Sequins, Secrets, and Silver Linings Read Online Free PDF Page B

she’s heard me. Then she says something about growing up in Uganda, where her parents and several of her aunts and uncles and cousins are, and leaving them to come to England when she was eight.
    “Why?” I ask, appalled. I mean, I love England, but leaving your family to come here seems a bit extreme.
    Crow looks at the floor and shrugs. For ages, she says nothing, but we wait. Eventually she looks up.
    “It was difficult in my country. My dad wanted me to get an English education. When my little sister is older, maybe she’ll come, too.”
    “How often do you see your parents?” I wonder. My dad lives in Paris. Mum met him when she was modeling there. I see him twice a year, which really isn’t enough atall. Harry’s dad is in Brazil (Mum traveled a lot), which is worse.
    “Not so much.”
    “How much?”
    “Never,” she almost whispers. “They send photos. My sister, Victoria, sends me her drawings. She’s four now. Nearly five.” She reaches into her satchel and pulls out some folded sheets of paper. They are covered in pictures of smiling children with stick fingers and triangular, colorful clothes under bright blue skies. They are confidently signed Victoria in careful four-year-old writing.
    “So who do you live with?”
    “My auntie Florence. She came here years ago. She’s a cleaning lady at my school. She works very hard.”
    Edie and I both smile encouragingly. We’re not sure what to say.

    On Crow’s second visit, my room is a wreck. I’ve had an idea for a minidress and I’ve been raiding my bookshelves for inspiration. The books are everywhere and there are lots of them. I’m not exactly literary, but if it’s a book about fashion, I have to have it. Mum, Dad, and Granny are very generous (although Dad does insist on giving them to me in French, so I can practice). I haveeverything from serious histories of couture to cutout paper dolls. I’ve been collecting them since I was seven. Most of them are lying open on the carpet and I desperately try to clear a path so Crow can get across the room without treading on them.
    However, she doesn’t move. She’s spellbound. Edie gives me an astonished stare. She’s never seen Crow look enthusiastic about a book before.
    The great thing about fashion books, of course, is the illustrations. Huge, full-page photographs and beautiful drawings. Crow’s eyes dart from a Balenciaga ball gown to an Elizabethan ruff. She crouches down and runs her fingers over the pages.
    “Does this say Dior?” she asks.
    “Yes,” Edie says, instantly switching into teacher mode. “And that says Christian. His … er … Christian name.”
    “Dior is my hero,” Crow breathes. “There’s this woman called Yvette who lives upstairs. She worked for Dior. She’s teaching me to knit and sew. She tells me all about him.”
    Edie and I exchange glances. We both suspect that someone is taking advantage of this innocent little girl from Africa with romantic, unlikely stories. After all, Christian Dior died fifty years ago.
    “May I take it?”
    She’s indicating the fattest book in the pile. It’s a history of the House of Dior and it’s written like a textbook. It’s not exactly “See Spot Run.”
    “Certainly,” says Edie, looking shocked. “I mean, she can, can’t she, Nonie?”
    “Of course.” I shrug. “Take whatever you like.”
    To our amazement, Crow chooses five books and happily piles them up. It occurs to me that maybe she’d have learned to read long ago if people had started her off with cocktail dresses and ball gowns instead of kittens and puppies.
    Edie texts me after her next tutoring session to say they’ve already finished page one. Which, for someone who struggles with “chair,” isn’t bad going, I think.

    Something’s still bothering me, though.
    I’m convinced those skirts and knits we got from the bazaar are amazing, but nobody really believes me. It’s not helped by the fact that I have a reputation for wearing