Chapter 2 — Backstage (1)

"You say you're the winning designer's assistant?"

The security guard looked her up and down. Ella Thorne was wearing a STAFF vest she'd fished off a stack of wardrobe bins, hugging two armfuls of hangers to her chest. Her face was the picture of earnest. The kind of earnest that got people elected.

"Right," she said. "Miss Miller wants these in the dressing room. If rehearsal's late, she loses it. You want to be the one who explains that?"

The guard stepped aside.

She rolled the rack into the wings. On the way she helped a stagehand lift two cases of lights, and a cleaning lady called after her, "Good hands, new girl." Ella nodded solemnly. If designing didn't work out, she reflected, she could always run a moving company.

Backstage was a war zone. Perfume and takeout steamed together. Models with spray-tanned arms threaded past her holding shoes too expensive to walk in. A seamstress she vaguely recognized from a trade show was on her knees repairing a hem with a safety pin and a prayer. Nobody looked at Ella twice. Nobody looks at the help. That was the advantage of a staff vest. It turned you into furniture.

She stopped at a full-length mirror and looked at herself: STAFF vest, the cheap sequin pinned over her heart, no trophy in her arms — only a handful of unwanted hangers. A year ago she'd imagined this entrance a hundred ways. In her own gown. Holding the cup. Her mother watching from somewhere. Now she wore a vest a cleaner had signed off on, and her reflection didn't even blink.

You came here for one reason, she told herself. Hear her say it. On tape. If you can.

Then she heard the voice through the dressing-room door.

"—darling, you're right, this trophy should say Miller on it. Haha, don't be like that, I respect originality, I really—"

Ella pushed the door open.

Lena Miller was leaning against the vanity, one hand on some middle-aged investor's shoulder, smiling like a cat that had gotten into the cream. She was wearing Ella's gown. The jewelry on her wrists was worth roughly forty times what Ella owed her landlord.

The dressing room was the size of Ella's whole studio. There were orchids in buckets. There was a plate of cookies nobody was eating. Somebody had written WELCOME, LENA in cursive on a mirror that cost more than Ella's year of rent. Ella looked at it and thought: she really did build a palace out of my year.

The second Lena saw her, the switch flipped. It was Oscar-caliber. The smile dropped. Her eyes went red. Her voice softened, shook on cue:

"Ella! What are you— how did you get in here... I know this is hard. I'm so sorry. I never wanted it to be like this—"

The investor's face went from warm to wary. "Who is this?"

"Nobody," Lena said, too fast. "A friend. An old friend. We— we had a falling out. She's been upset." She was already walking toward Ella, arms open, the performance in full bloom. "Ella, honey, why don't we step outside? This isn't the place—"

Ella let herself be steered. She let Lena's arms come around her. There was something almost admirable about the speed of it — the way Lena could switch from cat-that-got-the-cream to wronged-girl in under a heartbeat, the way the investor, given half a second, started looking for the door. This was not the work of a thief. This was the work of an actress who'd spent her whole life auditioning.

Lena was already crossing the room. She pulled Ella into a best-friend hug. Her lips brushed Ella's ear. Her voice turned sweet as poison:

"You don't have any proof, Ella. Your source files — I deleted them. Your backup — I handled that too. Call the police. You can't produce a single original sketch. You should leave right now. If you walk out nice, I'll even write you a kind recommendation for your next interview."

Ella didn't cry. She didn't shake. She just stood there and let the hug run its three full seconds, then leaned into Lena's ear the same way, quiet as a secret.

"You're right. I have no proof. So I came to congratulate you. And by the way—" She lifted her phone, screen-down, and gave it a little shake. "—I was going to send this recording straight to the person you're most afraid of."

Lena's blood left her face in one rush.

"You recorded me?!" She stumbled back half a step, her voice jumping an octave, then caught herself and forced a laugh. "You— you're joking—"

"I am joking." Ella pocketed the phone, still smiling sweet. "It wasn't recording. But that two-second face you just made? Worth every cent of the subway fare."

Lena's expression was that of a woman who has swallowed a live fly. For three seconds the dressing room went completely still. The investor coughed, uncomfortable, and shifted half a step away — he was probably already reconsidering whether this breakout talent was sound as an investment.

Then Lena snapped.

"Security! Security!" she shrieked. "This woman isn't staff! She snuck in to harass me! Get her out!"

Guys came in from both sides and took Ella by the arms. She didn't fight. She even lifted her feet a little to make the dragging easier. She just tilted her head and looked at Lena with something almost gentle.

"Lena. I taught you one thing once. Maybe you forgot. You can alter the garment. You can't alter the stitch. You changed my design. You can't change my thread."

"Throw her out!" Lena's voice was trembling.

They hauled her down the corridor. It was packed — judges, sponsors, investors, press. Everyone stared. Somebody lifted a phone. People murmured: That's the one they say copies. Guess she's just jealous of Miss Miller. Pathetic. And ugly, too.

A woman in a fur coat leaned to her friend. "Is that the original designer?" Her friend whispered back, "No, honey. The original designer would never look this desperate. This is the groupie."

Ella heard it. She let herself hear it. She was training herself, she realized, to keep every word in a box for later. The box was getting heavy.