She nodded. “I am when I need to be. Sometimes it’s hard to notice because we’re all so friendly and affectionate, and we all party together. But I see those people as mycolleagues, not friends. This is a cutthroat industry, and to get ahead, you need to be looking out for yourself first. People who get discouraged when people act fake aren’t looking at it with the right lens. Everyone’s using each other.”
“That’s awfully pessimistic.”
Nilusha shrugged, smiling. “You do have to be real with some people so you don’t forget how to do it. That’s why I like mentoring interns. They keep me grounded.” She smiled warmly. “The good interns, at least. You remind me so much of me at your age, so you’re extra special.”
“Giaisreal. With me, at least. We’ve been friends for years.”
“All I know is that girl was saying nasty things about what sound like good people just to impress Dasha. And she was saying it as ifyoufelt the same way. She sounds super insecure, if you ask me. Sucking up to Dasha today isn’t even going to make any difference for her, because Dasha only cares about what someone can do for her, and your friend is a nobody, no offense to her.”
I mean, yeah, Gia was insecure. What seventeen-year-old girl wasn’t? Especially one who wanted to be a style influencer and an actress. But now it was hard to accept this behavior of hers—projecting superiority over others because of her own insecurity. When would this become who Gia was, and not just a game she played?
I swallowed. Did Gia assume I’d play along with cutting up our friends to look good in front of Dasha? Or maybe she was trying to takemedown a peg in Dasha’s eyes to make herself look better. After all, it wasmyboyfriend, his sister, and his best friend Gia had insulted.
My stomach soured. Whether it was true or not, the very idea that Gia’s antics today were an intentional attempt to make me look bad...ugh. I hated everything about this game. I loved fashion, not backstabbing and intrigue.
I turned my hot chocolate cup on the saucer, having no appetite to drink it.
“Also,” Nilusha said, “just because youwerefriends, doesn’t mean youalwayshave to be friends.”
I chuckled, feeling a little exposed. “Are you sure you’re a fashion designer and not a therapist?”
“Maybe that’s my true calling.” Nilusha smiled as she sipped her hot chocolate. “So other than your friends getting under your skin, what’s going on with you? Are you regretting leaving that flower contest?”
I exhaled. Was I? “No. I’m not.” Being here was important. I had to succeed. This was how I was going to do it. “I’m just...” My voice trailed off. “I’m exhausted.”
“Oh no, sweetie. Why? What’s exhausting you?”
I looked out beyond the patio. There was a big statue in the middle of the courtyard—the lettersLO, withVEunder them—and a long line of people waiting to take a picture with it. Cheesy as all hell, and about as basic an Instagram shot as possible. But the girls posing in front of it now were having thebesttime. Laughing. Making silly faces, putting their arms around each other. Complete and utter joy. I sighed. “All of it’s exhausting me. I’m always thinking about how to make a name for myself. Get more followers, get the best internships, get into FIT. Be noticed. Not to mention this backstabbing and sucking-up game. Don’t get me wrong: Iwantto be a designer. I love designing and making clothes. I love styling, and I even love merchandising and fashion photography. But I’m so tired of always having to be...on.”
Nilusha shook her head. “Tahira, you don’thaveto do any of that. Look, I’m not going to say it’s easy. Ilovemy job—that’s why I do it. But there’s a lot of noise I tune out. You don’t have to be seen, now. That can come later. Itwillcome later—organically. There is no point spending so much energy on a following until you’ve at least started design school and have a better idea of where you want your career to go. And I’ve always wondered, Why are you only focused on one school? There are lots of great fashion programs out there—even here in Toronto. Ryerson University is fantastic for fashion. So is the Ontario College of Art and Design.”
I shrugged. “FIT is the best.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s the best foryou.”
“Everyone says it’s the top school. It’s my parents’ dream for me to be the best.”
Nilusha chuckled. “Ah. Desi parents. I have a couple of those myself. You know my dad sends me the application package for engineering school every year? He says it’s never too late.”
I looked down at the table. “I’m not going into business like my mom, or law like my dad. I’m not even going into math like my sister. I want to be anartist. But I still want to make them proud.”
“Tahira, with all due respect for what sounds like supportive parents, but if you’re already exhausted and jaded about schmoozing, then New York might not be for you. It’sa lot. There are a lot of people with talent, and a lot of people with connections. I have no doubt you can do it, but you know that as a person of color, you’ll have to work twice as hard at everything to be seen there. It’scompetitive. Maybe you’d be better off as a big, fabulous fish in a smaller lake?” She laughed. “Oh, I think I just found Dasha’s fish!”
I chuckled. Of course I didn’t doubt that I’d have to work harder than everyone else—this was something Nilusha and I had talked about in our mentoring meetings. And I didn’t mind working so hard at the designing work...but the thought of working harder at the other stuff—the fighting to get noticed, the schmoozing, the sucking up. Maybe she was right, and I would be better in a smaller lake?
But why was it so terrifying to even think of exploring other options?
I didn’t want to upset Mom and Dad. They would absolutely not be happy if I didn’t go to FIT. This had been the Plan for years.
But it wasmylife. Didn’t I trust myself enough to forge my own path?
“I can put you in touch with some friends who work at those two Toronto schools,” Nilusha said. “Just talk to them. Explore your options.”
I had no idea what I’d tell Mom and Dad, but this was just research right now. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Excellent.” She held out the plate of churros to me again. “Now, tell me what happened with that garden-oriented boy. I’m in a problem-solving mood—maybe I can help there, too.”
I chuckled, took a churro this time, and dipped it into my chocolate. “Okay. I guess I’ll start from the beginning.”
