16. Three Wishes

“No, Nigel.” I’m typing furiously, messaging with one of McQueen’s underlings. If she thinks having the flu is really going to be enough to reschedule this shoot, she has another–

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Nigel huffs. In my peripheral vision, he crosses his arms and shifts his weight in annoyance. 

“Sure I do,” I reply, not taking my eyes from the screen or my fingers from the keys. “You wanted to move your meeting with Miranda up to this afternoon.” 

Nigel’s jaw slackens, and his arms drop to his sides. 

“How did you possibly know that? It was a lucky guess, wasn’t it?”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, please. You’ve been more chipper than sullen, which means you either got a promotion, or a date. Since Irv’s keeping a close eye on the budget, it’s not a promotion. Plus, you’re wearing a different cologne. It’s the one you wore for Paris, not your day to day one. So you’ve got a big date tonight, and you want to get your meeting with Miranda over with today instead of having to come in tomorrow, and ruining the afterglow with weekend work.” 

I press Enter on my last message to the McQueen minion and look up at Nigel. 

“Did I miss anything?” 

His shock flickers for half a second before he recovers, smirk sliding into place like armor. He leans against my desk, eyes skimming me in assessment.

“Well, well,” he drawls. “Bambi’s not so clueless after all.” 

My jaw ticks. The old me would have taken the bait, fired something back, or let it get to me. Instead, I stand, grab my tablet, and walk away.

“So can I have my meeting?” Nigel calls after me. 

“I already said no,” I call back and don’t stop walking. 

Miranda is standing to the side of her desk, staring down at a dozen or so photographs, one hand braced against the back of her chair, the other tapping the arm of her reading glasses against her pursed lips. 

Something about the way she does it—the steady, rhythmic tap—makes my pulse jump half a beat faster. 

Or maybe it’s anxiety at the possibility of being late to her most important meeting of the week. 

I’m about to open my mouth—to tell her it’s time, that Roy is waiting downstairs—but before I can, she glances up. Her eyes collide with mine.

She lowers her glasses, barely sparing me a glance, and flicks her fingers once—come forward. Then, just as quickly, she’s back to the photographs.

I hurry forward, ready to make whatever she wants happen. 

A ridiculous image of myself as a genie, hovering over the ground and awaiting my mistress’s wishes, pops into my head. It takes a monumental amount of self-control not to giggle.

Then again, I’m probably better than a genie, I smirk inwardly, keeping my actual expression blank. No three-wish limit. No fine print. Just say the word, Miranda—ask for more.

“Pick three,” is all Miranda says when I reach her desk. 

I know better than to ask any of the inane questions Miranda doesn’t want to hear, like Why? I turn my attention to the photographs. 

This is obviously a test of some kind. I don’t know the stakes, but they’re never low when Miranda is involved. 

My palms start to sweat and I have to resist the urge to wipe them on my pants. 

Show no fear, Sachs. 

I know every second I hesitate is a point against me. My brain whirs to life under the pressure. 

I recognize outfits. Alexander McQueen’s Spring/Summer line, first seen in Paris just a couple months ago. Just like under the music and lights of the show, I can’t pick a favorite. 

Miranda’s not asking for your opinion, dummy, I berate myself. Focus. 

I take another costly moment, and then I pick my three. The all black, highly structured suit, the red high neck dress that falls in loose drapes, and the shimmering metallic dress with a structured peplum bodice and tinsel like skirt. 

“Hmm,” Miranda hums. I stand there nervously, unsure if I passed or not. 

Turns out the test isn’t over. 

“Why?”

I take a deep breath. I’m ready for this. 

I don’t get into the things she already knows I know: there are too many pieces in any collection for Runway to show them all, so we have to be picky and intentional about what we choose to show. 

I don’t bother telling her that I’ve finally figured it out: fashion is just like writing. Every good piece is an argument. And every piece we choose for Runway has to support whatever argument we’re making.

I start with the things that aren’t baseline assumptions. 

“The collection is about finding balance in dichotomies,” I say, glancing up, then chickening out. “Some pieces are fully structured, others all about movement, but the final piece—” I tap the third photo. “Emphasized incorporating both in harmony. These are distinct enough from each other to stand out, but they don’t work against each other. They make the argument that you don’t have to be just one thing. They could go well with an article on the impossibility of femininity in a man’s world, and deciding to take up space however works for you.” 

I end on a bit of a rush, afraid that if I stop to breathe, I might second-guess myself. But I don’t. I just let it stand.

I risk another glance at Miranda, but she’s not looking at me. She’s looking at the photos I chose, tapping the arm of her glasses lightly against the desk. 

“An interesting argument.” 

Without another word, she’s sweeping out of the room. 

“Is Roy waiting?” she asks as I scramble to catch up. 

“Yes,” I breathe. I clear my throat. “Yes, he’s ready to take you to the girls’ parent teacher conference.” 

“Right,” Miranda nearly growls. “Well, we’d best be going. We can’t leave them alone with that insipid woman for too long. They might finally decide to smother her in her sleep.” 

I fight back a giggle as we reach the elevator doors before it registers what she said. 

We? My brain stutters, tripping over the word like a missed step on marble.

Miranda strides into the waiting elevator car and turns back to look at me, paused mid-stride like a cartoon character who just realized she ran off a cliff.

“Well?” she demands impatiently. Her toe lifts as if to start tapping, and I snap myself out of my momentary freeze. 

“Yes, Miranda.” It’s the only safe thing I can think to say as I take her side in the elevator. 

Will she ever stop surprising me?