had looked directly into her eyes while doing something cruel. “I watched her,” Amara said when she could speak. “She knew exactly where it would fall.” Simone held her until the trembling eased. She did not ask her daughter to be brave. She did not say that everything happened for a reason. She simply said, “I believe you.”
A hotel attendant brought them clean towels and offered a staff restroom. Under the fluorescent lights, the stain looked worse. They pressed clean towels gently against the satin, lifting what wine they could without rubbing. The towels came away burgundy, yet a large pink-red stain remained, spreading into the delicate seams. Simone tested a little cool water on a hidden hem, then stopped when the moisture carried color into the embroidery. She had fixed ripped hems, coffee stains, broken zippers, and cigarette burns for half the neighborhood. A specialist might be able to lift more of this stain with time, but soaking, scrubbing, or heating the fragile satin tonight could make matters worse. “I’m sorry, baby,” she said quietly. “We can’t make it white again before morning.”
Amara looked into the mirror. A wide red splash crossed the upper bodice, narrow streaks ran toward the waist, and smaller spots scattered across the full skirt. The dress no longer looked like the one they had photographed in their apartment. Tomorrow morning, the finalists were expected to present their garments during the foundation's design showcase. Amara had planned to walk across a small stage, explain how she had reconstructed the material, and show the judges the tiny flowers her grandmother had drawn. She could still submit her portfolio, but she could not imagine standing before those same guests in a dress they had already watched someone destroy.
“I can't go back,” she said. Simone wanted to tell her she didn't have to. Part of her wanted to storm into the ballroom, find Celeste Vaughn, and demand that the woman repeat her joke while looking directly at a mother. But Simone had spent years teaching Amara that anger could be real without being in charge of every decision. She leaned against the sink and asked a different question. “Do you want to leave because you're finished, or because she told you to be?”
Amara did not reply. She stared at the stain until the shape changed in her mind. Some of the lines were long and branching. Others ended in rounded pools. The red seemed to climb one side of the gown, almost like a vine. Suddenly she heard Loretta's voice as clearly as if her grandmother were sitting on a stool beside the sewing machine: See what the cloth is asking you to make. Amara reached toward the largest patch of color, then stopped before touching it. She looked up. “Mom,” she asked, “do we still have Grandma's box of red scraps?”
Simone blinked. “At home.”
“The organza from Mrs. Delgado's theater curtains? And the little gold beads?”