Sunny Sheer's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Sunny Sheer told the girl at the lunch table she sold her own fashion line. The words came out before she could stop them. For once, people looked at her. Sunny wore a flower-print dress, pink shoes, and her glasses slid down her nose. "You make all this yourself?" the girl asked. Sunny nodded. The problem was the dress came from a store. She had never sewn a single stitch in her life. That night she couldn't sleep. By morning the story had spread. Three girls wanted to buy her "handmade" pieces. Sunny stared at the store tags still hidden in her closet. A lie this size needed to become true, fast. If she wanted her own floral boutique someday, she had to actually learn. She searched her phone and found a small tailor's shop across town. The studio smelled of warm cloth and oil. Bolts of fabric stood in neat rows. Behind a worktable sat Daisy Lyter, a girl from Sunny's school. Sunny froze. Daisy had the lead in the spring musical now, and everyone knew her name. Once, Sunny had given Daisy honest advice about her audition. They were barely more than acquaintances. "Sunny?" Daisy looked up, surprised. A measuring tape hung around her neck. "My aunt owns this place. I help out weekends." She studied Sunny's face. "You look like someone who got caught." Sunny's cheeks burned. The whole thing spilled out. The lie. The orders. The store tags. "I told people I sew. I can't sew anything." Daisy didn't laugh. She remembered how Sunny had been straight with her once, when nobody else would. "You helped me tell the truth on that stage," she said. "So I'll help you make yours real." She crossed the room and pulled a cover off a small blue sewing machine. It had a sturdy body and a round handwheel on the side. "Portable. Easy to learn. Sit." For three hours Sunny practiced. The needle snapped twice. Her first seam zigzagged like a lightning bolt. Daisy guided her hands, showing her how to feed the fabric slow and steady. "Flowers, right?" Daisy said. She found a bolt of pink floral cotton and cut a simple square. By evening Sunny held her work up to the light. A small drawstring pouch, crooked but finished. Her own stitches. Nobody else's. It wasn't a dress. It wasn't a line. But it was real, and she had made it. "I'll buy the machine," Sunny said. Daisy wrote the price on a tag. Sunny walked out with the machine in a case and the pouch in her hand. She was no longer lying. But three girls at school expected finished floral pieces by Friday. She could sew one crooked pouch. They wanted dresses. Sunny gripped the handle tighter. Now the real work began, and the clock was already running.