“Shh.” Caterina stepped to the right to examine a silk scarf draped over an undressed cloth dress form. “Oliver has very good hearing.”
Curtains in jewel tones, both heavy and sheer, hung from rings in the middle of the room, but as far as Rahul could tell, there was no purpose to the curtains either. Oliver must be an artist. That was the only explanation. Creative people did weird, impractical shit all the time that Rahul couldn’t fathom doing himself.
“Did someone say my name?”
Rahul turned to see a tall, thin, tan young guy approaching them. He was probably around twenty-four or twenty-five years old, with dark brown hair swept back into a low ponytail. His expression was serious, his brown eyes on Rahul. But the moment he saw Caterina, his face broke into a smile and he walked quickly to cover the distance between them.
“Caterina, my sweet bird!”
Sweet bird? An interesting choice of phrase for an endearment. Birds were not particularly known for their intelligence, unless Oliver was speaking about very specific species.
Caterina smiled back at him and even accepted a hug, which Rahul had never seen her do before, so she must not be well versed in ornithology.
“Oliver,” she said warmly—or as warmly as she’d ever said anything within Rahul’s earshot, anyway. “How are you?”
“Magnificent now that you’ve visited me,” he said smoothly, speaking in an accent that seemed to be a blend of different European accents; Rahul detected English and German and Italian and French. Oliver wore a sheer black shirt with giant sequined flowers appliquéd on it and pants with legs wide enough to fit ten of his legs in them. Was this the kind of thing Caterina expected Rahul to wear? He would, without question, if that was what she wanted. But there would be cameras there. He hoped she was considering that. “What has kept you away?”
Caterina made a face as she pulled off her gloves and took off her coat. She was wearing a velvet dress underneath, with cutouts along her collarbone that were deeply sexy, somehow. Her skin was perfectly smooth and a little glittery, as if she’d patted on sparkly powder. Rahul made an effort not to stare. “Winter break, unfortunately. I’ve missed my shopping trips these past three weeks.”
“Ah, of course! But you are back now, so all is well.” Oliver snapped his fingers, and a tremulous female assistant with mint-colored hair suddenly appeared out of nowhere, rushed up to take Caterina’s coat and gloves, and disappeared into the recesses of the store again, never once making eye contact with any of them.
Caterina gave Oliver a half smile that would’ve brought Rahul to his knees if directed at him. Yet oddly enough, Oliver seemed unfazed. “I’m not so sure you even noticed I was gone. I hear you have someone new in your life already.” She cocked her head. “How long did the last girl stick around? Two weeks?”
Oliver chortled as if Caterina had told the best joke. “You know better than to listen to idle gossip,” he said, his eyes shining. “I’m nothing if not loyal. Have I not been a faithful servant to you, bringing you whatever your heart desires?”
Caterina laughed a little, allowing this. “All right. You have me there.” She paused and glanced at Rahul, standing by her side. “Speaking of which…” Turning back to Oliver, she continued. “I’m here with a mission that you must promise to keep secret.”
Oliver immediately nodded, all business again. “But of course. You know what happens within CdT stays within CdT.”
Rahul frowned, wondering what the hell CdT was, and then it came to him: Cassa del Tesoro. The name of the store. The abbreviation was so trendy it almost didn’t make sense, which, Rahul knew, meant it was probably very fashionable to most people.
Satisfied, Caterina walked over to Rahul. “Oliver, I would like you to meet my friend Rahul Chopra. He is to be my date to the Hindman Gala tomorrow, but we’re in a bit of a pinch. He’s got absolutely nothing suitable to wear.”
“Ah.” Oliver turned to Rahul, a twinkling smile on his face. “I wondered about your companion. So this is to be a makeover—rags to riches, that kind of thing.” He clasped his hands together and grinned.
Rags? Rahul looked down at himself. He wasn’t really raggedy, he didn’t think. But then looking at Oliver in his impeccable (at least, he knew they were impeccable to Caterina, even if he couldn’t see it himself) clothes, he realized that was beside the point. He wanted to be more like Oliver, more like Caterina, more like anyone other than himself. And this man could help him get there.
“Exactly,” Caterina said.
Rahul stood up straighter as Oliver approached and walked around him in a circle, observing him from every angle. He pushed his glasses and the waist of his pants up and stood staring straight ahead, feeling a little bit like a soldier in formation being inspected by a military sergeant.
“Where do you buy your clothing?” Oliver asked, coming to stand in front of Rahul again.
Rahul adjusted the neck of the yellow sweater he’d put on that morning. (He wasn’t wearing his uniform; they’d had the day off for teacher planning.) “Um… I don’t know. I think this one was from Target? A few years ago? It was on sale—I do remember that.” His eidetic memory did not, unfortunately, extend to fashion; the only reason he remembered the sale was because he bought everything on sale. It didn’t matter if it was three sizes too big; spending a lot of money on clothes was something Rahul had never understood.
There was a collective gasp from Oliver, Caterina, and the mousy assistant who peeked at Rahul and then ducked back behind a rack of military-style, presumably fashionable, coats.
“Mm.” Oliver regarded Caterina solemnly. “It will be a monumental task.”
Caterina took a breath. “Do you think you can do it, though, Oliver?”
Oliver bowed a little and closed his eyes. “I will try my valiant best for you, Caterina.”
* * *
The next couple of hours were a breathless series of trying on shirts, tuxes, pants, and bow ties in the confines of a dressing room in which Rahul couldn’t even stretch out his arms all the way.
After surveying himself in the latest silken tux by an Italian designer he’d never heard of, he sat on the bench (made from a chopped-up tree trunk) in the fitting room, his head between his knees, trying to breathe. It was a technique he’d learned from the school psychologist, Ari, when he was in sixth grade. He’d been terrified to go speak to her, imagining her as some scary old lady in a severe bun. Instead, she’d turned out to be a young, bookish nerd with a cool Cheshire cat tattoo on her forearm who knew all the obscure comics he read. And she’d helped him with his anxiety, something no one had ever done before.
It is quite possible, Rahul Chopra, that you are in over your head. Way, way over your head. Rahul held his head between his hands and took slow, deep, controlled breaths. Wearing a tux? That was supposed to make him someone else? Wasn’t that a bit like putting a wig over a computer screen and asking people to believe it was human? Who in their right mind at the very high-profile gala would buy this?
But you need the training, he told himself. And the cold, hard truth was that he did. Desperately. If he had any chance of salvaging his friendships or of ever recapturing what he’d shared at the winter formal with Caterina at all, this was it.