketching silhouettes on napkins and evenings studying fabric construction from library books because I couldn't afford design classes.
I'd never copied anyone.
At 6:15 a.m., I called the number at the bottom of the email.
A woman answered on the fourth ring.
“Westbrook Young Designers Showcase. This is Mrs. Harper.””
“My name is Emily Carter. I received an email about a complaint against my submission.””
“Yes, Emily. I was expecting your call.””
Her voice was professional, but not warm.
“Can you tell me who made the complaint?””
“I'm afraid I can't disclose that yet.””
“Can you tell me what I'm accused of copying?””
There was a pause.
“The complaint includes photographs of another student's design.””
“Photographs of what?””
“A formal gown with a midnight-blue base, silver embellishments, and red floral details.””
My eyes moved toward the sewing table.
My dress.
I gripped the phone.
“That design is mine.””
“I'm not making an accusation, Emily. I'm explaining why the committee needs to investigate before announcing the finalists.””
“Can I show you my sketches? My original drawings? I have dates on them.””
“Yes. Bring your sketches and any supporting materials to the showcase office at four this afternoon.””
“Will I still be eligible?””
“If we can establish that your work is original, your application will remain under consideration.””
“And if you can't?””
“Then the committee will make its decision based on the evidence available.””
The call ended.
I stood in the pale morning light, listening to the refrigerator hum downstairs.
Someone had taken my design and turned it into evidence against me.
I knew who would enjoy doing that.
But knowing wasn't proof.
I needed proof.
At breakfast, Vanessa sat at the kitchen island in a pink cashmere sweater, scrolling through her phone while Diane arranged strawberries on a porcelain plate.
My father stood near the coffee machine, reading emails on his tablet.
“Good morning,” he said when I entered.
“Morning.””
Vanessa looked up.
Her eyes traveled over my face, then dropped toward my hands.
“Wow,” she said.
“You look terrible.””
Diane glanced at me.
“Emily, did you sleep at all?””
“Not much.””
Vanessa took a slow sip of her smoothie.
“Maybe she stayed up trying to fix that disaster in her room.””
My father lowered his tablet.
“What disaster?””
The kitchen fell silent.
I stared at Vanessa.
She smiled into her glass.
“Nothing, Dad,” she said.
“I was just joking.””
“Vanessa poured paint over my prom dress.””
The words came out more steadily than I'd expected.
Diane's hand stopped above the fruit bowl.
My father looked at me.
“She did what?””
Vanessa put down her glass.
“Oh, come on. I spilled a little paint. It's not like I burned the house down.””
“You poured an entire bucket over it.””
“You left it hanging where I was painting.””
“In my bedroom?””
“Maybe you should have been more careful.””
My father set his tablet on the counter.
“Vanessa, did you deliberately damage Emily's dress?””
Vanessa's expression changed instantly. Her eyes widened, and her lower lip trembled.
“I was helping Mom with the storage room. I tripped. I told Emily I was sorry.””
“You laughed,” I said.
“Because you started screaming at me!””
“I asked you why you did it.””
“Enough,” Diane interrupted. She placed the fruit bowl on the island with a sharp clink.
“This is getting ridiculous. It's a dress, Emily. Fabric can be replaced.””
“Not with my money,” I said.
Diane's eyebrows rose.
“Excuse me?””
“I paid for it myself.””
“And we're very proud of your little job,” she replied, emphasizing little.
“But accidents happen.””
“It wasn't an accident.””
My father rubbed his forehead.
“Vanessa, you need to apologize.””
Vanessa stared at him.
“Seriously?””
“Yes.””
She turned toward me.
“I'm sorry you can't take a joke.””
“That's not an apology.””
“Then I guess you're out of luck.””
“Vanessa,” my father warned.
She pushed her stool back.
“Fine. I'm sorry. Can we move on now?””
She grabbed her bag and walked toward the hallway.
At the doorway, she paused.
“Oh, Emily? You might want to check your email.””
My heart stopped.
She looked over her shoulder.
“Apparently, the showcase people are asking questions about your little designer fantasy.””
Then she left.
I stared after her.
My father frowned.
“What was that about?””
“I don't know.””
But I did.
And the way Vanessa had smiled told me she knew exactly how much damage she'd already done.
At school, Lily found me outside the library.
She had a paper bag in one hand and an expression that could have frightened a teacher.
“Tell me you brought your sketchbook,” she said.
“I did.””
“Good. Because I found something.””
She pulled out her phone.
On the screen was a public post from Madison Price.
Madison was a senior, captain of the dance team, and the kind of girl who wore white sneakers without ever getting them dirty. Her mother chaired the showcase committee, and Madison had been selected as one of the student finalists.
The post showed a midnight-blue gown with silver embroidery and crimson roses climbing one shoulder.
The caption read:
Three months of work. One dream. Can't wait to reveal my final collection.
My mouth went dry.
The gown was almost identical to my sketch.
Not similar in a general way.
Identical.
The asymmetrical neckline. The layered charcoal tulle. The cluster of silver crystals near the waist. Even the three roses arranged diagonally across the shoulder.
Lily enlarged the image.
“Emily, look at the embroidery.””
I leaned closer.
The silver stitches formed a tiny pattern resembling the letter C.
I'd invented that detail months earlier because my mother's maiden name had been Carter. It was a private signature, hidden in the embroidery of every design I intended to submit professionally.
Madison's gown carried the same signature.
“That's impossible,” I whispered.
“Did you show her your sketches?””
“No.””
“Did anyone photograph your notebook?””
“I don't think so.””
Lily looked at me carefully.
“Emily, who has been in your room?””
The answer arrived before I could stop it.
Vanessa.
She'd borrowed my hair straightener twice. She'd come looking for a charger. Once, she'd wandered into my room while I was at work and claimed she'd mistaken the hallway.
My sketchbook had been on the desk.
But there was something else.
Three weeks earlier, Vanessa had asked what I was working on. I'd refused to show her. She'd laughed and called my designs childish.
Then she'd asked whether I planned to enter the young designers showcase.
I'd told her I hadn't decided.
I had lied.
And now I wondered whether she'd searched my room after I'd left for the bakery.
“I'm going to the showcase office this afternoon,” I said.
Lily nodded.
“I'm coming with you.””
“You don't have to.””
“I know. That's why it counts.””
At four o'clock, we entered the community arts center, where the showcase committee had set up temporary offices beside the auditorium.
The hallway smelled of fresh paint and coffee. Garment racks lined one wall, and students hurried past carrying portfolios and garment bags.
Mrs. Harper met us outside a small conference room.
“Emily. Thank you for coming.””
She glanced at Lily.
“Is she accompanying you?””
“Yes,” I said.
“She's seen my work from the beginning.””
Mrs. Harper opened the door.
Inside, a long table held printed photographs, application forms, and a laptop. Madison sat near the window, dressed in a cream blazer. Beside her sat a woman with silver-framed glasses whom I recognized as her mother, the showcase chair.
Madison looked up.
Her face remained perfectly calm.
“Hi, Emily.””
I stared at her.
“You copied my dress.””
Her mother immediately stood.
“That's an inappropriate accusation.””
“Your daughter's gown has my exact design details.””
Madison folded her hands.
“I've never seen your designs.””
“Then how did you reproduce my hidden signature?””
“What signature?””
“The little C in the embroidery.””
Madison glanced at her mother.
It lasted less than a second.
But I saw it.
Mrs. Harper cleared her throat.
“We're here to examine the evidence, not argue. Emily, please present your materials.””
I opened my sketchbook.
My original drawings filled the first pages, dated from January through March. I showed them the early silhouettes, the revised bodice, and the embroidery patterns I'd developed after studying my mother's old sewing notes.
Mrs. Harper leaned forward.
“These dates are helpful. Do you have photographs of your progress?””
“Yes.””
I placed my phone on the table and opened the folder I'd created that morning.
There were pictures of my early fabric samples, close-ups of unfinished embroidery, and photographs of the dress before it had been painted.
The last image showed the pale blue gown hanging beside my bedroom mirror.
Untouched.
Dated April 12.
Madison's gown had been posted publicly on April 14.
Mrs. Harper studied the dates.
“Where did you obtain the fabric for your original sample?””
“Miller's Fabric Outlet. I have the receipt.””
I slid it across the table.
Madison's mother glanced at it dismissively.
“Receipts prove that fabric was purchased, not that a design was created.””
“That's true,” Mrs. Harper said.
“But the dated progress photographs are relevant.””
Madison shifted in her chair.
“I think this is a misunderstanding,” she said.
“My design process is private.””
“So is mine,” I replied.
“But somehow you have my work.””
Her mother stood again.
“That's enough. My daughter has worked extremely hard for this opportunity. We're not going to allow another student to damage her reputation because of jealousy.””
Lily's chair scraped backward.
“Jealousy? Emily has been sewing since she was ten.””
“Lily,” I murmured.
Mrs. Harper raised a hand.
“Please. We will review everything before making a decision.””
I closed my sketchbook.
“Can I ask Madison one question?””
Mrs. Harper hesitated.
“One.””
I looked directly at Madison.
“When did you first draw the three roses on the shoulder?””
Madison's lips parted.
“January.””
“What date?””
“I don't remember.””
“That's interesting. I have a photograph of that exact detail from February 3.””
Madison's mother reached for the photograph.
“Anyone could have altered a date.””
Mrs. Harper turned toward her.
“Please don't touch the evidence.””
The room went quiet.
For the first time, Madison looked genuinely uncomfortable.
I gathered my notebook and stood.
“I'll send you every photograph I have. If you need the original files, you can check their timestamps.””
“We'll contact you,” Mrs. Harper said.
As Lily and I walked into the hallway, I heard Madison's mother whisper something sharply.
Then Madison spoke.
“Mom, she knows.””
I stopped.
Lily grabbed my arm.
“Don't turn around.””
We continued toward the exit.
Outside, the late-afternoon wind pushed dry leaves across the pavement.
I could barely feel my fingers.
“Emily,” Lily said, “we have to find out how Madison got your design.””
“I know.””
“And we need to figure out why Vanessa knew about the complaint before you did.””
I stared at the arts center windows.
Because Vanessa hadn't merely destroyed my dress.
She'd known exactly which wound to press next.
My phone vibrated.
A new message appeared from an unknown number.
There was no greeting, only a photograph.
It showed my bedroom desk.
My sketchbook lay open beneath a lamp.
And standing beside it was Vanessa, holding up a page from my notebook.
May you like
Under the photograph were eight words.
*Ask your stepsister who sold your design.*
