After I met up with Ichika, Iguchi and Chiaki brought us to the fashion show’s green room. I’d missed seeing Mike-san’s group, but some other students were still presenting designs. The proceedings were taking a little longer than expected, so there’d probably be some downtime before evaluations started.
I opened the green room door so forcefully that everyone turned to stare. Ichika and I were covered in sweat after our mad dash, which garnered some questioning looks.
Someone called to me from the back. “Tono-kun? What’s going on?”
The voice came from Mike-san’s group. Mike-san’s model was among them, but I didn’t have the mental capacity to admire her outfit. Charging straight into the green room, I forced the paper bag I was carrying into Mike-san’s arms.
“Put this on!”
“What is it?”
“A dress. It’s white. It won’t be as well-tailored as the suit, but it’s something.” I was panting so hard, I barely got the words out.
Ichika was also completely winded, and she still had no clue what was going on.
Mike-san pulled the dress from the bag. She sighed softly as she gazed down at it. “It’s very pretty…but I’m sure it won’t fit me.”
“It will. Because it’s mine.”
I felt her group’s eyes pierce me, but I paid them no heed. “We have similar body types,” I continued. “Your shoulders might be a little noticeable if you just wear the dress, but if you cover them with a shawl or something, it should be fine. And if you wear a wig, you can style it to distract from your Adam’s apple.”
“How do you know so much about all this?” Mike-san asked.
Iguchi and Chiaki watched our exchange; their gazes burned. I clenched my fists, hoping to shake my discomfort. “I wore women’s clothes too for a long time.”
But even when I found feminine clothing that I liked, it was becoming less likely that it would fit right. Sure, I could force myself into a garment, but my frame usually neutralized the design’s strengths. Without breasts, I lacked a beautifully curved silhouette, and low necklines emphasized my Adam’s apple. I’d gradually started researching clothing combinations that still suited me, and makeup styles that made me look more feminine.
“My evaluation’s going to start soon,” Mike said uncertainly.
A group member piped up from the sidelines. “Do it, Mike! If we divvy up the work, we can get you ready in time. We’ve got wigs and makeup here. It should be fine.”
I figured she was in the hair and makeup department, as she started applying primer to Mike-san’s face before Mike-san even had a chance to respond. A girl with silk flowers in her hair began trimming the ends of a wig with scissors.
Soon, all the eyes in the green room were glued on us. If we ran out of any of the cosmetics on hand, all we’d have to do was yell and someone would lend us more. Mike-san just sat there as everyone worked on her.
“Um…” I interjected.
“Yes?” said one of the students making her up.
“She has defined cheekbones. You should soften them with blush and highlighter.”
“Tell us something we don’t know. Who do you think taught her to do makeup in the first place?!”
I’d never felt such relief after a reprimand. Realizing that my presence wasn’t vital, I slumped on the floor next to Ichika. Mike-san went behind a curtain to put on the dress so her classmates could complete the finishing touches. Everyone waited eagerly for her to come out.
Instead, she whispered feebly from beyond the thin curtain. “I can’t do it. Not in this dress.”
“It’s fine! Just come out already!”
She didn’t respond, so someone pulled the curtain and exposed Mike-san, who had her arms wrapped around herself as if concealing her appearance. Mike-san and I were about the same height, but she was way more muscular. Her rounded biceps bulged, and the leg peeking from the dress’s slit was defined with deep, sinewy lines. The dress did fit her, but as it was, she wouldn’t want to wear it.
The costumes for our class’s cross-dressing café had been inspired by drag queens. If Mike-san styled herself accordingly, that might reduce some of the outfit’s awkwardness. It wouldn’t accord with how she felt about herself, though.
Her group members offered different suggestions—she could draw attention from the dress with a voluminous hairstyle or wear dark stockings—but none seemed to do the trick.
“Sorry, everyone. I’ve had enough…” Mike-san trailed off in a barely audible voice, wilting from embarrassment.
She glanced around for makeup remover. All we could do was look on in frustration, everyone thinking that same thing: Can we do anything for her?
We were still at a loss when a single voice piped up somewhere in the green room. “Could I alter that dress?”
“It…doesn’t belong to me.”
“No problem!” I shouted. “Do whatever you want with it!”
At that, a petite girl barreled across the crowded room in our direction. “I need some designers to help me! Bring any leftover fabric you can find over here!”
Scissors in hand, she sliced through the hem of the dress, cutting several openings the length of the original slit. Several girls formed a human wall around the deeply flushed Mike-san to hide her exposed legs.
“I’m so sorry I made you wear a suit, Mike,” the petite girl added. “I’m sure you didn’t feel comfortable.”
I gathered she’d made the suit Mike-san wore earlier. The corners of her eyes were full of tears; she wiped them away, then began stitching scavenged fabric into the new slits she’d cut in the garment. It had started as a sateen cocktail dress, but the additional fabric transformed its simple shape into something much more elegant.
The girl intentionally left the hem uneven, which exposed Mike-san’s ankle and made her look more slender and delicate. For the most part, she’d only added white fabric, but she’d used flower print exquisitely to create several key accents, boosting the dress from beautiful to gorgeous.
The design students worked without hesitation. They didn’t discuss what they were going to do ahead of time, yet they all seemed focused on the same vision.
“How much time is left? We still need to cover her neck!”
“We can’t leave her shoulders bare either. We gotta cover them.”
“Anyone have a scarf?”
People chimed in right and left. The girl who’d made the suit was hand-sewing Mike-san’s hem at top speed. The fabric she’d added made the dress roomier, creating a soft curve below the waist.
“She doesn’t need a scarf,” a male student yelled from one corner. “You’ll only call attention to that area if you go out of your way to cover it. Just create volume by layering organdy around the neckline. Catching the eye with something else is a better approach. You can use our group’s necklace, if you want.”
There was a brief, awkward pause as he approached the all-female team working on Mike-san, but the newcomer seemed completely undaunted as he handed over the accessory.
“You need to be confident, Miyake,” he added. “Slouching makes your whole body look off-balance. Stick your chest out and stand up proud.”
His encouragement spurred the other students to action.
“Cinch this ribbon around her stomach! It’ll define her waist!”
“Her arms might look more delicate with a bracelet or two!”
“I have big feet, so you can probably wear my high heels!”
In what seemed like the blink of an eye, Mike-san was made up and dressed to the nines. A group of design students split up to finish mending the sliced skirt until it was good as new. One was particularly annoyed with the messy sewing; she muttered complaints as she fixed the seams.
After curling Mike-san’s wig with an iron for a softer appearance, the group began the final makeup touchups.
“Come on, Mike, don’t cry. Your makeup will run.”
“Sorry, but I…”
“You can cry as much as you want once everything’s over. Just hang on a little longer.”
Mike-san looked at the ceiling, holding back her tears at the show of support. When she realized someone was trying to apply her blush, she forced a smile to show them the apples of her cheeks. The grin was awkward, but she looked adorable.