Olivia turned.
Diane touched the cut carefully.
Her expression tightened.
“This is through the outer panel.”
“Yes.”
Olivia looked at Brooke.
“She did it on purpose.”
Brooke’s face changed.
“Oh, screw you.”
“Brooke.”
Diane’s tone sharpened.
Brooke threw up both hands.
“She asked me to fix it, then started freaking out when I actually touched it.”
“I did not ask you.”
“You said the waist looked terrible.”
“I said the lining was bunching.”
“Same conversation.”
“No!”
Diane looked between them.
“Enough.”
Olivia’s eyes filled.
“The gala starts at seven.”
“I know.”
“I have to wear the original piece.”
“We'll figure something out.”
“There is nothing to figure out.”
Diane glanced toward the garment rack beside the window.
Several other dresses hung there.
Mostly older pieces Olivia had made during the previous two years.
“Wear the black one.”
Olivia stared.
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because this is the piece I submitted.”
Diane frowned.
“You have the portfolio.”
“The scholarship rules say the final garment presented tonight has to correspond to the submitted design.”
“You can explain there was an accident.”
Olivia looked toward Brooke.
“This wasn't an accident.”
Brooke rolled her eyes again.
“Here we go.”
Olivia stepped forward.
“You knew exactly where to cut.”
“Do you hear yourself?”
“Yes.”
“You think I planned some evil dress attack?”
“I think you waited until Dad left.”
Diane’s face changed.
“Olivia.”
Brooke laughed.
“That is insane.”
“Then why are you smiling?”
Brooke’s smile disappeared.
“I wasn't.”
“You were.”
“Because you're being ridiculous.”
Olivia looked at Diane.
“You saw the scissors.”
“I saw the end.”
“That should be enough!”
“No.”
Diane’s voice became firmer.
“I saw Brooke holding scissors.”
“I did not see what happened before I entered.”
Olivia stared at her.
That sentence hurt differently.
Not because it was irrational.
Because it was fair.
Fairness at the wrong moment often felt like abandonment.
Brooke crossed her arms.
“Thank you.”
Diane turned sharply.
“Do not thank me.”
Brooke stopped.
Diane continued.
“Whether Olivia asked you to help or not, you had no business making a major cut this close to the event without checking.”
Brooke’s jaw tightened.
“Fine.”
“And if she told you to stop, you should have stopped.”
“She grabbed me.”
“After you cut the dress!”
Olivia shouted.
Diane looked at her.
“Lower your voice.”
“Why?”
“Because shouting isn't helping.”
“My dress is ruined!”
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
Olivia’s voice broke.
Diane softened slightly.
“Olivia.”
“This isn't just a dress.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Olivia shook her head.
“You keep saying that.”
“This is the final piece.”
“The judging panel has my construction book.”
“They have the original pattern.”
“They have photographs from every stage.”
“If I walk in wearing something else, I lose the presentation score.”
Diane knew that.
Of course she did.
She had helped Olivia fill out the application.
The California Young Makers Foundation awarded six annual scholarships to high-school students in design, woodworking, ceramics, industrial art, and textiles. Olivia was one of twelve finalists statewide.
Tonight was the exhibition.
The final interview.
The gala.
The navy gown was not simply what she planned to wear.
It was her submitted work.
Diane looked toward the torn silk.
“How much time do we have?”
Olivia checked the clock.
“An hour and forty minutes before we need to leave.”
Diane thought.
“We can call Mara.”