Design and Drive

Claire knows the last thing she should be doing is sneaking a dress form into her family’s house. For one, dress forms are bulky things that are quite difficult to hide, but she didn’t think about that when Arthur said he found one for cheap from a thrift store going out of business. 

The cover of darkness is a plus as she climbs through the living room window. “Why couldn’t we have just used the front door?” Arthur stands in the grass, holding up half of the form as Claire eases it through the window. 

She shushes him. “There’s a Ring camera.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, mutters out something about rich people, but continues easing the form through the window. 

For a split moment, Claire thinks they’ve pulled off the reverse heist, the form almost completely in the house. The only steps left are to haul it up the stairs and tuck it away in the recesses of her well stocked closet. Claire is about to mentally celebrate when the kitchen light flicks on. 

She freezes like a deer. Arthur drops the form, and it crashes into the living room, bouncing across the oak floors. “Um, hey Dad, fancy seeing you here.” Claire had forgotten about the man’s proclivity for the midnight munchies.

Her dad's eyes dance between the form that lays like a corpse on the floor to the window – a site that Arthur had abandoned only a moment prior. Claire would be having some choice words with him later about that. Her dad pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a disappointed sigh.

The weight of a thousand strained conversations weighs on Claire’s shoulders.

“We’re talking in the morning about this. Go put that out in the garage and go to bed.”

“But–”

“Leave it, Claire.” He puts up a hand that she can’t help but obey. Their house, their rules, her parents say. It wouldn’t matter if she were two or twenty, it’s all the same. 

Claire drags the dress form – significantly heavier now that she doesn’t have Arthur’s assistance – into the garage. She cups the shoulder of it, the fabric worn but soft. “I’ll find a way to get you back.” She knows it’ll be gone before she even opens her eyes, that her dad, maybe her mom, will have shucked it to the curb to be hauled away with the trash. Hope is a silly thing to have.

Claire’s mom drums her fingers along the marble counter. She keeps glancing at her watch, as if the law firm would burn to the ground if she wasn’t there at exactly 8:45 in the morning. 

Claire sits at the counter in front of her mother, stirring a bowl of cornflakes.

“You said you would let this go.” Her mom’s voice cuts through the air as sharply as her cross examination. “No more sneaking off in the middle of the night, no more fashion nonsense.”

“It isn’t nonsense.” Claire looks up through her lashes, though the fire in her mom’s eyes brings her gaze right back to the cereal that grows soggier by the second. 

“Your mother and I are just trying to look out for you, honey.” Her dad’s voice, though lighter than last night, is still laced with a sweetness that could only mean a trap – a venus flytrap of a statement. 

Claire drops her spoon in her bowl. “How is kicking down my dreams looking out for me?” Disdain bubbles in her chest, and she tries her best to beat it back down. Hate isn’t what she feels, not for her parents, but the anger is difficult to quell. She’s a field of dry grass; her parents provide the spark.

Her mom’s phone rings, no doubt one of her employees – or associates she likes to call them. “You have a good thing here, Claire, most kids would be jumping at the opportunity.”

“I’m not a kid,” Claire retorts.

Her mom shakes her head. “I’m sorry, that’s right, an adult then. Most adults your age are in college right now, you know.” She steps back, answering the phone call as if she wasn’t in the middle of a conversation.

Claire turns to her dad but scoffs when she sees him sorting through the case files in his briefcase. She slides off her stool, plucking her cereal as she does so. “To be continued then.” The kitchen falls into a hum of her mom’s bickering with an associate and the fluttering of papers as Claire drops her cereal in the sink and marches off towards the front door. Her parents aren’t the only people that need to get to work.

Arthur leans against the checkout counter and Claire flips through a magazine. “Oh, the ‘scowl of displeasure.’ I take it Mr. Jacobs didn’t take well to the little break in?” 

Claire slides the magazine to the side and slips a sketchbook from her bag. Michael’s is dead on a Tuesday afternoon, especially the fabric counter. “No, he loved it, even helped me bring the form up to my room.”

Arthur pushed himself off the counter and began pacing around the small space they were allowed to inhabit like animals at an underfunded zoo. “I don’t see why you don’t just leave then.” He hovers over Claire’s shoulder as she replicates the newest Armani line in her own sketch style. “Finally follow up with that internship in New York, take out a loan, see what happens between now and when the sharks come biting.” Arthur digs his fingers into her shoulder, light enough to still be teasing. “I’m game to buy two tickets north.” 

Claire shrugs him away. “I can’t just leave.” She pauses as the fantasy plays out for a moment. Getting a train ticket to New York wouldn’t be that hard – and the internship in question was still waiting on a final confirmation. There are a few weeks of time before it falls through – though they wanted her to come with a new piece which she hadn’t even started on.

In reality, it would be simple, especially with Arthur’s help, but then she thinks of her parents waking up one day only to find out their daughter disappeared into the night like a phantom. 

She shakes her head, fantasy fading. “It’s not that easy.”

Arthur snatches the magazine out from under her. “Bullshit, you’re just being jumpy.” He flips through a few pages. “Is it because you haven’t made your piece yet? Mom and dad breathing down your neck during the day?” 

Claire grabs the magazine back. “Don’t you have shelves to stock or something?”

Arthur smirks. “Definelty uninspired then. You always resort to Armani when you need a bit of inspo.” 

Claire doesn’t comment, just shoves the man away and glares at her page.

Night has fallen once more as Claire drags her sewing supplies out from the corner of her closet, carefully hidden beneath shoes and bedsheets. Her parents' snores can be heard faintly down the hall, but aside from that the house is quiet.

It’s work time.

She fishes her sketchbook out of her bag and flips to the most recently completed page. The design looks back at her, taunting. All you need to do is make me? Why is that so hard? Claire traces a finger along the darkened graphite. The sewing isn’t the hard part, neither is the designing at this point. She’s been pooling together fabrics for weeks from estate sales, the scrap bin at work, and thrift shops. The patterns have been made; the portfolio already sent.

The team wants her, all she has to do is one last project, and she’ll be on her way.

Claire bites her lip, frowning ever so. Arthur’s words replay in her mind like a broken tape, over and over again. Why don’t you just leave? 

She huffs as loudly as she’ll allow herself given the hour and plucks a needle from her kit. A machine is out of the question, too loud, too artificial. Hand sewn is where she shines. Claire begins to work, picks colored threads to match the fabric, slips her tape measure around her neck to keep it steady, pulls her makeshift form out from under her bed – the one she made with duct tape, pillow fluff, and Arthur’s assistance.

Hours pass like minutes as the piece becomes whole under her careful hands. Something that wows but holds hands with practicality. Something that pops within the crowd, but not in a garish way. Something that’s stylish but not overly so, attuned to the intrigue of the unknown.

Claire pulls her hair back as she works, wipes her brow when sweat begins to form. The sun creeps on the horizon, peeking to see what this young woman has created, if she’ll dare give it a glance.

Then, as quickly as she began, Claire sits back with a sign. The jumpsuit is finished, inspired by haute couture, particularly Armani’s collection – of course. She holds a hand over her mouth. It was over. “I wish that was the hard part.

Dinner a few days later is tense, a repeat of the previous breakfast. Claire’s unspoken words are heavy on her tongue, but she knows she must say them, for her own sake. She pushes around her pasta. “I applied to a fashion internship.” 

Her dad drops his fork, but her mom is the first to respond. “Claire, dear, we’ve been over this a million times. You have to be realistic about your future if you want-”

“I got it.” The table goes quiet. Her mom’s expression is blank for a moment as Claire feels the woman search her face for some clue that this is a joke. As if. She returns to her pasta, but Claire’s stomach twists, and she knows she can’t stomach another bite. “It’s in New York, so it’s kind of far, but I think it would be really good.” She looks at her dad for backup. “It pays too.” She sent photos of her piece, modeled it herself. The company adored it.

Her mother rubs her temple. “New York, honey, do you know how far that is?” 

Claire knows, it’s part of the reason she took so long to respond to the offer. It’s hours away by train, even more by car. It’s not an impossible distance to cover, but it's certainly more than walking down the hall and knowing her parents will be there like they’ve always been. But the offer is a lifeline, a chance that she can’t let slip away, not again. “I’ll visit as much as I can. I’ll call; I’ll text.” Her voice comes out rushed. “I just- I can’t-” Tears burn her eyes. “I can’t keep hiding this part of me away and pretend like that’s okay.” 

The temperature in the room drops; Claire’s pasta grows cold, untouched. 

Her dad puts a hand on her mom’s shoulder. “We only want you to be rational about this.”

The anger is back, boiling in her gut. She doesn’t want to scorch her parents, not really. She has loved them for as long as she has lived and will continue to do so until she takes her last breath, but there are times when one cannot deny their hungry stomach any longer. “I am being rational; you just don’t like it.” Claire storms out of the kitchen before another admission can fall from her lips.

That night, Claire sneaks out through the living room window.

Arthur helps by hoisting out her suitcase. It’s just a carry-on, but it was the best she could muster. There are many things left in her room: clothes she’ll never see again, cards from family members, and certificates from school. She makes sure to take the pictures though, as many as she can squeeze into her backpack. Even if she’s no longer in their home, her parents will always be with her.

Arthur wraps an arm around her shoulder as they make their way around the side of the house, taking care not to get caught by the Ring camera. His touch is the only thing that keeps Claire tethered to the ground as her head feels like it’s about to float away. Maybe from elation? Maybe from fear. “You’re gonna owe me once you get famous, alright? I’m collecting interest on these tickets.” 

Claire wipes a stray tear from her eye. It’s an odd thing to cry with a smile. “I’ll let you walk in my first show.” 

The moon is their only light as they two make their way down the street, the Amtrak station their destination.