Olivia Bennett: The Allegra Biscotti Collection

“Allegra.”“Allegra—?” Paige asked.

Had she said it out loud? Now she couldn’t take it back! Her comatose brain was suddenly in sugar-rush mode. It wasn’t bad , she thought. Allegra. Some of the greatest fashion designers are Italian. Allegra works. I need a last name. A last name that also sounds Italian. Dolce, Gabbana, Pucci, Armani —every name that swirled through her fashion-obsessed mind was already taken. Her eyes desperately roamed her studio for inspiration, landing on a pretty red and white tin box that now housed her straight pins but had once held biscotti, a holiday gift sent by one of her dad’s customers.

“Allegra Biscotti!” Emma blurted. Emma could see Charlie’s eyes widen, but thankfully he didn’t laugh or snort or even blink.

“Allegra Biscotti,” Paige repeated slowly. “Is she around?”

She believes me! Emma thought, wide-eyed. “Uh, no, sorry. She’s not here right now. And I’m pretty sure she’s gone for the day,” Emma said, using her best answering-the-office-phones voice that Marjorie had taught her.

Paige pursed her lips and turned back to the dress forms. She reached out and touched the raspberry dress again, feeling the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. “Do you know if this one is for sale?”

“Yes, it is!” Charlie piped in.

Emma shot Charlie an I’m-gonna-kill-you! look behind Paige’s back. But he just waved his hand a few times. Go with it!

“Are you sure?” Paige asked, turning back to Emma.

“I am,” Emma said, trying to unclench her teeth and speak normally. “Because, um, Allegra sometimes sells directly to private customers and we, uh, help her do that,” she attempted.

Paige seemed to buy that, too, because she said, “Well, the raspberry one is just bananas , it’s so good. I have to have it. I need to get in touch with Ms. Biscotti ASAP. How do I do that?”

That was a really good question. How did someone get in touch with a fake fashion designer who was actually a fourteen-year-old girl standing right there?

Paige’s cell phone trilled from deep within her oversized bag. “Got to pause,” she said to Emma as she dug for her phone and walked a few steps away to take the call.

Emma was about to ask Charlie what she should do, but Paige returned much faster than she expected.

“Now I really have to bolt. Major crisis,” she explained. “One of the rock stars we were shooting for our music issue borrowed the Chloe dress we photographed her in for a red-carpet event last night. She promised-promised-promised she’d return it by the end of today. Naturellement , she didn’t bring it back, and she’s leaving tonight to start her tour in Tokyo. Which means I have to go wrangle it back so I don’t get in trouble with the designer, who loaned it to us in the first place. Craziness, right? I swear, there is never a dull moment,” she said shaking her head. “So, about that contact info…?”

“ Right! Right. I’ll write it down for you.” Emma plucked a scrap of paper off her worktable and signaled Charlie to hand her his pen. Heart racing, she scribbled down some numbers.

“Thanks!” Paige grabbed the piece of paper without looking at it. “That way out, right? I think I can find it. And please don’t forget to ask Ms. Biscotti about the dress. I happen to be a perfect size four, so it shouldn’t need any alterations. Ciao for now!”

Emma waited until she couldn’t hear the clack-clack of Paige’s footsteps anymore to finally let out her breath— which she suddenly realized she had been holding for most of the past five minutes. “Wow! I think I just made my very first sale—and to a major fashion editor! That really happened, right? You saw the same thing I did, didn’t you, Charlie? I didn’t just imagine it—?”

But Charlie was doubled over in laughter.

“Charlie! What? Why are you laughing? Was this some sort of prank?”

“No!” Charlie inhaled deeply to catch his breath. “No…I just want to…know… how you came up…with the name ‘Allegra Biscotti’!”

“I’m not sure. It kind of came out of nowhere. Besides, what’s wrong with Allegra Biscotti? I mean, other than the fact she doesn’t exist.” Emma crossed her arms over her chest.

“Nothing! It’s great.” Charlie still laughed.

Emma laughed, too. It was kind of funny. Crazy, really.

“And now you have your very first customer,” Charlie pointed out. “Well, Allegra’s very first customer but still. Awesome.” Suddenly, Charlie turned serious. “Wait. What phone number did you give her?”

“My cell. Is that bad? I didn’t know what else to do,” Emma explained.

“Bold choice,” he said. “But it sounds like she’s actually going to call you—I mean, call Allegra—to find out about that dress.”

“Oh, no!” Emma cringed. So not-smart. “When she calls that number, she’s going to hear Holly and me scream-singing a Black Eyed Peas song on my outgoing message.”

Charlie tossed Emma her cell phone from the table. “I’m thinking you might want to change that back to the generic greeting, Allegra .”

“Emma! Are you up yet? And by ‘up’ I mean actually out of bed!” her mother shouted from down the narrow hall of the Roses’ apartment.

“Yes!” Emma stared into the organized chaos of her tiny closet. Though it was no wider than the length of her arm, it held an impressive number of clothes and accessories. Emma used antique hooks scavenged at flea markets, stacked sweater boxes decorated with collages she made from magazines, and a few extra shelves her dad had built to keep her closet tidy.

Maybe I’ll wear that smoky-purple silk scarf I picked up on the street near school, Emma thought. One of the best things about Downtown Day was that the exclusive private school was located in SoHo, one of Emma’s favorite neighborhoods. It had tons of cool boutiques and art galleries. Just peeking in the windows gave her inspiration for her designs. She stood on tiptoe, reached up, and slid out a box that she had decoupaged with cutouts of colorful flowers.

“What did you say?” her mother called, her voice sounding closer now.

Emma rolled her eyes, plucked out the scarf, and slid the box back into place. She swung open her bedroom door. It wasn’t like her family’s three-bedroom apartment was so huge that her mother couldn’t hear her behind the closed door. But Emma knew this was one of her mother’s tricks to make sure her kids weren’t still in bed. “I’m up! Satisfied?”

“Very,” her mother said. “You know how I love torturing you and your brother every morning. It’s my favorite part of the day.”

“I thought bugging us about homework was your favorite part,” Emma mumbled.

“I’m ignoring that.” Her mother rapped on William’s door. “Will! Up! Now!”

Emma gently shut her door. Normally, she would still be lying in bed, trying to squeeze in a few more minutes of sleep. She knew her mother woke them up earlier than really necessary, scared they would make her late for work. Mom taught English and composition—at Emma’s school. When she first started Downtown Day, Emma was really proud of the fact. She used to visit her mother’s classroom all the time and beg to help grade papers.