It didn’t seem just as good to me. Working with Nilusha would’ve been beyond a dream job. I was probably the only high schooler with the balls to apply, and the references, thanks to two summers working at that boutique on Yorkville Avenue downtown. It was dumb luck that she’d had an opening starting July first. Nilusha’s designs were getting serious buzz in the city, and everything about her was completegoals. She was exponentially cool, incredibly generous, and Indian, like me. It was great that she wanted to be my mentor, but I was still sad she wouldn’t be my boss.
I frowned, shaking my head at my design. The Juliet sleeves were no good, either.
“Did you see the new YouTube Marsha Logan posted?” Mom asked. “She had great tips on next-level networking and social media engagement.”
Marsha Logan and Christopher Chan were some of the designers who routinely made videos on YouTube about breaking into the fashion industry. It was from watching those videos that Mom was helping me figure out exactly what I needed to do to reach my goal of admission into FIT and my own fashion brand. Mom calculated that, in addition to top internships and networking, I needed a follower count in the tens of thousands on at least one social media platform. We’d picked Instagram.
I didn’t normally mind talking about my career Plan with Mom, but I wasn’t feeling it right now. I’d had such a great date with Matteo last night, and I was bummed I wouldn’t see him for a while. Apparently, there was no bus or train from Bakewell to Toronto—so either he’d have to borrow his brother’s car to see me or we’d have to make do with FaceTime. It sucked.
I looked out the window. We’d been on the road for over an hour now, and I’d seen nothing but trees, cows, and crappy box restaurants for a while. This was practically the middle of nowhere.
What had I gotten myself into?
I slunk down in my seat. “I hope going here isn’t a mistake, Mom.”
“Of course it’s not a mistake! I know you’re upset about losing your internship, but that doesn’t derail your Plan! Keep your spirits up, Tahira. Next summer you can get a job with another designer. What would your father say if he was here?”
I exhaled. It would be nice if Mom would sometimes turn off the motivational speaker and just let me rant.
If Dad were here, he would say learning to deal with whatever shit life threw in your path builds character or something, but he’d say it much more lawyer-y. I didn’t normally mind their cheesy pep talks much, mostly because in the grand scheme of things, I had so much more freedom than my other Indian friends. I was allowed to date who I wanted, wear what I wanted, and work all the way downtown. The only things my parents were tough about were schoolwork and ourextracurriculars. Samaya had been literally grounded last month for playing online games three hours longer than she’d practiced advanced math functions.
“You know how important your FIT application is,” Mom continued. “Your father was the only child in generations of his family to go to university, and he did it with a scholarship. How did he achieve that? Not giving up when roadblocks turned up. Remember—Janmohammads always succeed. You aren’t giving up, either. You’re not going to be working for Bakewell; you’re going to make Bakewellwork for you.”
I’d heard this speech so many times.Janmohammads always succeed.We’d have it embroidered on a plaque on a wall, but our name was too long and Mom got frustrated by the secondm. Samaya did once create the family motto on a graphing calculator using advanced functions, but my parents couldn’t figure out how to frame it.
I looked back down at my iPad, shaking my head at the design. Right now, I couldn’t see how ending up in Bakewell wassucceeding.
Mom turned into the driveway of what appeared to be a huge garden center. I doubted we were in Bakewell yet, considering the only thing I could see was a whole lot of nothing. Fields. Trees. And this massive store.
“I called ahead,” she said as she parked her car. “I want to bring Sharmin a big-ticket gift to thank her for rescuing you. She’s been eyeing a backyard fountain from this place. You sit—I’ll have them bring it out.”
I shrugged. I kind of needed to stretch my legs, so I opened the door. “Where are we?”
“Wynter’s Nurseries,” Mom said. “I told you this whole area is covered with greenhouses and flower farms, didn’t I? People drive up from the city all the time to see them.”
I made a face. “You said farms. I don’t remember them beingflowerfarms.”
“I definitely said ‘flower.’”
I stepped out to look around. The gravel parking lot seemed endless and was filled with standard garden-center stuff—random plants and tacky statues. The store itself was a big greenhouse. When we got to the doors, Mom stopped. “Did you take an allergy pill?”
“Uh...no.”
Mom shook her head. “Don’t come in. You don’t want your allergies acting up now.”
She had a point. I was allergic to a lot of things—cats, most dogs, trees—but flowers were the worst. I could usually manage flowers outside as long as I didn’t stick my nose in them, but flowers indoors were a disaster on my eyes. I didn’t want to look like I had smoked something I shouldn’t have when I saw my aunt.
I shrugged. “Okay. I’ll walk around. Text me when you’re done.”
I wandered to the back of the store and was surprised at what I saw there. In the distance on the right was a massive stand-alone greenhouse. The store greenhouse was big...like tennis-court big. But this one was football-field big. In front of it was a really cool-looking barn thing. I’d always thought barns were red and had those round roofs, but this had a regular peaked roof, and instead of red, it was painted gray. Well, except for the lower half of the wall. It had a mural painted on it—an intricate geometric pattern made up of little triangles in shades of blue and purple, with a few bursts of green peppered in. The juxtaposition of the weathered gray walls and the vibrant mural was striking, and honestly, way too modern for out here in the country.
I was wearing some of the newer pieces I’d made myself. A pair of fitted black shorts, a loose white silk T-shirt with an embossed black zigzag across it, and a long sheer black duster cardigan. Plus, my newest purchase—red suede ankle boots. These were a killer find—I’d bought them at a vintage store in Kensington Market after we’d finished our shoot at Graffiti Alley last week.
That seemed like a lifetime ago now. Out past the barn was nothing but fields, trees, and that enormous greenhouse in the distance.
The barnwasfabulous, though. And the light was perfect for photos—just a bit of cloud cover. I normally avoided selfies, but Ineededthis outfit against that wall on my page, and I didn’t want to trust the light would be this good if I came back with Gia later. Plus, how exactly would we come back anyway? Not like either of us drove. Or had a car.
There was a bunch of crap on the ground in front of the best part of the mural—where the blues blended to deep purples. I looked at the junk—three plastic pots filled with random flowers and two large bags of soil.
