Mei takes me back into the main room of the suite where rolling closets have been set up. I stop dead in the door as a man and a woman pop out. They’re dressed identically but in opposites, his white shirt and black pants offsetting her black shirt and white pants. Both have long black hair in braids that frame appraising pursed lips and cheekbones that can be seen from the stratosphere. I’m almost certain they’re multiracial and I stare without shame because it’s such a thrill for me to see people who look a bit like me and who are around my age. If only I had known more people like me growing up. Or even now. Anjali once told me she could go home to her parent’s village and be surrounded with people who looked like her, spoke her language, and knew her history for generations back.
Maybe it would be stifling. I’ll never know because there will never be a place like that for me, a community of people who share my history and family.
But this isn’t the time to dwell on the lived experiences of individuals creating a biracial identity in modern North America, because these clothes are my jam. If Fangli’s closet is timeless luxury, these two are also high-end but with an edge. I can tell they run the sort of store that has three shirts hanging on a rod and a DJ. I’m intimidated by their coolness even as I’m panting to see what they have. “Local designers,” says Mei. “Trace and Hendon from House of Swing.”
I can handle this as long as they don’t ask too many questions. We shake hands and then the woman, Trace, jumps in by asking about my design philosophy.
“My design philosophy,” I echo.
“Right,” she encourages me. “What do you want to accomplish?”
Besides not being naked? I struggle for an answer before I remember one of the artist’s statements in Fangli’s art summary. “I value the ability of line to arouse the emotive state,” I plagiarize.
They contemplate this before Hendon smiles. “Good. Now tell us…”
Before I’m forced to elaborate on whatever the hell I said, Sam comes into the room. I really need to get that key from him, number one, and why is he here, number two?
“When Fangli told me you were coming, I wanted to stop by,” he says. “I admire your work.” Both Trace and Hendon straighten up and smooth their hair. Sam has that effect on people when he tries, and for some reason, he’s trying now. Or is he genuinely interested in fashion design? I think he might be, because in less than a minute, he has them talking about their own philosophy and pulling out clothes that illustrate different factors.
I’m left to my own devices, which is good because I can browse through the racks as they talk. I pull out an elegant dress, a black-and-white sheath that drops straight down from the shoulders, and rub the material between my fingers. It feels like a thick satin but without the shine.
I look over my shoulder to see Sam watching me. He turns from the conversation to pick out a hanger. “Try this,” he tells me. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt and his biceps flex as he hands me the mass of black fabric. Both Trace’s and Hendon’s eyes are glued to his arm. I tear my gaze away.
“I like this dress,” I say.
“You can try on both.” Then he directs that smile at me. “This will suit you.”
It’s an easy request and I really have no reason to not try on the…whatever it is he’s holding out…but I balk. I don’t want him dressing me and thinking he knows what suits me better than I do myself. But Trace and Hendon nod in approval and I bend. I don’t want to embarrass anyone. Plus, Fangli would probably try on the damn thing.
I take them both and a few other items that catch my attention and bring them into the bedroom. The first thing that goes on is the sheath dress I chose. I frown. Although it looked good on the hanger, once on, it hangs and weighs me down, forcing me to wriggle under the heavy material pulling against my shoulders.
Fine, it’s a no-go. I pull on high-waisted wide black pants with little buttons on the hips and a black shirt and then, joy of joys, slip into a pair of closed-toe flat slides. So comfortable. No heels. I bite my lip as I wonder whether I’m supposed to go out so they can see. I guess I should? Would Fangli normally? Mei isn’t around to ask; she disappeared when Sam arrived.
I’ll go out as if I want to match another shirt to the pants. Then they can see me and comment but it’s not like I’m seeking suggestions. Fangli wouldn’t need advice. She probably legit has a design philosophy.
All three make an identical approving expression when I come out but Sam is the one I focus on. He tilts his head to the side, then reaches out for a pale-pink shirt. I try to not make a face because I never wear pastels. He gives it a shake and I take it back into the room.