Olivia Bennett - The Allegra Biscotti Collection

No such luck. Her mother walked out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her mouth was set in a hard grimace. Never a good sign.

“Hey, Mom.” Emma hung her brown trench over a pile of off-season coats layered on the coatrack. “I’m starving. What’s for dinner?”

Her mother’s frown deepened. “We need to talk. I need to know what’s been going on with you.”

“What do you mean?” Emma’s stomach tightened.

“Come on, Em. I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.” Her mother paused, waiting for her daughter to fill in the blank.

Was the blank Allegra Biscotti? Emma fumbled for a response. Was she walking into a trap?

Her mother crossed her arms and continued. “Your grades, Emma? I checked them online today. You got a D on your geometry quiz. And a C-minus on your biology test. And there was a note about you turning in your essay on War of the Worlds three days late.”

“I had a hard time keeping the SSS postulate and the ASA postulate straight,” Emma explained. That wasn’t even a lie. She really was confused by the whole proving congruent triangles thing—mostly because she hadn’t been doing the homework. But she kept that part to herself.

Emma’s father pushed open the front door and stopped. The mother-daughter tension hit him like a force field. He looked back and forth between them. “What’d I miss?”

As her mother filled him in, his smile faded. “Emma. This isn’t good.”

She shifted from foot to foot, staring at the worn wooden floor. Her parents had her cornered in the hallway. There was nowhere to go. “Geometry and biology have gotten really hard, and I—”

Her mother cut her off. “Please. I don’t think this has anything to do with the material being over your head, especially this early in the year. It’s obvious you’re not studying. It’s always been a simple equation. When you study, you do well.”

Her mother sighed, as if pained. “From what your dad tells me, it isn’t because he’s been working you too hard at the warehouse, even though you’ve been spending every free second there lately.”

“I’ve been…I’m working on some designs in my studio that I’m really into and…” Emma searched for a possible excuse.

William wandered in, his eyes glued to his portable video-game player. No doubt he’d heard the sounds of a serious conversation and came to investigate. And to make sure they weren’t talking about him.

“I thought you were studying back there, at least part of the time,” her father said. “That’s why I tried not to give you too much other work to do.”

“I am, I was…I mean, I’m also…” Emma stopped. Maybe it was time to tell the truth. It wasn’t so bad, really. It was actually quite good. I’m designing clothes for a fashion magazine, she thought. It’s not like I’m some messed-up kid.

“You’re also what?” her mother asked with a mix of frustration and annoyance. Not a good combination. “What are you doing that you think is so much more important than your schoolwork? This I’d love to hear.”

“She’s been sewing!” William announced triumphantly.

“Sewing? Emma, are you kidding me? You know school comes first.”

“I do. I’m studying—”

“Oh, yeah, right. I bet you’ve been staying up super-late every night because you’ve been studying so much,” William piped in.

“Get out, William!” Emma snapped. “It’s none of your business.”

“Don’t yell at your brother,” her mother warned, all her negative energy fixed on Emma.

“Me? He’s the one who butted in—” Emma couldn’t believe how unfair her mother was being.

Her father shushed William and shook his head, shooting him that meaningful parent stare that said, Stay out of this one.

“Okay, let’s just calm down here for a minute,” he said in an even voice. Her dad was always the calm one. “It’s obvious to me that something’s got to give. You need to boost your grades. Okay, that shouldn’t be a big issue for you. But until you do that, no more hanging out at Laceland—”

“No way!” Emma shot back, outrage shaping her words. “You can’t do that!” Not now. He couldn’t be saying that now.

“You’re treading on thin ice with that attitude,” her mother warned, her voice steely.

“I don’t have an attitude,” Emma retorted. Her body trembled, the blood rushing to her head. Why couldn’t her mother just back down and listen? She hadn’t even gotten to tell them yet. “You just don’t understand. I need to work on these clothes I’m making—”

“Enough. It’s enough, Emma. No sewing until the grades improve. End of story.” Her mother turned back toward the kitchen.

Emma forced herself to take a deep breath and start over before she really blew it. “I’ll fix it. I promise I’ll bring my grades up.”

“And the Western civ exam?” her mother asked.

“That, too. I have a full week before the test, right? I’ll be ready.”

“Good, you’ll start tomorrow. All day at home studying. I can even help you.”

“But…but I have plans tomorrow.” Emma wished she didn’t sound as if she were whining. But she was. She had to spend Saturday at Laceland.

“Cancel them.” Her mother wasn’t going to budge—that was obvious.

“Dad?” Emma gulped, looking helplessly at him.

“Sorry, Em. You’re home studying—all day. Your mom and I, we’re a team, you know.”

“So I’ve heard,” Emma grumbled. She stomped to her bedroom, but not before shooting William an icy stare.

I am not giving up, she promised herself, as she lay on her bed. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes, but she pushed them away with the back of her hand and squeezed her lids tightly shut.

Coco would not cry, she knew.

Neither would Allegra Biscotti.

Coco would push on, defying despair and disbelievers in order to create that famous little black dress.

Allegra Biscotti, too, would do whatever it took to finish the pieces.

And so will I , she decided.

On Saturday morning, Emma awoke, still determined but without a plan.

She had called Charlie right after the big fight, and he was thinking of a way out. Literally. But so far he had nothing good. His newest plan had him meeting Marjorie at Laceland and smuggling her heavy sewing machine and the partially finished clothes to the apartment. It wasn’t the most devious or ingenious idea, but all Emma knew was, no matter what, she had to get to her sewing machine.

She walked into the kitchen, deciding to ignore what happened last night. Today, she’d be the sweet, studious daughter. It was easier that way.

“Morning, Mom.” Emma broke off a piece of one of the blueberry muffins on the table. Her mom was actually a good baker. Emma wondered if baking wasn’t a schoolteacher thing for her mom, too, with following a recipe maybe just like reading another novel. Except with baking, Emma decided, the story ended much better—with cookies or muffins.

Her mother took a sip of her giant mug of coffee, the weekend section of the newspaper unfolded in front of her. “You’re up early for a Saturday. Going to hit the books?”