Passion for Fashion. Coleen McLoughlin

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      “I’ll go first, Miss!” Summer said eagerly.

      I nearly died laughing as Summer started prancing up and down, pouting and tossing her hair from side to side.

      “She looks like a horse,” Mel spluttered. She put on a fake race-announcer’s voice. “And here comes Summer Collins, cantering up the inside. Someone ought to have plaited her mane. It must be nearly impossible to see out. Whoops! There goes a fence post!”

      I thought I was going to explode, I was laughing so hard.

      “Thanks, Summer,” said Miss O’Neill, making a note on her clipboard. “You’ll do.”

      My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe that Miss O’Neill had picked Summer after that rubbish performance.

      “She’s hardly going to say no to Summer, is she?” Mel pointed out in a low voice. “Not if she wants Summer’s dad to put some clothes in the show—”

      “Coleen?” Miss O’Neill said. “You’re next.”

      “You’re not having her, are you, Miss?” Summer said at once. “She’s too short to be a model.”

      I swear, if Mel hadn’t held on to my arm, Summer would have been a large blonde splat on the floor.

      “Everyone gets a chance, Summer,” said Miss O’Neill firmly.

      I held my head up and put one hand on my hip. Imagining myself in a pair of gorgeous high heels and a floaty chiffon gown, I started walking. All the magazines say that models walk like they’re on a tightrope, putting one foot in front of the other. It’s a great way of moving, and makes your hips sway like crazy. In my mind I could hear the crowds cheering and the music pumping. I could also hear Summer sniggering, but I ignored that. I just pictured her as a horse with a bridle around her head and kept going.

      “Great,” said Miss O’Neill, ticking her clipboard.

      “I can do it?” I said, hardly daring to believe my luck. “Really, Miss?”

      “Yes, really.” Miss O’Neill smiled. “Mel? You’re next.”

      Choirs of angels were singing in my head. I was going to be a model and get to wear some super-cool clothes! I stood and grinned as Mel grooved down the imaginary catwalk, fluttering her arms at her sides like a little bird.

      “Terrific,” said Miss O’Neill, as Summer and her mates groaned pathetically.

      “I’m in!” Lucy squealed, running up to us all pink and breathless. “Miss Rodriguez said I was great! There’s going to be a band with backing singers, and I’m one of them!”

      “And Mel and me are models!” I yelled back delightedly.

      This fashion show was going to be the event of the decade!

      It was pretty hard to concentrate on anything else for the rest of the day. Maths passed in a blur. The only thing I remember about it was Mr Hughes telling me off for sketching dresses in the margin of my maths book. (Hello? Working out the proportions of bust to waist to hips is totally about fractions.)

      It’s not exactly a secret, but I’ve always wanted to work in fashion – not necessarily as a model, more on the design side. To create something original for someone to wear, that will make that someone feel a million dollars – that would be serious job satisfaction.

      “Mum!” I yelled, running through the front door at full speed after school that afternoon. “Dad! Guess what!”

      Dad put his head round the living-room door. “Let me see,” he said, doing one of his comedy frowns. “You’ve invented a device that brushes your teeth and your hair at the same time?”

      Dad always says stupid stuff like that. But right now I was too excited to wind him up about it. “I’m going to be a model,” I said happily.

      “I thought models had to be about ten feet tall,” said Dad in surprise. “And be older than twelve. You’re neither of those things, Coleen.”

      I groaned. “Not like a proper Vogue model, Dad. A model in our school fashion show!”

      “Who’s going to be a model?” said Mum, coming in the front door with Em.

      “Me,” said Dad. He struck a stupid pose in the hallway. “I’ve always thought I had the nose for it.”

      I fell over my words in my eagerness to tell Mum and Em my news.

      “Fashion,” Em groaned, like it was the most boring subject in the world. She took off her crumpled jacket and slung it over the end of the stairs. It immediately slithered off and landed in a heap on the carpet.

      “Thinking a bit about fashion wouldn’t kill you, Em,” I said, picking up her jacket and twirling it between my fingers. “You might learn that the dishcloth jacket is not a good look.”

      “That’s terrific, Coleen,” said Mum warmly, putting her arm around me. “Well done. So what are you wearing?”

      “There’s loads of stuff to do before we know that, Mum,” I said as we all went into the kitchen together. “We’ve got to work out a theme for the show, and write to all the boutiques in town to see if they’ll take part. Then there’s set design and music and scripts to write and learn. It’s not just about the clothes.”

      “Scripts?” said Dad. “Since when do models talk?”

      “Each section has to be introduced,” I said. “Our homework is to come up with a theme, and then argue it in front of the class next week. I’ve been thinking about it all day and I’ve come up with the best theme ever. I hope Miss O’Neill chooses it.”

      “What is your fashion theme?” Em asked, doing silly quotey fingers around the “F” word.

      Em should know by now that asking me to talk about fashion is always a mistake. You want me to talk? I’ll talk. And talk and talk and talk until your ears are ringing. And then I’ll talk some more.

      “Time,” I said grandly.

      “That’s a pretty big theme, Coleen…” Mum started.

      “Dawn, morning, afternoon, dusk, evening, night,” I rushed on. “It’s perfect, and dead flexible. We can have misty-type dresses for dawn, maybe some sunrise colours for morning. Afternoon can be cool summer outfits in the blues of the summer sky. Dusk can be all moths and that.”

      “Moths and that,” Dad repeated.

      “Fluttery grey and black cobwebby stuff,” I explained.

      “Plenty of that in the corners of your bedroom ceiling, Coleen,” Mum murmured from behind her cup of tea.

      “Evening will be all glitter and sequins, and night could be…” I stopped. I hadn’t exactly worked out night.

      “Duvets?” Dad suggested.

      “Da…ad!” I wailed, СКАЧАТЬ