An Innocent Fashion by R.J. Hernández

order of truth. Every great thinker has agreed—human life is nothing without the aesthetic experience. Arts, culture . . . they’re not frivolous at all if without them there’s no meaning. And if realizing the aesthetic potential of human life is a basic need, and a government has a responsibility to meet the basic needs of its people, then culture should be at the heart of governmental policy . . . Beauty—”
    My voice cracked. Madeline was finally looking straight at me, her eyes shining out of the blur of other faces. Before I had even planned the words, I heard myself share my own conviction aloud: “Beauty moves the whole world.”
    Professor Pemberton tapped his flat hands on the round table. “Very good, everyone. I think we all know now which two among us will be starting a revolution,” he smiled. “But alas, Ethan and Madeline, I’m afraid to inform you—the Romantics have already beaten you to the punch, and you’re almost two centuries late to join them.”
    A light ripple of laughter diffused the tension, which rose upward through the air to the crown molding. The professor took the opportunity to herd us back inside the perimeter of our selected texts, and for the rest of the class, I finally had no doubt that Madeline was looking at me. A few times, I had the courage to look up; I tried to be quick, to catch her gaze, but she was always quicker, and the moment my eyes reached hers they were met with a rustling of golden hair and a sudden devotion to the chalkboard, as if her life depended on the memorization of what was there.
    After class: the rattling of pens and notebooks into bags.Madeline took an especially long time packing up her things, neatly organizing her materials—pens, papers, sticky notes—first into a well-orchestrated square on the table. She kept her face glued to the pile, as though she hoped somebody might tap her shoulder so that she could look up in surprise, and utter a startled, “ Oh! ” through her plump lips and the gap between her white teeth.
    I started toward her, building up the courage to restore communication between us, when like a thumb over the lens of a camera, Grant Goodwin invaded my view.
    â€œI hope you’re not upset,” he said, his voice filled with chivalrous détente. “Here, can I help you?” he offered, and reached toward the pile she had so painstakingly tidied up before her.
    Caught staring, I forced my head to swivel downward like I had dropped something on the floor.
    â€œOh, it’s all right,” Madeline said to him, with a disappointed drop in her voice. I crossed the threshold of the classroom, my strides as regimented as a soldier’s, and her words were drowned out by my harried footsteps against the marble floor.

    I SPENT TWENTY MINUTES WAITING IN THE LINE AT FEDEX, stuck behind a balding head that resembled the swirling eye of a hurricane. I spent ten minutes waiting for them to retrieve the package, then another twenty in traffic, and by the time I had returned to the Régine office with the Alexander McQueen package, I was ten minutes late for the run-through.
    Standing by a table of accessories was Edmund Benneton, Régine ’s fashion director and my personal idol. In a royal bluecape and a matching turban like some great maharaja, I recognized him even from behind.
    Sabrina and Clara were crowding around him, along with a male and female editor I hadn’t met yet. Behind a fortress of clipboards, they all slanted over his shoulders in an attentive formation, pens poised like bayonets. Edmund was staring at a hat on the table, arms crossed over his chest, drumming jewel-encrusted fingers over his silk sleeves.
    I came up slowly behind them, trying to catch Clara’s eye so that I could discreetly hand the box off to her. “ It’s extreeeemely important ,” she had said. “ Don’t even photograph it, just bring it