Chapter 2: The Sketchbook She Never Knew Existed
The first page of my secret sketchbook was covered in blue ink.
Not paint.
Ink.
I'd drawn it when I was fifteen, sitting beside Grandma's hospital bed while rain tapped against the windows. She had been too weak to speak much that afternoon, so I'd shown her the dresses I'd been sketching in the margins of my school notebooks.
She had studied them through her reading glasses.
Then she'd pointed at one.
“This one,” she'd whispered.
I had laughed nervously.
“That one is impossible, Grandma. I don't even know how I'd make it.””
She had squeezed my fingers.
“Then you'll learn.””
Those words had stayed with me long after she was gone.
I turned the page.
And there it was.
My most ambitious design.
A gown I had named The Phoenix.
The silhouette was dramatic, with a fitted ivory bodice, a sculpted waist, and a sweeping skirt made of layered fabric panels that rose behind the wearer like unfurling wings. Delicate silver embroidery traced the edges, catching the light with every movement.
It was elegant without being ordinary.
Bold without being loud.
And unlike the gown Vanessa had destroyed, this design had been created specifically to transform under the lights.
The layers would reflect different shades of white and silver as the wearer moved, creating the illusion of feathers lifting in the wind.
I'd spent nearly two years refining the sketch.
I'd never attempted to make it because I was afraid.
Afraid I didn't have the skills.
Afraid the construction would collapse.
Afraid that if I failed, I'd lose the one design that felt entirely, unmistakably mine.
Now I had nothing left to protect.
I placed the sketchbook on my desk.
“Mom?””
She appeared in the doorway immediately.
“Yes, sweetheart?””
“Do we still have the ivory satin from Grandma's old sewing supplies?””
Mom blinked.
“The satin from the storage trunk?””
“Yes.””
“I think so. Why?””
I turned the sketchbook toward her.
She stepped closer.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she reached for the page as if afraid it might disappear.
“Emily,” she whispered.
“You drew this?””
I nodded.
“When?””
“Over the last two years.””
She examined the details, moving her finger above the page without touching it.
“The construction here... and these layers...”” She looked up.
“Have you ever made anything like this?””
“No.””
Her face fell slightly.
I forced myself to continue.
“But I know how to start.””
Dad entered carrying a towel and a glass of water.
“What's going on?””
Mom handed him the sketchbook.
He studied the design, then looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
“This is yours?””
“Yes.””
“Emily, this is extraordinary.””
I swallowed.
“It's only a drawing.””
“No,” he said firmly.
“It's a plan. And plans can become real.””
Mom immediately began thinking aloud.
“We have the satin. There's some ivory organza in the storage trunk, and I remember Grandma keeping silver thread in her sewing cabinet.””
“The silver thread is too thin for the embroidery,” I said automatically.
“I'd need the thicker metallic cord.””
Dad smiled faintly.
“There she is.””
“What?””
“The girl who knows exactly what she needs.””
For the first time since Vanessa had emptied that paint can, I felt something other than grief.
It wasn't confidence.
Not yet.
It was possibility.
Then Mom glanced at the clock.
“It's nearly one. The gala starts at seven.””
Six hours.
Six hours to cut the fabric, construct the bodice, build the layered skirt, finish the seams, and somehow make the design wearable.
My stomach twisted.
“I can't do it.””
Mom took both my hands.
“You don't have to do it perfectly. You just have to do the next thing.””
Dad nodded.
“I'll get the fabric from the trunk. Your mother can help with the hand-sewing.””
“And I can use Grandma's machine,” I said.
Mom smiled.
“Then let's begin.””
For the next twenty minutes, my bedroom became a command center.
Dad dragged the old storage trunk from the hall closet. Mom spread the ivory satin across my desk, smoothing out creases with her palms. I gathered scissors, pins, measuring tape, and every spool of thread I could find.
The room smelled of dust, warm cotton, and the faint lavender scent Grandma had used to protect her fabric.
I measured my waist.
Then my shoulders.
Then the length from my collarbone to the floor.
I drew construction lines directly onto a paper pattern, checking every measurement twice.
At one thirty-seven, I made the first cut.
The scissors slid through the satin with a crisp, terrifying sound.
There was no going back.
“Are you sure?”” Mom asked quietly.
I stared at the fabric.
“No,” I admitted.
“But I'm doing it anyway.””
She kissed the top of my head.
“That's usually how courage works.””
I began with the bodice.
The first seam went crooked.
I ripped it out.
The second seam pulled too tightly across the fabric.
I ripped that out, too.
By the third attempt, my fingers were shaking.
Dad appeared with sandwiches and a thermos of coffee for Mom.
“You need to eat something,” he said.
“I can't.””
“Emily.””
“I have five hours!””
“And you'll have five hours whether you eat or not.””
Mom took the sandwich from him, tore off a small piece, and held it toward me.
I stared at her.
She raised an eyebrow.
I took the bite.
“Good,” Dad said.
“Now go back to making history.””
For a moment, I laughed.
It was a small sound, almost unfamiliar, but it loosened something tight in my chest.
Then the sewing machine jammed.
I pressed the pedal again.
Nothing.
“No, no, no.””
I lifted the presser foot and pulled the fabric free. A nest of tangled thread had formed beneath the needle.
“Dad!””
He hurried over.
“What happened?””
“The bobbin's jammed.””
He crouched beside the machine while I carefully removed the tangled thread.
Mom leaned over my shoulder.
“Can you fix it?””
“I can try.””
I cleaned the bobbin case, rethreaded the machine, and tested it on a scrap of fabric.
The needle moved.
I exhaled so hard that Dad laughed.
“One problem solved.””
“One of a hundred,” I muttered.
But I kept going.
By three o'clock, the bodice had taken shape. The satin hugged the dress form, its seams smooth and clean. I added the first layer of organza, pinning it in sweeping curves that echoed the lines of the sketch.
Mom helped me secure the edges by hand.
Dad became my unofficial supply runner, searching every drawer for the right thread, bringing water, and answering the door when a delivery arrived.
We worked in near silence except for the steady hum of the machine and the occasional hiss of steam from Mom's iron.
Then, at three twenty, Vanessa returned.
She stood in the doorway holding a white shopping bag.
Her gaze traveled over the room.
The discarded blue-stained gown.
The fabric on my desk.
The new dress taking shape on the dress form.
And finally, the sketchbook lying open beside the sewing machine.
Her eyebrows rose.
“What is all this?””
I didn't turn around.
“I'm making a dress.””
Vanessa laughed.
“With what? Bed sheets?””
“Vanessa,” Mom warned from the ironing board.
But Vanessa had already stepped inside.
She picked up a piece of organza between two fingers.
“This looks like something you'd find in a discount bridal shop.””
“Put that down,” I said.
She held it against her shoulder, examining herself in the mirror.
“Actually, maybe I should wear it. I'm sure I'd look better in it than you would.””
“Put it down.””
She tossed the fabric onto the desk.
Then she noticed the sketchbook.
“What is this?””
My heart lurched.
“Nothing.””
She reached for it.
I moved faster, snatching it from the desk.
“Don't touch that!””
Vanessa stared at me.
For one second, something like surprise flickered across her face.
Then she laughed.
“Oh, my God. Is this your little secret diary?””
“It's my design book.””
She held out her hand.
“Let me see.””
“No.””
Her smile faded.
“Excuse me?””
“You heard me.””
The room went still.
Vanessa had spent years teaching me to retreat whenever she raised her voice. She expected me to apologize, to lower my eyes, to hand over whatever she wanted.
This time, I didn't move.
She glanced at Dad.
“Are you going to let her speak to me like that?””
Dad folded his arms.
“She's working, Vanessa. Leave her alone.””
Vanessa looked back at me.
“You really think you're going to pull this off?””
“Yes.””
The answer came out before I could talk myself out of it.
She glanced at the clock.
“It's almost three thirty. You have three and a half hours to make an entire gown.””
“I know.””
“And you're using fabric from Grandma's old trunk?””
“Yes.””
She shook her head.
“You're delusional.””
I held her gaze.
“Maybe.””
Then I turned back to the machine.
Vanessa stood there for another moment, waiting for me to break.
When I didn't, she snatched her shopping bag from the floor.
“Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you.””
She walked toward the door.
Then she stopped.
“Oh, Emily?””
I kept sewing.
“You should probably know something.””
My foot lifted from the pedal.
“What?””
Vanessa smiled.
“The judges have already seen the photographs of your original dress.””
My blood went cold.
“What photographs?””
She shrugged.
“Maybe you should ask yourself who else had access to your room before I arrived.””
Then she left.
The door clicked shut.
I stared at the empty doorway.
Mom slowly lowered the iron.
“Emily,” she said, “what does she mean?””
I looked down at the ruined gown lying in the corner.
Then at the sketchbook in my hands.
And suddenly, I remembered something.
Two weeks earlier, I had emailed the organizers photographs of my nearly finished original design.
If Vanessa had somehow sent them pictures of the ruined dress, the judges might already believe I had abandoned my entry.
But that wasn't the worst part.
The competition rules stated that every design had to be submitted under the contestant's registered name, with the original concept documented.
I opened my laptop and logged into my email.
My hands trembled as I searched the competition inbox.
There was a new message.
The subject line read:
*URGENT: CONCERN REGARDING YOUR GALA ENTRY.*
May you like
I clicked it.
And as I read the first sentence, the room seemed to tilt beneath me.
