“I’m a big fan of your blog.”
This is what Fred LaChapelle says to me.
There’s this whole awkward interlude where I stand at the door and stare at him. I try to take the bottle of wine and almost drop it. Three times. Nathan comes to rescue me. LaChapelle finally gets inside the penthouse and somehow the wine ends up in the kitchen.
Gareth comes down off the ladder, takes one look at my face and shows me some pity. He ushers LaChapelle into the living room, makes sure he gets something to eat and drink and starts a conversation about holiday decor.
When I’ve had time to adjust to the fact that the guy I’ve been hoping to meet for years is sitting next to me at a party, Gareth steers the conversation back to me. “I mentioned to Fred I’d like to keep you in New York.”
Fred.
Gareth’s on a first-name basis with someone I should be calling Dean LaChapelle.
I think about all the questions I’ve dreamed of asking. What’s it like to mentor the top names in fashion? How does it feel to be in charge of the world’s most influential design school? But nothing comes out and instead I’m a spectator, sitting there like a well-behaved child who is quiet while the adults are talking.
“Yes,” LaChapelle says. He’s got his crimson, striped tie in a Van Wijk knot, which I’ve never seen in person because you pretty much have to be a wizard to do it. He leans in toward me, as if we’re now very good friends. “Gareth mentioned you had an interest in Parsons and asked, in light of your studies at Arizona State and your successful blog, if I might be able to pull a few strings to enable you to bypass the usual application process. But as you were accepted last year, that doesn’t appear to be necessary.”
There’s a pause and Gareth is frowning in a way that suggests we’ll be discussing this topic later on.
“May I ask why you didn’t attend?”
Everything about LaChapelle is proper and polished and friendly. Behind him, Gareth is the opposite, all raw animalism with the glow of the Christmas lights reflecting in his dark eyes like lightning over the Whitefish Mountains.
They’re waiting for an answer, and there doesn’t seem to be any advantage in skirting around the real issue.
“Um. I couldn’t afford it. My mom wouldn’t pay, and I didn’t qualify for any financial aid because of her income. I got a scholarship from ASU.” My face is turning red but Gareth relaxes back into his seat.
“Ah, an easy problem to resolve now, I would assume,” LaChapelle says with a nod to Gareth.
“Indeed,” Gareth answers.
“Well, we’d be delighted to have you, Cookie,” LaChapelle says, although he’s still turned toward Gareth when he makes this remark. “Just delighted. I really do enjoy your blog. And as I was saying last week, the industry needs more of that perspective. How I would relish a return to a time of more generally accessible trends.” He turns back to me. “Of course, I’d arrange for you to get transfer credit for classes you’ve taken thus far and you’d be able to graduate on schedule, I should think.”
LaChapelle pats my arm. “We need you, Cookie.”
Gareth nods again. “Send me the paperwork,” he says.
“Of course. I’ll need it back ASAP. The semester starts in four weeks.”
Just like that, it’s done. In a single conversation, Gareth Miller accomplishes what I’d failed to do myself in three years.
I can go to Parsons.
The dream I’d let go of more than a year ago could now come true. My brain struggles with this reality. It’s as if I’ve bumped into a dead relative in the supermarket. Or found the set of keys I’d lost years ago and have long since replaced. Fate’s offering me a do-over. Or Gareth is offering me an opportunity I couldn’t get on my own.
“Cookie. It’s snowing.”
It’s Piper’s voice, coming from over by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the back of Gareth’s living room. She and Brian are watching the weather with their arms wrapped around each other.
Being from Phoenix, I have limited experience with snow. Somehow, though, this snowfall is different than what I expected. It’s coming down in round orbs, creating a pattern of different-sized white polka dots wherever the street and building lights shine into the city night. Clouds hover above the tall, tall buildings, and the snow has an impossibly long way to fall before it can build up on the rooftops and sidewalks.
This must be some kind of a sign.
A sign of what?
I could stay in New York. But if I did, would I become one more white dot, falling in silence into a city waiting for me to blend into its walkways?