“I go to Fashion Week in Paris and New York,” I tell him. “But not usually Milan.”

Laurie flips to the next designer. “Now these are intriguing. I love Sherashi’s use of beadwork in these halter tops.”

He seems to know every single designer on the planet, and I’m somewhat awed by that. “Me too. I also love how she infuses her own culture into her line.”

“Bollywood meets French Riviera. It’s brilliant.”

“Yes. Exactly.” I can’t help but beam at him. And he hasn’t winked or flirted in the past five minutes, which is a relief. “For my line, I want to play around with a combination of classic and modern, with some boho-chic thrown in the mix.”

“Interesting. Let me take a look at your sketches.” Concentration creases Laurie’s forehead as he studies the drawings I’ve enclosed. “These are quite good, Summer.”

I flush. I’m not the best artist when it comes to portraits or landscapes, but I’ve always had a knack for drawing clothes. When I was younger, I filled entire sketchbooks with what I considered the perfect outfits or styles.

“Thank you.” I hesitate as he studies a series of sketches featuring men’s trunks. “I know swimwear isn’t going to be as difficult to design as, say, formalwear, but I’m really passionate about these. And obviously I can include more pieces in the show so that my workload is comparable to the other students’.”

“I’m not worried about that,” he says absently, moving to another sketch. When he finishes examining each one, he looks up with a pleased smile. “I’m on board with this.”

Excitement stirs inside me. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. I can’t wait to see what you come up with.” And just when I thought we were done with it, he winks. “I’m especially curious about who you’ll line up to model these designs.”

Ew. Way to ruin the moment.

“You’re a tall girl,” he adds. “You should think about walking the runway yourself. I have no doubt you look incredible in a bikini.”

Double ew.

“Um, yeah, I’ve never been interested in modeling.” I get to my feet and gesture to the portfolio. “So do I have your approval to move forward?”

“Absolutely.” He hands the leather book back to me.

“Great. Thanks. I’ll see you in class.”

I’m relieved to leave his office, even if it means shivering my ovaries off in the cold again. Every time I start to think he’s harmless, he triggers that dreaded creep-o-meter.

Outside, I’m blasted by a gust of frigid wind. I hate you, January. Just die already. I begin my journey across campus, checking my phone as I head for the parking lot where I left my car. I find a missed call from my mom, along with a text that makes me smile.

Call your parents, Summer. I miss my girl.

My heart expands with love. Ugh, I miss them so much. I’ve barely spoken to them since the semester began. I’ve been busy, but so have they. Dad recently started jury selection for a high-profile murder trial, and Mom has been visiting Nana Celeste in Florida.

I return Mom’s call but get her voicemail. I try my dad instead.

He picks up right away. “Princess! It’s about time!”

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ve been swamped. Also, I can’t believe I caught you out of court.”

“Barely,” he admits. “I’m only available because the prosecutor requested a five-minute recess. His next witness is late.”

“That’s unacceptable!” I exclaim, only half joking. “Don’t let them get away with it, Daddy. Have them charged with contempt of court.”

He chuckles. “Not how it works, sweetheart, but thanks for the concern. How’s school going?”

“Good. I just had a meeting with my independent-study advisor. I’m designing a line of swimwear for the final show.”

“What about your other classes? How are you handling the workload?”

I give him a quick rundown of what I’m studying this term, admitting that it hasn’t been too challenging yet. “But I am writing an outline for an essay tonight. Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck, Princess. You’re going to kick this essay’s butt.”

He has such faith in me, it makes me want to cry. Not once, in my entire life, had my parents ever called me stupid. But I know they must’ve thought it. How could they not when I kept coming home with failed tests for them to sign? When all my written work was covered with red edits, comments scribbled all over the margins?

“But if you are having trouble, let me know. Maybe I can speak to David—”

“No,” I cut in, my tone firm. He means David Prescott, the dean. Well, I’m not having it. “Dad. You need to stop talking about me with Prescott and asking for favors. The assistant dean already hates me because he thinks I got preferential treatment—wait, forget all that,” I interrupt myself. “If you’re so eager to grant favors, I need one from you.”

He laughs. “Do I even want to know?”

“Can you find out where Hal Richmond was born?”

“Who?”

“Briar’s assistant dean. He has a British accent, and I’m convinced it’s fake.”

There’s a beat.

“Princess.” Dad sighs. “Are you torturing this poor man?”

“I’m not torturing anyone,” I protest. “I just have my suspicions and I would love you so, so much if you could verify his place of birth. It’ll take you all of five seconds, you know it will.”

His laughter rumbles in my ear. “I’ll see what I can do.”

My spirits are still high when I sit down later to outline my midterm. Mom got ahold of me before dinner and we spent an hour on the phone catching up. And all three of my roommates are out for the night, so I can work in silence. With my ADHD, even the slightest distraction can set me back. I get sidetracked far too easily.

My essay topic is how New York fashion evolved in the first half of the twentieth century, and the factors that led to each transformative incident. It’s a bit daunting because I’m dealing with five decades of fashion, marked by major events like the Great Depression and World War II.

In high school, my special-ed teacher—oh gosh, it makes me want to throw up saying that. Special-ed teacher. It’s frigging mortifying. Anyway, the teacher assigned to me had an arsenal of tips to help me better organize my thoughts. Like making flash cards or using sticky notes to jot down various ideas. Over time, I figured out it worked best to write one idea per note, and then arrange them until they all flow together to form one coherent train of thought.

To begin my midterm’s outline, I sit on the floor of my room with my supplies lined up and ready for use: highlighters, Post-It notes, erasable pens. I’m wearing thick wool socks and sipping on a big cup of herbal tea. I got this. I’m a rock star.

I start off by writing decade headings on each yellow note—1910s, ’20s, ’30s, ’40s. It’ll probably be easier to organize the paper chronologically. I know I have a ton of research ahead of me, but for now I rely on what I know about those time periods. Up until the Great Depression, I’m pretty sure bright colors were all the rage. I write that down on a sticky.

Roaring ’20s, we’re looking at flappers. Another sticky gets written.

Women’s fashion favored a boyish look for a while—I think maybe that was the ’30s? I stick another note to the floor. But I feel like the ’30s also produced a lot of feminine, frilly tops? And speaking of frilly tops, I saw like five of them at the Barneys on Madison over the break. Are they back in style?

Oh, and I forgot to tell a girlfriend from Brown about Barneys! They’re having a super-secret VIP sale on Valentine’s Day weekend. She’s going to lose her mind when she finds out.

I grab my phone and shoot a quick message to Courtney. Her response is instantaneous.

COURT: OMG!!!!!!

* * *

ME: I know!!!

* * *

COURT: We’re going, right?

* * *

ME: OBVIOUSLY!!

We text back and forth in pure excitement, until I suddenly realize I’ve spent ten minutes talking about a clothing sale instead of doing my work.

Grrr.

I take a deep breath and force myself to concentrate. I list as many trends I can think of, then nod in approval. There. Now I simply need to go into detail about each one and explain the societal factors and events that shaped fashion over time.

Wait. Is that my thesis?

No, you idiot. You still have to come up with one.

I bite my lip harder than necessary. My inner critic is, frankly, a total bitch. My old therapist was always preaching about self-love, urging me to treat myself kindly, but that’s easier said than done. When you have one major insecurity that rules your life, your subconscious doesn’t let you forget it.

Loving yourself is hard enough. Silencing the inner critic borders on impossible. For me, at least.

I inhale a slow, steady breath. It’s fine. This is fine. I don’t have to think up a thesis right this second. I can gather all the information first, and then once I begin to piece it together, a general hypothesis will form.