Chapter 10 Ella

Chapter 10 Ella
I woke up to the shrill sound of my alarm. Half-asleep, I dragged myself into the bathroom to freshen up before waking Sophia. The cold water against my skin jolted me halfway into reality. A few minutes later, I made my way to the kitchen and brewed a cup of coffee. One sip, and the warmth slid down my throat, waking me up completely.

Sophia was still sprawled on her bed, snoring softly. “Come on, sleeping beauty,” I said, nudging her. “First day of class.”

She groaned, eyes half-open. “Do I have to?”

“Yes. Now, move.”

By the time we got to the bus stop, she was still drowsy, yawning between sentences. “First day of class,” I said again, this time grinning.

“Hurray,” she mumbled, waving her hands lazily in the air. I laughed. She slept through most of the bus ride, only jolting fully awake when we arrived at Havenbrook.

The campus looked even more beautiful in daylight — glass windows glinting, students bustling, laughter echoing in the halls. We found our classroom, already half-full, and I spotted two empty seats in the middle row. I grabbed Sophia’s hand and led her there before anyone else could.

A woman walked in, her posture graceful and confident. She wore a white long-sleeved shirt tucked into a black flared skirt, heels clicking lightly against the tiled floor. “Good morning, everyone,” she greeted, her voice soft and calm. “I’m Mrs. Claire, and I’ll be your instructor for this session.”

I liked her instantly. There was something steady and reassuring about her smile — kind, but sharp enough that you knew she meant business.

She started by introducing us to what she called the tools of the trade — measuring tape, tailor’s chalk, pins, needles, and scissors that gleamed under the light. She explained how accuracy mattered in fashion, how a single wrong inch could ruin an entire outfit.

We spent the next hour learning basic stitches — running stitch, backstitch, hemming. My fingers fumbled more than once, the thread tangling itself like it had a personal grudge. Somewhere across the room, someone hissed after pricking her finger. I glanced sideways at Sophia, who was hunched over her fabric, tongue between her teeth in concentration. I couldn’t help but smile.

After that came fabric study. Mrs. Claire spread out samples across the table — cotton, silk, linen, chiffon, and denim — explaining how each behaved differently. Cotton was breathable and easy to sew, silk was slippery and delicate, chiffon needed patience, and denim could break your needle if you weren’t careful.

“Everything is so fast-paced,” Sophia whispered.

“It’s a lot for the first day,” I whispered back, smiling.

By the end of the day, my notes were messy, my fingertips sore, and faint chalk marks covered my clothes. But when I packed up my things, I realized I was smiling. It wasn’t perfect, but I was learning — one stitch, one fabric, one day at a time. Slow progress, but still progress.

“Man, I’m exhausted,” Sophia sighed as we walked out the school gates.

“You’ve got chalk all over your clothes,” I said, pointing at her.

“So do you,” she fired back, laughing. “We sure are messy.”

I grinned. “Your focus is scary, you know. I kept stealing glances at you but you never looked up once.”

“I told you this beret keeps me inspired. It’s like I’m possessed by some fashion legend when I wear it.” She patted her beret proudly, wearing a smug smile that made me laugh.

The next morning, the classroom didn’t feel so intimidating. I already knew where to sit, how to thread my needle, and that the iron in the corner hissed loudly every few minutes.

Mrs. Claire started with basic pattern drafting. We learned how to take measurements — bust, waist, hip, and length and how to transfer them onto brown pattern paper. I didn’t realize how precise it all was until my lines refused to stay straight.

“Fashion is about patience,” she said gently, glancing over my shoulder. “Don’t rush the process.”

By midday, we’d drafted the pattern for a simple straight skirt. My paper was smudged with pencil marks, but when I traced the final outline, pride fluttered in my chest. My first real design, even if it was half-correct.

After lunch, we moved to the sewing machines. The soft whirring filled the room like music. I pressed the pedal too hard the first time, and my fabric shot out of place. Everyone laughed, including me. It wasn’t as easy as it looked, but once I got into rhythm, it felt oddly peaceful , just the hum of the machine and fabric sliding beneath my fingers.

By the third day, the excitement had turned into a steady rhythm. I could measure, draft, and thread without overthinking. Mrs. Claire announced our first project , a simple skirt.

The room buzzed with chatter as everyone rushed to pick fabrics. I chose a light pink cotton with tiny floral prints — nothing fancy, but it felt like me. Sophia leaned over and whispered, “If mine turns out ugly, I’m blaming the machine.”

I laughed, hiding my nerves. “You picked red silk. That’s a bold choice.”

She grinned. “I’m feeling dramatic.”

We spent the morning cutting our fabric pieces using the pattern we’d made the day before. Every snip of the scissors felt final, and I checked my measurements twice just to be sure. When I finally joined the seams on the machine, my stitches came out uneven , but at least they were mine.

By the end of the day, I was holding something that almost looked like a skirt. The hem wasn’t straight, and the zipper sat crooked, but I couldn’t stop smiling. It wasn’t perfect, but it was proof I was learning, slowly but surely.

Sophia grinned from across the table. “If we keep this up, we’ll be real designers soon.”

“Yeah,” I said, glancing at my work. “One crooked stitch at a time.”

The rest of the week passed in a blur. We learned how to correct flaws, and Mrs. Claire made us remake our skirts. This time, they came out better — cleaner lines, smoother seams.

By Friday evening, Sophia and I could barely move. We slumped onto our beds, completely drained.

“I’m hungry,” she groaned, “but I’m too tired to stand, talk, or think about cooking.”

“Same,” I muttered. “Let’s just order pizza.”

She nodded weakly. The moment the box opened, the smell of melted cheese and tomato sauce filled the air. We’d ordered a large pepperoni and a small veggie — our usual compromise.

“Perfect ratio,” she said, grabbing a slice.

I laughed, collapsing beside her on the couch. “So… the first week is done. We survived.”

“Barely,” she said through a mouthful of pizza. “My fingers are still sore from the sewing machine. And don’t even get me started on that chiffon fabric , it slipped right out of my hands like it was alive.”

I nodded, taking a bite. “Tell me about it. My first backstitch looked more like a zigzag nightmare. But at least I didn’t break the needle… yet.”

“Small victories,” she said with a smirk. “And did you see Mrs. Claire explaining the patterns? I swear she moves faster than light. My brain’s still catching up.”

I chuckled. “Yeah, but it was kind of fun, wasn’t it? Learning all that stuff ,even if it’s overwhelming.”

She nodded, sipping her soda. “Totally. By next week, we’ll probably be making our first gowns. Can you imagine?”

I shivered a little, half excited, half terrified. “One crooked stitch at a time, right?”

“Exactly,” she said, pointing her slice at me. “Now eat before it gets cold. School stress can wait till next week.”

We ate in comfortable silence, the TV humming softly in the background. A movie flickered on, but honestly, the pizza had my full attention. It wasn’t anything special, but somehow, it was perfect — the smell, the laughter, the warmth of just being home.

We called it an early night; we had café shifts the next morning. Maxine, bless her, only scheduled us for weekends. She
was our number one supporter — and right then, as exhaustion settled in, I was grateful for that.