Frankie leaned toward Poppy. “Bet you money she’s been bingeing Bridgerton. She’s learned gossips leak more if you lurk in the shadows and play wallflower.”
“I love that show,” Poppy whispered back.
Frankie smoothed her skirt and faced the group. “Welcome to Operation Small-Town Chic Club, a boutique experience with limited seating and unlimited opinions. The wait list is tragic and hungry. Do not feed it your seat. Tonight, amnesty. Next week, grades. Fashion has consequences.”
Ziggy snapped a salute with his velvet cuff. “On that note, let’s get fabulous.” He floated through the room with clipboards and sleek gold pens.
“We are starting with a quick quiz to map your fashion point of view,” Frankie said. She took George’s hand and guided him to a chair. “Think of it as curating your personal aesthetic.”
Harriet slid into the next seat and squinted at her paper. “‘When invited to a group event, you’re the one who…’” She glanced up. “What does that have to do with fashion?”
“Everything,” Frankie said. “Style isn’t just what you wear. It’s how you arrive. Do you stand out? Blend in? Is your look a reflection of your mood or your mission?” She arched an eyebrow. “Don’t overthink it.”
Internally, she was already quoting the page from How to Make Friends (Even If You’re a Bit of an Asshole) that preached group settings were ideal for mapping social wiring. Clothing was a metaphor. So were snacks. She was just connecting the dots creatively.
Rae’s friend, Theo, raised his hand. “It says, ‘What would you never forgive a friend for?’ Isn’t that…personal?”
Frankie leaned over with a conspiratorial smile and tapped the next line. “It’s followed by, ‘Would you forgive them if their shoes were amazing?’”
“I—”
Rae elbowed him. “Dude, shut up. You’re going to getus all kicked out.”
Frankie moved on before further interrogation could dismantle her strategy, mentally checking off one of the book’s golden rules: people let their guard down when they think it’s all just for fun. If they realized later that they’d accidentally learned something about emotional resilience? So much the better.
Ten minutes later, the clipboards were collected and stashed for later analysis.
“All right, my fashion-curious darlings,” Ziggy announced, twirling a length of gauzy fabric between his fingers. “Now that your charming surveys are complete, and yes, your penmanship will be judged, it’s time to unveil the next fabulous segment of tonight’s agenda.”
He gave the fabric a dramatic toss toward Poppy, who caught it one-handed without spilling her drink.
“This segment is called Fabulous or Fabricated?” Ziggy declared, striking a pose in a teal velvet blazer that shimmered under the fairy lights.
Rae clapped. Harriet scribbled. George blinked.
“You will each take a turn with this mystery textile,” Ziggy explained, voice rich with flair. “Your task is to declare whether you think it’s luxury or lie. Silk or synthetic. Splurge or street fair.”
Poppy let the fabric drape across her forearm. “Feels fancy.”
“Don’t be fooled by texture alone, darling,” Ziggy warned. “That’s how wardrobes get ruined. One minute you’re serving old-money elegance, the nextyou’re squeaking through town like an overcooked sausage casing.”
Frankie choked on her drink. Ziggy glanced her way and winked.
The fabric began its slow tour.
Eli rubbed it between two fingers. “If I say denim, do I get extra credit for honesty or immediate expulsion?”
Theo held it to the light. “Would never survive dodgeball, I vote fake.”
Maya pressed it to her cheek. “It feels rich. Like Frankie.”
The fabric kept moving, opinions piling up like scuff marks on a dance floor.
Evelyn rubbed the fabric between her fingers. “Silky, but not in a wholesome way. Like it’s hiding something.” She leaned in, eyes gleaming with small-town secrets. “Speaking of hiding things. Did you hear what they finally decided on for the book festival theme?”
Frankie, impressed with Evelyn’s smooth segue into gossip, raised a brow. “Please tell me it’s not Twilight.”
“It’sThe Great Gatsby,” Poppy chimed in, stealing Evelyn’s punchline.
