by Lauren Mueller
My best friend was a great fashion designer because of me.
Brinn Hart- her name, and her brand’s. It was an honor to have attended the same institution as her. She and I have known each other since middle school. Though back then, I resented her.
I have always liked to fancy myself avant-garde, though in middle school this meant poorly caked mall-goth powder, drugstore eyeliner, plastic-y replicas of stainless steel chokers I wrapped around my throat like a noose. Brinn didn’t like me so much back then. Or, at least, I resented her enough that in my own self hatred I reflected my own sentiments onto her. I would lie in bed and imagine a world where I was in her inner circle. I’d have nonconsensually shiny dreams where the two of us were friends of the closest sort. She’d hug me smelling of nauseatingly sweet vanilla mall perfume, sporting busted uggs with sequin charms I’d scoff at. For a moment I would not be left alone in my own chronically glamorized nihilism. There would be two of us.
Around high school, this resentment faded. I was not beautiful yet, but she was. As we grew closer as friends, I also began to notice the glances she constantly drew. This was another thing about Brinn I envied, she toed that line between strange and charmingly artistic. Her skirts were short and pleated, her eyes framed with robin’s egg shadow like a doll’s. She wore dainty white headbands in her blond straight hair like a cheerleader in an eighties movie. I adored her. And somehow, by the grace of the shared common interest of fashion, she adored me back.
We’d pour over the same magazines, admire the same models, and gush over fabrics online at school. She was the Marilyn to my Audrey. The Amades Wolfgang to my Metallica. We even applied to all the same colleges.
I remember Brinn and I working on our portfolios for months. I remember standing with my old Canon camera as Brinn meticulously adjusted an iridescent A-line skirt she had sewn. The hem had a sort of uneven ruffled edge, like the waves of a lake, or a petal. All of Brinn’s clothes looked like they belonged on a barbie or a porcelain doll. They had the same very unique affect about them that made her look like she was possessing herself; This pristine, clean, quality. It was as if by holding them in your hands a small piece of their perfection might just seep into your own presence.
Our top choice for college was The Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT), based in New York. I had known I would be able to attend, filled with 16-year-old hubris that my pieces were more unique, more cut-throat and innovative than anyone else’s.
Somehow, my leather slips and iron-tipped tulle skirts slid in along with Brinn’s silk and cotton pleats. Somehow, our paths continued to align.
I remember the tears in her eyes when we’d gotten our letters, her voice had been pitched high and squeaky with excitement. Usually, it was smooth like the transatlantic actors from old Hollywood. It could be intentional, a purposeful inflection to complete her aesthetic, but I could easily believe it wasn’t, that this was just another inexplicable piece of her.
“Margot,” she’d breathed, as she’d fluttered her hands delicately with excitement, “Margot, we’re gonna go to school together! We’re gonna be shiny and perfect, just like Coco!”
I laughed with my own put-upon effect, rolling my heavily lined eyes. But deep down, I was thrilled.
We were going to be just like Coco. Donatella. Westwood and Prada.
She would be the Vivienne to my McQueen, and all would be well.
Until she stole my dress.
There is a competition every year at FIT, which doubles as a yearly partnership with Vogue. Whoever has the best piece will be featured in their autumn spread. In other words, you won a guaranteed job at Vogue as long as you played your cards right. Naturally, Brinn and I had been trying out for this challenge every year.
My first piece had been black cargos, embroidered with silver thread in the shapes of trees and animals, my second a detailed corset, lined with a plastic substance which resembled bones.
By my third year I decided to try something different. A simple slip with a black créme bodice. The cut was unoriginal, yet timeless. My coupe de grace, however, was that I had found some old beads Brinn had gifted me, back when we were fourteen. I remembered that ethereal effect she’d had– her, and everything she made. So I sewed the small beads –most likely purchased from some old toy store– into the lining of the gown. I stitched little strawberries, flowers, and stars. As I worked, I looked at the bleakness of the fabric, admiring how it seemed so empty, like a void simply waiting to be adorned with sparkling stars.
When Brinn had seen it, she had gasped with joy.
“Margie, It’s gorgeous!” She pouted. “Almost makes me wish I’d tried again.”
I smiled back, tasting Marshall’s black lipstick on my teeth with a laugh.
“The whole thing is a crapshoot, anyway.”
But I couldn’t help but agree. The dress was gorgeous.
On the day we were meant to meet with our models, (Naturally, I had chosen Brinn) I woke up with a headache. I didn’t want to miss the photoshoot, but when I’d stood up, the room spun and I’d had to grab the corner of my nightstand like I was a swooning maiden in a movie
Perhaps it had been all the sleepless nights up stitching and sketching, perhaps it had been the habit of smoking we had both developed, or perhaps it had been the college slop I had been turning up my nose to (Donatella Versace mustn’t have eaten such things!). Either way, I could not leave my bed. I phoned Brinn, despondent, and she had been instantly sympathetic, kindly offering to take the photos herself. I got off the phone –after Brinn had promised to bring me soup later in the day– feeling slightly relieved. Brinn would do the photoshoot and submit the photos in the morning. Brinn is nothing if not an amalgamation of contradictions. All was well.
–Until I saw a small “Brinn Hart” typed out in the list of designers next hitting the upcoming issue of Vogue.
This was shocking for more reasons than simple betrayal. I had always been the jealous one, the lurking shadow, the artist stalking her muse. And now our roles had been switched.
My muse had taken my work. She had submitted it as her own, pinned carefully between charmed nails. She had signed her own name in her perfect Barbie script where it should have read mine.
The resentment toward my best friend had never left, but I found it did not even increase upon finding this. Rather, a sick sort of obsession began to take hold of me.
When had she begun to admire me? Had she known I would win, found my dress perfect enough for her shiny ideals? Or was I just another shadow for her to flick away with her touch, unmatched by her own effervescence?
I realized then I needed to be near her. To look her in the eye and match this girl I had once hated, who I adored, with my betrayer.
Now here we sit, reclined against the roof of our dorm building, the expanse of New York City spread out below us. So high up, the rushing taxis look like gold buttons ready to be placed upon a gown in adornment. Everyone feels like bugs.
I take a drag of our shared cigarette and pass it to Brinn. My lipstick leaves an imprint as she places it between her lips.
She is vibrating, either from excitement or nervousness. The cigarette shakes between her fingers. Watching her smoke has always felt like watching a child cuss, perversely entertaining and oddly wrong. She steals a glance at me, does she know I know?
She must, I think, as I watch the ember burn. Closer and closer to the end of the filter. Closer to her porcelain doll fingers.
I take it from her before it can burn, bumming the rest of the cigarette in one go. I blow the smoke out of my lips harshly in a thin stream like a bullet.
“You made it to Vogue,” I breathe out. No use hiding it any more. I flick the singe-ing paper from my fingers, wondering if it will burn some unsuspecting pedestrian.
Brinn Hart is silent. I grit my teeth and study her. Her eyes are clear and her lips are wobbly, and she looks like she might cry.
“You made it to Vogue with my dress, Brinn.” But it tumbles weakly from my lips. I don’t like watching her cry, even after this. She doesn’t answer, just presses her face further against her palms. I think of all her clean, sparkly makeup smearing against them.
“Brinn!”
Answer me. See me. For once, see me how I see you.
I imagine all the words she could say to me, I was intimidated, You’re just so amazing, any placating phrase or compliment that might fix this situation. We could go to the editors. We could call it a mistake.
But Brinn just looks up at me with her wide, doe-like eyes, “I-I just.” She looks away, biting her lip. “I knew you wouldn’t stop me, Margot. I knew in the end you wouldn’t mind.”
She looks at me, hopeful, naive, entitled. She knows she is right.
I think of all the beads she has given me, all the hugs, all the lunches she has invited me to, all the tiny pieces of kindness she had given me when I was not on my knees begging.
I try to count the times this girl has studied me, has thought of me as something close to perfection, and come up with next to nothing.
I examine my muse. Today she is wearing a long, blouse-like dress. The white ruffles flutter on the windy rooftop.
Very carefully, I wipe a tear from beneath her eye. Her skin is warm, not like a doll’s at all. Brinn begins to stutter.
“Margot, there’ll be next year. With your talent, we could both-“
I lean closer. Brinn falls silent as I breathe my tobacco breath over her face. It seems no matter what I do, Brinn will always be the muse. The apple of the public’s eye. If only I could touch her, squeeze her hard enough to get even an ounce of her untouchable perfection.
And then I push her from the rooftop to land amongst the yellow beads of taxis.