Coleen McLoughlin - Passion for Fashion

“Plenty of space to get away from that minging dress, you mean,” came a drawling voice near me.

Summer Collins was standing in a huddle with her two saddo mates, Hannah Davies and Shona Mackinnon. They were all looking sideways at Miss O’Neill and giggling. Miss O’Neill’s cheeks went pink, although she was pretending that she hadn’t heard anything.

“The pattern’s practically burning my eyes out of my head,” Summer continued.

I couldn’t help myself.

“Shame you’re not standing closer then, Summer,” I said in a loud voice.

Me and Summer Collins aren’t exactly best mates. With her silver-blonde hair and tiny waist, Summer Collins reminds me of a doll my dog once ate. After he’d eaten it.

“So, Coleen,” Summer purred, narrowing her eyes at me, “are you telling me you like Miss O’Neill’s outfit?”

She said this so loud that even Miss O’Neill couldn’t pretend not to have heard anything. How was I going to get out of this one? If I said I liked it, Summer would never let me forget it. If I said I hated it, Miss O’Neill would be upset.

Panicking slightly, I stared at Summer. My first thought was: heLLO? Summer Collins gets to wear eye make-up at school and I don’t? How unfair was that? My second thought was that she’d done something really freaky to her hair, so it was pokerstraight at the sides and had this weird poodle puff bit at the front. I had a flash of inspiration.

“And are you telling me you did your hair like that on purpose?” I said.

The class shouted with laughter. Summer Collins turned purple with fury. And believe me, purple clashes with green eyeshadow in a big way.

When the class had settled down – and Summer had got bored of shooting evils at me – Miss O’Neill put on her Announcement Face.

“I have some exciting news regarding our end-of-term project,” she said. “From all your great suggestions we’ve decided that this year, Hartley High’s Year Eight drama pupils will put on a fashion show, modelling clothes from local boutiques that will then be auctioned for charity.”

I clutched at Mel’s arm, dizzy with excitement. Had Miss O’Neill really just said my favourite F word? My dream engine went into hyperdrive.

The lights blazed down on the catwalk as the music began. Gorgeously dressed actresses and fashion editors sat on the front row with their pens poised over their notebooks. It was Coleen’s first fashion show, and everyone was desperate for a glimpse of her work. There had been rumours for months. Coleen would be experimental. She would be wild. She would break all fashion conventions. Vogue was holding their front page!

“Students will all have a chance to take part. There will be plenty of different roles,” Miss O’Neill continued. “I want you all to think about what part you want to play in this event, and then stand in groups. Models over here in the middle of the room. Set designers by the door. Musicians here by the window with Miss Rodriguez, and all other volunteers by the whiteboard.”

“Come on!” I said, grabbing Mel and Lucy’s hands and tugging them over to the middle of the room. “Let’s do the modelling!”

“Hold on, Coleen,” Lucy protested. “I don’t want to be a model!”

“You don’t?” I said, stopping mid-tug. “So, what do you want to do?”

Lucy blushed. “Sing, I guess,” she said.

As I’ve mentioned before, Lucy has a great voice. When she sings in front of us, she can be funky or sweet or sad. She can do all of it. And it’s like she forgets to be shy when she’s into the music.

“I’m so stupid,” I said, whacking myself on the forehead. “Of course you have to sing, Lucy.”

Lucy smiled, and ran across the room to where a small group of hopefuls were gathering by the window.

“You’ll do modelling, won’t you Mel?” I said pleadingly.

“You bet!” Mel grinned, and high-fived me. “Lemme at it, girlfriend!”

No prizes for guessing who else was up for modelling. Our very own fashion victim, Summer Poodle-Hair Collins.

Summer’s dad owns a boutique in Hartley which is full of big-name labels. Summer’s totally into labels. If it’s a brand you’ve heard of, Summer will wear it. Even if it’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever seen. How sad is that?

“Right,” said Miss O’Neill. “You all want to be models? Let’s see you strut your stuff down this space here in the middle of the room.”

“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!”