Page 8 of My Faire Lady

A wrench twists around my ribs. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to get at.”

I take a too long sip of flat soda, the taste watered down by melted ice.

She pulls her legs into her chest and turns, resting her back against the coffee table. “When we were growing up, you used to collect magazine clippings of fashion shows. You’d write down the brand, designer, and the material used to construct every piece. Then you’d tape the clippings into a collage on your wall.” A reminiscent smile pulls at her lips. “You used to have dreams.”

“I still have dreams.”

They’re just buried in the sketchbooks piled around my bed.

“You live in grandma’s house, and you’ve worked at the same craft store since high school.” She counts on her fingers, careful of the wet polish. “There used to be a magic in the way you talked about your future, but that died when grandma did.”

My jaw works, and I swallow the unfair accusations I could throw her way—bottle them up and cork them like spoiled wine. She doesn’t know it, but when grandma’s social security was depleted by medical bills, that high school job paid for the food in our pantry. When Kelsey was accepted into her dream school, it paid the enrollment fee.

She was in California, learning and collecting experiences like jewels, while I spent every waking moment taking care of grandma. I treasured that time with her—hanging on to every word she said, every story she told. But nothing prepared me for the day I’d never hear her voice again.

“I like my life the way it is,” I say with a convincing nod.

And it’s true. I have a routine and stability. I wake up every morning knowing what will happen—a luxury I didn’t have with grandma’s cancer and subsequent Alzheimer’s.

Kelsey pushes from the floor and slides onto the cushion beside me. “Imagine your life in thirty years. Will you feel satisfied looking at”—she waves a hand around—“this?”

I abandon my popcorn and shrug. “I like this.”

The vaulted ceiling of the living room was always my favorite part of the house, and so is the couch that was just big enough if we sat thigh to thigh.

She shakes her head and eases her phone from her pocket. “I think you’re too scared of going out of your comfort zone, or trying something without knowing if you’ll be good at it.”

Without looking at me, she types in her password and pulls up a website that’s already loaded.

She turns the phone my way. “I found this, and I thought you might be interested.”

The bright screen blurs in my vision. Then my eyes adjust to the stark light, and my stomach churns.

“What’s this?” I say, voice weak and tongue dry—as if I haven’t already stared at the exact website hundreds of times over the past two weeks.

“It’s a contest for Edinburgh’s costume design program, for residents that live outside the country. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people will enter, and each one submits a portfolio and a piece of their choosing.”

She turns the phone away and scrolls down to the contest details, which, of course, I’ve already read.

“The winner gets⁠—”

“A full-ride scholarship to their program,” I finish.

Her screen goes black, and her eyes widen, a smile spreading across her face. “You’ve already entered?”

I shake my head, staring into the hollow popcorn bowl so I don’t have to watch her face fall.

“Why not?” she whispers.

“Like you said, thousands enter this contest every single year, from all over the world. They have training, portfolios, experience.” I shrug. “There’s no way they’d choose me.”

Their website uses words like ‘programme’ and ‘colour.’ At lunch yesterday, I ate leftover stir fry out of a plastic container stained red from pasta sauce. There’s a level of refinement required that I simply don’t have.

Everything I know about design comes from videos on the internet, and nothing I could make would compare to other submissions.

She pries my hands from my lap and holds them tight. “Lottie, if you believed in yourself a fraction of how much I believed in you, you could do this. Sure, you might not have the formal training that some people have, but you taught yourself everything you know. It’s your passion.”

I pull my hands away. “Let’s say I entered, and by some miracle, I won. I can’t just up and leave my entire life and move to Scotland. I can’t leave you like that.”