Will Work for Prom Dress Read Online Free PDF Page A

chops and just had the green-bean-and-mushroom-soup casserole at dinner. Or that I had at least worn my jeans without the frayed waistband. That frayed denim must add at least a half inch. Maybe more.
    Anne seemed to have no such concerns and stood with one hip thrust forward, allowing her already low-slung jeans to slide an inch lower. Her gaze had landed on a guy with black spiky hair. He had what looked like a dog collar around his neck. A strategic rip in his shirt revealed a tribal armband tattoo. Anne’s interest had not escaped the notice of Ms. Parisi, whose perfectly shaped brows were wrinkled in the tiniest frown of dismay.
    The students looked up, one by one, as they completed the task. Ms. Parisi circled the room, nodding and pointing down at their sheets.
    “Very good. Here are the girls’ actual measurements—take a look and see where you might have erred a bit,” she said.
    I blushed again as the class looked from the paper to mybody and made notes and adjustments. I was beginning to wonder whether I had let go of the pizza-making dream a little too soon.
    “Now go ahead and pull out your designs from last week to see which of the girls will better work to model your dress. May I have a show of hands as to who will be using Anne this week?”
    I cringed as all twelve hands shot up. This was like gym class. A guy with wavy, light brown hair looked around and yanked his hand back down.
    “Okay, then. Alexander, will you be needing Quigley for your fitting?”
    “Yes. Sorry, I just got their names mixed up.”
    I breathed a sigh of relief. At least it wasn’t total and complete rejection. Just an eleven out of twelve rejection. Anne squeezed my hand.
    “It’s only because they were doing sheath dresses last week—you know, boobs need not apply,” she whispered.
    I tried to give her a genuine smile back. I really didn’t have any major problems with my body, but getting scrutinized standing next to Anne could give anybody a complex. Anne made a beeline for The Spikester, and I wandered over to Alexander’s table.
    “Hi. I’m Quigley.”
    “Cool name. You can just call me Zander. Do you want to see what I’m working on?”
    I pulled up a stool and sat down. Normally, a guy as good looking as he was would have me stammering and tripping over my feet. But he had such a laid-back manner, it was like I was hanging out with family.
    “See this? The fabric hangs over here and then gets bunched into a shirred bustline,” he said.
    I nodded politely. But in reality, the whole drawing had a sort of bunched look to it. I wasn’t sure what he was going for, but if I had to choose one word for his design, it would have to be
stumpy
. I was starting to feel less than complimented that he chose me for a model. He suddenly threw down his pencil and hung his head in his hands.
    “I know. It’s terrible,” he moaned.
    “Um, nooo. No, it’s just—”
    “Terrible. Terrible! It’s all a bunch of crap.”
    “No, I wouldn’t say
crap
exactly.”
    I tried to tear my eyes away from the overly bright red and fuchsia blob on his sketch pad. The arms and legs he had added for reference had a definite Picasso-esque quality about them. He took a deep breath and let it out slowlythrough pursed lips. He met my concerned gaze and shrugged with a chuckle.
    “Such a drama queen, aren’t I?” He dropped the offending sketch pad into my hands. “Here, let me show you the actual dress.”
    Anne was across the aisle, leaning not so subtly into The Spikester as he laid a swatch of black lace across her shoulder. Ms. Parisi was doing a fair job of pretending she wasn’t hovering over the edgy designer’s shoulder. When I turned back to Zander, I almost dropped his sketch pad. What he held up was a fluid dream in crimson with such a subtle touch of purple that is seemed to glow.
    “Wow.”
    Zander’s eyebrows shot up in relief. “Really?”
    “Oh my God, yes! Oh, I want that.”
    Zander laughed, but I was dead