ㅤ MAËLLE

ㅤ February, 2019

ㅤ There are a few minutes until my entrance. A tingle spreads through my fingers and a drop of sweat threatens to drip onto my makeup. The team assigned to take care of me is having a hard time today. I’m more restless than I usually am.

ㅤ “Are you feeling anxious, Maëlle?” wanted to know the member of staff who brushes the lipstick on my lips. I've forgotten his name, but I can see him smiling to comfort me. He wants to say something, his expression is cautious. “I’m surprised because I’ve never seen you like this before. So...”

ㅤ Nervous about the parade? I can barely recognize myself. I let out a weak whimper.

ㅤ I don’t answer. The last thing I want is to annoy myself on such an important day as this and leave here with terrible wrinkles on my precious face.

ㅤ “It’s like all the others, buttercup. You know that more than anyone else.”

ㅤ I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The fitted party dress, which has a deep V-neckline, hugs my body, accentuating all my curves. I gently slide my hand over the texture. It’s a purple shower of glitter. Seeing myself, I feel disoriented.

ㅤ Nails painted purple.

ㅤ Purple makeup.

ㅤ And an extravagant fuzzy coat, also purple.

ㅤ “That color...” my voice fails, the throat hurts. I feel my eyes getting teary and the vision becoming blurred. Overcome with tears, I can only say, “This color doesn’t suit me. Get it off me, now!”

ㅤ Regal Purple. I agreed to take part this year, even though I didn’t want to, and as if this horrible feeling that I am saying goodbye to something was not enough, I am still humiliated being put to wear the color I hate most in the world.

ㅤ “Oh, no!” laments the member of staff next to me. “The makeup, no!”

ㅤ A buzz starts to form in the dressing room, and I don’t mind. All I want to do is rip this dress off my body, take off this makeup and clean my nails.

ㅤ I hear someone shout, “Hold her! For all that is most sacred!”

ㅤ A cluster of people trying to stop me forms around me. I’m about to grab the hair of one of them when I hear Gigi’s amused voice behind me. Her tone is pacifying, and I know they ran to call her. “That majestic purple looks gorgeous on you, May.”

ㅤ I release the hem of my dress and look at her, hopefully. “Do you think so, Gigi?” I sniffle and snort.

ㅤ “It’s obvious that it is.”

ㅤ “I hate this color! They know that and yet—”

ㅤ “Hey, chill out!” she interrupts. As she approaches me, I realize I’m shorter than her because I’m not wearing my heels. “You’re incredible and, above all, you're the most professional person I know. Are you going to be shaken for a simple color? What would your godmother say if she saw you now?”

ㅤ My godmother? She would never... No way, she can’t see me like this! No way! A snap is all it takes to clear my mind. “Okay, let’s finish it! The parade is about to start.”

ㅤ Within seconds, I’m back to my posture. I move my shoulders back slightly, accentuate my spine, without forgetting to emanate spontaneity in the most natural way possible. The lights of the gigantic venue are still out when the music starts to play. The euphoria of the public outside with the first performance of the day is demonstrated by a reverent acclamation and applause.

ㅤ I may not have any talent for running a bank, like my father wants me to, but when it comes to fashion week parades, I’m far superior.

ㅤ With every firm, elegant step I take, the lights appear on the ground in front of me, making my walk even more imposing. Head up, lightness when moving, hips following the movement of the legs, and a perfect smile. This is how I exhibited off the Michael Kors fall two thousand and nineteen collection on my last day on the catwalks at New York Fashion Week.

ㅤ A quiet Idalia passes by me and, without delay, I press the first floor button on the elevator in silence. When the door finally closes, it’s hard to contain the explosion of joy. Putting our hands together, we managed to reach the highest vocal notes with our screaming, the jumping almost becoming a ring-around-the-rosy from the amount of spinning we did.

ㅤ “Oh. My. Gosh! Someone pinch me!” I laugh ecstatically.

ㅤ “You won’t believe who I found there!” Idalia shakes her hands endlessly, trying in vain to calm down. She can’t hold back all the expressions of joy she’s kept since we arrived. “Ouch! I think I’m going to faint!”

ㅤ I grab her firmly by the coat just as I see her stagger. Completely taken by curiosity, I shake her like an inflatable tube man. “Who? Who was it?” I ramble, with my face starting to tingle. “Holy God... Who was it, Lilah?”

ㅤ The curly one runs away from my grip. “Wait. And that’s not even the best part,” she sings excitedly. “Are you ready?”

ㅤ The elevator doors open, giving passage to the exit of the building. Even from a distance, I can hear the chatter of people at the door, and it’s no wonder the event was a tremendous success as always. I greet the security guard politely when I pass the exit.

ㅤ “Anette Wintour.”

ㅤ My jaw drops and a perfect ‘O’ appears on my lips. The words come out louder than I’d like “Anette Wintour?!”

ㅤ The sizable group of people at the entrance, opposite us, look in my direction. I gesture an apology, but soon an uncontrolled commotion begins, and I think I hear some of them saying something “It’s her! It’s Maëlle Rohan, guys!”

ㅤ It frightens me. In the blink of an eye, a crowd forms around me, more admirers than I expected, showering me with compliments while squeezing into each other to take a selfie. The click and light beams of the cameras’ flash are frantic, the questions of journalists almost drown me right there. Idalia helps me find my way to the car, pulling me by the waist. It took some effort to get close to the windows with all those cameras jumping on our faces.

ㅤ Through the dark glass window, I admire the enormous sign reading NYFW the shows as the car slowly tries to make its way. 

ㅤ The question from the reporter still roams my thoughts “Maëlle, what’s it like being the darling of the moment?” I’d like to answer all of you with a popular saying in Brazil for moments like these, é do caralho! Is fucking awesome!—but, unfortunately, I can’t let my mother know that I know how to curse something like that.

ㅤ Traffic at fashion week is no joke. And from the slowness, it seems like it will take forever to get to our hotel.

ㅤ Idalia repeats, straightening her dyed honey-brown hair and the tangled clothes. “Anette Wintour herself in fashionista flesh and bones.”

ㅤ We’re talking about none other than the current editor-in-chief of Vogue America, journalist, artistic director of Condé Nast and main inspiration for the bestseller, The Devil Wears Prada.

ㅤ A shiver of fascination rises up my spine.

ㅤ “Holy moly macaroni, I wasn’t expecting that!” I whisper in amazement. “You’re so lucky, Lilah. What did she want?”

ㅤ “Lucky, me? Too... Only this time, sis, the luck of the whole world had only one name, and it was yours!” Idalia says, totally immersed in happiness. Like I’ve never seen before. “She was just sitting next to me and, out of the blue, started asking a bunch of questions about you. I was so surprised, just imagine the face that I did! Thankfully, she asked the right person, your competent personal assistant, who gave she handed over almost a biography of you.” Rests her chin on both hands and gives a genuine smile of satisfaction.

ㅤ I pull her in to a loving embrace. “Aww, you’re so sweet” Her perfume exudes cherry and her breath expensive champagne. “What would I be without my best friend?”

ㅤ Idalia smiles, blushing. Her love language is not physical touch, it’s not news to anyone to see her pushing me away as if I were a gummy bear that has melted and sticks where it touches.

ㅤ “After the success that was your participation in the event, the site has updated. Take a look!” said Idalia, reaching into her bag for something. The curly girl’s sky-blue eyes glare at the tablet screen, she types something quickly and after a touch turns the screen of the device to me. The website in question is nyfw.com, official of the fashion week in New York. 

ㅤ I narrow my eyes to understand what about she’s talking about and slowly recognize my face emblazoned on the homepage with snippets of footage we shot outdoors and others from previous shows. Watched silently as the images repeating on the screen while tears gathered in a puddle under my irises.

ㅤ I’ve wished so much for this day to come, the day when I would have recognition, and now that I have it in my hands, I don’t know how to react.

ㅤ Idalia snaps fingers, she has grace in her eyes. “Don’t freak out, girl. We’re almost there.”

ㅤ The car turns into a traffic-free street and I can finally get a glimpse of the city at night. I’m inspired by the gigantic lights. It’s not my first time here, this time I’m working, which means I haven’t had time to admire this enchanting stone jungle.

ㅤ All I can concentrate now, apart from my thoughts, of course, is the music playing on the radio. Probably the New Yorkers can’t take it anymore, but with this overwhelming feeling of fulfillment that is flooding my heart, it’s almost impossible not to sing along.

ㅤ “Mr. Driver.” The man shifts his gaze to the rearview mirror when he hears me speak.

ㅤ “Turn it up. This is a classic” I smiled sympathetically. Empire State Of Mind approaches the chorus and I take off my seatbelt. Leaning on the seat, I manage to reach the vehicle’s large sunroof as I listen to the driver’s distressed protests.

ㅤ The refreshing wind hits me immediately, the speed slows down so that I’m not thrown far away, and this gives me a chance to let out my voice. The golden coppery red strands of my hair flutter and I open my arms, enjoying the full breath of freedom washing over me.

ㅤ In New York, the stone jungle where dreams are made. There’s nothing I can’t do.