Sunny Sheer's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

By Thursday night Sunny had three dress fronts and three backs. She had sewn them together at her desk, feeding each seam through the blue machine. But when she held one up, her stomach dropped. The thing hung like a sack. No waist, no shape, just flat panels stitched into a tube. Her friends wanted dresses that fit. This looked like a pillowcase with flowers. She texted Daisy. Then she carried all three across town to the brick apartment block where Daisy lived. Daisy opened the door in socks, a half-eaten apple in one hand. She took one look at the sacks draped over Sunny's arm and frowned. "You sewed them straight down," she said. "No darts. No shaping." "I don't know how to shape anything," Sunny said. Daisy waved her in. Two others sat on the floor by a script. Sunny knew them from the tailor shop talk. Shelby, orange ponytail, boots still on. And Bryson, black hoodie, green shoes, knee bouncing like he couldn't sit still. He'd been getting up at five every morning to train for track tryouts. The nerves showed. "She needs these to fit by tomorrow," Daisy told them. She spread a dress flat on the floor and pinched the fabric at the waist. "Pinch here. Pin it. Then sew the fold down. That's a dart. It pulls the flat cloth around the body." Shelby picked up a dress and turned it over. "Make them try it on someone," she said. "Flat on the floor lies to you." Sunny flushed. Nobody there matched her friends' sizes. Bryson stopped bouncing. "My sister," he said. "She's their age. Lives one floor down." He stood and left without waiting for an answer. He came back with a girl who looked bored but willing. Sunny slid the first dress over her head. It bagged at the sides. Daisy pinched the loose cloth, Sunny pinned, and the sack suddenly curved inward. A waist appeared. The girl turned and the flowers followed her shape instead of hanging off it. "That," Shelby said, and stopped. Sunny worked for two hours on Daisy's floor. She pinned darts, checked the fit on Bryson's sister, then sewed each fold flat with the blue machine. The hem she turned up and stitched clean. By eleven, three patchwork dresses hung from the back of a chair, each one curved, fitted, finished. They no longer looked homemade. They looked made. Bryson walked her to the door. "Good luck tomorrow," he said. "You too," she answered, meaning tryouts. Sunny carried the dresses home in a bag held flat so the folds stayed crisp. Tomorrow morning three girls would hand her money for clothes she'd built with her own hands. The thought thrilled her, then turned cold. These three believed she'd been a designer all along. If they loved the dresses, they would want more. And more meant keeping the lie alive, or telling the truth.