Movement
One

Behind the curtains, within the bustling dressing room of Manhattan’s Fine Art Theatre (MFAT), chaos reigned supreme. Models draped in exquisite couture navigated through a whirlwind of activity, sharing fleeting glances with designers as their final adjustments were made. Managers orchestrated the choreography of movement, guiding models with grace amidst the stylists’ meticulous touch, ensuring every fabric flowed just right. Makeup artists painted vibrant strokes of color onto the canvas of each model’s face, while nearby hairdressers crafted intricate coiffures that would rival art itself.

Near the back of the dressing room, in a paradox of serenity, an exhausted young girl slumbered in blissful oblivion. This girl was no other than Trinidadian, New York University of Arts (NYUA) freshman design student Loconda Toussaint. Though her body yearned for rest, her mind raced with thoughts of ultra-fine fabrics shifting through a kaleidoscope of abstract shapes, patterns, and colors.

While she was neither asleep nor awake, Loconda dwelled in the realm between the two states of consciousness. As her thoughts gained clarity and intensity, her hands began to rise and repeat the sewing motions needed to recreate her dream-like designs in reality.

“Yo, peep this,” whispered Lovelie Scott, a lanky Bajan-American model and Frossard Music Academy freshman, elbowing Tracey Carrington, a pint-sized Grenadian-Haitian model and NYUA sophomore. “Loco’s at it again, air-sewing in her sleep like she’s possessed by a sewing machine.”

“Seriously?” Tracey sighed, as her attempts to glimpse through the crowd proved futile. “Isn’t that just my luck? I’m the only one who hasn’t seen her do it yet and here she is doing it and I still can’t see her do it.”

“Girl, I gotchu,” Lovelie smiled, snatching Tracy’s phone out of her hand. “I’ll take a vid and drop it in the chat, ‘cause Dream hasn’t seen it either.”

Stepping into the dressing room and casting a distinct gravity over the atmosphere, was Vivian Giordano, a dignified elderly Italian woman, flanked by David Callan, a lean production assistant, and Otto, a tall and impeccably dressed security guard. A hush rippled through the room as Vivian’s presence caught the attention of the growing assembly. Far more than her appearance suggested, Vivian was not only the heiress of a multinational fashion house and chair of the Interior Design department at the Maude Institute, but she was also one of the four distinguished MFAT board members presiding over the very fashion show in which all present were fervently competing.

“What’s she doing back here?” hissed a voice in the crowd.

“Whoa,” whispered another, “I’ve never seen a judge backstage mid-show before.”

Vivian whipped off her sleek triangular sunglasses and scanned the room like a hawk hunting prey. “Well? Where is she?” she snapped, her accent sharp enough to cut glass. She wore a long, burgundy houndstooth-checkered vicuña wool blazer over a black mulberry silk blouse and pants set.

“Let me double-check,” David replied, wrestling with a garment bag and flipping through a clipboard. “According to our arrangements, she should be near the back at table 37, ma’am.”

“Girl,” Lovelie gasped, still filming Loconda’s sleepy sewing spree on Tracey’s phone. “You’ve gotta see this!”

“See what?” Tracey whined, hopping on her toes like a kid at a parade.

“Girl, why is Vivian freakin’ Gior standing in front of Loco?”

“The Vivian Gior?”

“Yes, child, in the flesh!”

“In front of our Loca?”

“What other Loco do we know?”

“No way! Dammit! I can’t believe

I’m missing out on this!”

“C’mon girl, let’s get a closer look.”

The room went graveyard-quiet, every eyeball glued to Vivian as she zeroed in on Loconda. “Hmph, the phantom thread,” she murmured, watching Loconda’s twirling hands with the intensity of a cat stalking a laser pointer. “And in such a young thing.”

Vivian’s gaze then snagged onto Loconda’s natural glow: dark skin so radiant it could’ve lit the room, framed by four jumbo box braids that crowned her like a queen. Baby hairs curled down her temples like tendrils of smoke, and her outfit? A cropped sky-blue blazer over a silky white bralette, paired with a high-waisted midi dress that seamlessly faded from beige to dark brown, kissing tortoise-brown slingback flats. She was a walking mood board.

Leaning over, Vivian lightly tapped Loconda on the shoulder, but the gentle touch yielded no response. Undeterred, she cleared her throat and tapped more insistently, yet Loconda’s slumber remained undisturbed. With growing frustration, Vivian quickly grabbed Loconda’s twirling hands, and in a burst of exasperation, she yelled, “Mi scusi!”

Loconda’s eyelids fluttered open to the unexpected sight of Vivian’s cold wrinkly hands wrapped around her wrists and the room’s collective attention firmly on her.

“Mi scusi, darling,” Vivian smiled, as she swept away the long silver hair that framed her face, revealing the shadowed rings encircling her bright blue eyes, “but would you happen to be the designer of this piece?” Vivian’s slender fingers directed Loconda’s attention to David, who was now holding up a wispy poncho draped over a brass hanger.

“Um… yeah, that’s my work,” Loconda nodded, before turning back toward Vivian, who was still standing a bit too close for comfort.

“Notevole! So, you must be Miss Toussaint?”

“I am.”

“Eccellente! Now, tesoro, I know this may sound random, but is there any chance you’re related to Acadia Pueyrredon?”

A strange sensation swept over Loconda as she stared back at Vivian’s gleeful expression. So many unsettling details were vying for her attention, she didn’t know where to begin. First, Loconda knew exactly who Vivian was, but in all the photos that she’d ever seen of her, she had never seen her smile once. Secondly, how did she deduce the connection between her and her aunt Acadia? No one had ever broached this question before and to her recollection, no one outside of her immediate family knew of their relation. Lastly, a haunting question loomed even larger than the others: What was transpiring in the room, affecting everyone present?

In a sudden wave of fatigue, Loconda watched in horror as every head in the crowd around her suddenly went limp, until everyone in the room except for Vivian, Otto, and herself were sound asleep. Some heads hung back, others leaned forward, but most individuals remained standing upright as they slumbered.

“Potresti calmarlo, per favore?” Vivian requested firmly, steering Otto’s attention towards David, who was now asleep and snoring as loud as a lawnmower. In a swift motion, Otto retrieved the poncho from David’s hand and, with a gentle touch, raised his chin, effectively silencing the cacophonous snores.

“What the heck is happening’?” Loconda yelped, toppling off her chair and crab-walking to the wall.

“Calmati, tesoro,” Vivian cooed, “You can relax, I just needed to talk to you in privato. Is that okay?”

“No, it’s not okay! What are you, a witch or something?”

“Oh, I’m far worse than that. I’m an artist darling.”

“You call this art? Knocking people out?”

“This was merely a manipulation of art and energia. I had to confirm who you are—and the fact that you’re still awake proves it.”

My chest feels weird, Loconda thought, did my heart skip a beat?

“Ahimè… unfortunately, my stint in New York is coming to an end,” Vivian disclosed. “But you should consider paying me a visit.” With a graceful gesture, she procured a velvet envelope from her purse and tucked it neatly into the inner pocket of Loconda’s blazer.

“My head’s… fuzzy,” Loconda mumbled, as her vision blurred, the room melting away.

“Goodnight, darling,” Vivian whispered, as she watched Loconda drift into a deep slumber. Rising to her feet, Vivian instructed Otto to return Loconda to her chair. Then together, they glided through the peaceful sea of sleeping bodies. One by one, Otto lifted each sleeping body out of their way, forging a clear path to the exit.

Just as Vivian was about to leave the room she stole one last glance at Loconda and was delighted to see the young designer’s hands were up again, twirling in the same sewing motions as before. It was as if she had seamlessly picked up her work from where she had left off.

“Oh, I can’t wait to see it tesoro,” Vivian smirked. “I’m sure it’ll be just what this world needs.”