that she was wearing an original—designed by her daughter, the ugly duckling.
Me.
* * *
The following year, Mother was nominated for her thirteenth Oscar, and of course, she didn’t win. I had hoped she wouldn’t—thirteen is one of those numbers you should live through, not call attention to.
She wore a flowing, pale lavender gown with piping that made it look vaguely Egyptian, placed in a pattern that warded away bad magic and amplified protective thoughts.
I accompanied her that year, not as her “date” because, by then, she had a new man, but as her dresser.
I followed along, adjusting her train. I primped, I plucked, I made sure no make-up artist screwed up the lovely glow we gave her. (And sure enough, I saw a tiny harassed blonde who, when I viewed her with magical vision, looked like she had been swallowed by a black, shadowy Category 3 tornado.)
I got Mother to her seat, and then hovered at the edges, so I could touch her up if need be.
All went well, through the too-long dance numbers and the lame jokes (although I did have to touch up her eye make-up after the Dead-Roll because she had some friends on it). But I wasn’t prepared for the moment Mother’s category got announced.
Mother’s dress flared as it tried to keep her tension down (I put some comfort magic in the thread as well), and then—
She lost.
No surprise there.
But that was the category where the winner—a twenty-something with a plum indie role (right before her big debut as the Heroine of A Saga) tripped going up the stairs to get her award. And remained sprawled for the longest time.
I couldn’t run to the winner; I didn’t dare. Because I hoped no one else magical was watching. The energy above her, the lavender energy that tripped her—well, that had come from my mother.
Mother had been jealous of the winner throughout the entire awards season. And honestly, I understood it even if I hadn’t encouraged it. A twenty-something, beautiful, witty woman actually making more money per picture than Mother made in her entire career—and already stamped with a trademarked series of award wins.
Well, Little Miss Award-Winner-Above-The-Title managed to pick herself up and go on, giving a good speech if not a great one, and the show continued.
But I had some revamping to do.
The dresses couldn’t just send out magical “protect” energy. The energy had to be addressed at the shadows—the true magical threat, not a talented young woman who just happened snag the role of the season.
I didn’t yell at Mother. After all, she had put on her marvelous best I’m so pleased you won instead of me face, and had outwardly done the right things. Never once has she expressed the mean-girl jealousy that appeared via the dress that night.
And believe you me, I did some serious magical cleaning to make sure that the dress hadn’t been infected with shadow energy.
Nope. The dress had done its job. It had protected my fragile mother from the crushing disappointment that accompanied her every loss.
At least, this time, she wasn’t excoriated on the fashion shows. And every single night thereafter, she was listed as one of the best-dressed with only one snarkmeister mentioning that Mother was a Woman Of A Certain Age.
I would have thought victory was mine, if it weren’t for the humiliation the poor twenty-something had inadvertently suffered at my hands on her big night.
I had to make sure that sort of thing would never happen again.
I refined the dresses, gave them away for free, test-ran them at minor awards venues such as the Pawtucket Film Festival, and then offered them to starlets for bigger festivals like Sundance. No one fell, no jealous energy attacked another winner, and if the snarkmeisters didn’t mention the dress positively, then they didn’t mention it at all.
Mother married (happily) in one of my dresses, divorced (happily) in one of my dresses, and lost every award she was nominated for in the next five awards seasons, without ever attracting any more snark. Plus, her appearances got her ranked in the top five at least once a season—and she was becoming known for wearing Warrior Woman Designs, which had rehabilitated her.
Snarkmeister 1: Everyone should be so lucky as to have a daughter like Caro’s. The girl never had the looks, so she studied how to make fashion accessible even for the not-so-beautiful. When you apply that fashion to the unbelievably beautiful—well, [my only-for-today-friend Snarkmeister 2], you can see the results.