The Standout

by Laurel Osterkamp

I’m not allowed to call Nick. I’m not allowed to call anyone, or use the internet, or investigate this stupid website. So I work on my dress, even though every time I look at the straps, all I see is a noose.

  The next day we’re picking models. All the designers sit in their stadium seats in the runway room and the models are made to stand on the stage. They all look so cold, dressed in their identical black slips, even as the bright stage lights shine on them from every direction.

  Hilaire picks a designer’s name from a bag and then the designer gets to choose her model. It’s like waiting to get picked for teams in gym class, only a million times worse. Zelda’s chest caves a little more each time a designer doesn’t choose her, because two models will get the boot today.

  When Hilaire reads my name, I don’t hesitate. “I’ll stick with Zelda.”

  I give Zelda a wink but I doubt she can see it. She walks off stage, going out of her way to sit with another one of the chosen models who looks about her age. Zelda goes in for a fist bump and the other girl returns the gesture, but with a plastic smile. As soon as Zelda looks away, the other girl shares an eye roll with the model sitting on her opposite side.

  After all the models have been chosen and the two rejected girls walk gloomily off stage, we’re released into the workroom, where we can fit our models into their dresses. I’d already fit my dress to Zelda anyway, which motivated me all the more to choose her. And the dress conforms to her body like a fantasy.

  “Okay,” I tell Zelda. “Do a pirouette or something. You’re supposed to be able to dance in this, so let’s test it out.”

  Zelda chews on the corner of her mouth for a moment. “Are you sure you want to risk it? What if I fall and rip it again?”

  “You won’t.”

  “But what if I do?” She wraps a short lock of hair around her finger. “I can’t believe you even chose me. I’d have picked someone else.”

  “Don’t be silly. I want a model who is on my side, who will make my dresses look fabulous. That’s you. Now do a pirouette.”

  Right now the workroom is packed with designers and models/dancers, running around like their lives depend upon a garment, but Zelda claims a spot and does a perfect pirouette, twirling around four times before her raised foot meets the floor. She stretches her arms out and over her head, and the chiffon flaps like a butterfly wing, which is exactly the effect I wanted.

  “That was perfect!” I cry. “How does it feel?”

  “Awesome,” she answers, “like I could fly.” She’s smiling so hard I could squeeze her cheeks. Zelda looks across the room, sees that girl she was sitting next to before, and gives her a broad wave. The girl waves back but with about a fifth of Zelda’s enthusiasm.

  “So you know her?” I ask.

  “That’s Julie, my best friend. We auditioned for the show so we could do it together.”

  “Oh. Cool.” But if that girl is Zelda’s best friend then Zelda must be some ballet version of Charlie Brown, always letting Lucy pull the football, or toe shoe, away.

  “Okay, designers!” Jim Giles enters the room and calls out. “It’s time for the runway. Let’s go. You all can do this!”

  This time I am chosen as one of the possible winners of the challenge. However, Thomas Craig and Evie Messina like my dress better than Hilaire does.

  “It is pretty, yes, but I do not see a vision.” Her French accent makes this, and everything she says, sound like it’s from an art film.

  “Well, my vision was an awakening. Sleeping Beauty is awakened by love, and the colors and the shape are supposed to represent going from darkness to light, from paralysis to movement.”

  “Oui, I get that,” says Hilaire, and her voice softens in a nuanced way. “What I do not see from you is a unified vision. I do not look at your garments and understand why you are here.” She waves her hands expressively as she speaks. I can understand why people respond to her; everything she says and does is passionate.

  “But this is only the second thing you have seen from me.”

  “Two garments should be enough!” Hilaire’s perfectly proportioned face twists with commitment. “I do not know, so you must tell me. Robin, what is your goal here?”

  “I. . .” I could tell her that I’m content to run my online business of upcycled clothing from Des Moines for the rest of my life. Maybe I’ll start my own fashion blog; maybe I’ll start a side-business of wedding and prom dresses. I could admit that I just want visibility so I can stay comfortable in my own little corner of the world.

  But every other contestant here is dying to show at New York Fashion Week, dying to network with famous designers, dying to start their own line that will be featured in Vogue. “I’m here to learn and grow,” I finally tell her. “I never went to design school but I love fashion and I want to be as good as possible. So when this opportunity came up I couldn’t turn it down.”

  “Ah yes,” answers Hilaire. “You want to learn. That is not a bad goal. But The Standout is not design school, Mon Cherie. If you want your work to truly stand out, you must decide on your real goal and you must show it in your work.”

  I nod as if I understand how to do that. “Thank you.”

  Then Hilaire turns her attention towards Casey, whose score was on the bottom. Apparently her white dress looks like a dance recital reject and Casey’s chin quivers as she tries not to cry. But in the end, the winner is not me and the loser is not Casey, and we both exit the runway, relieved to see another day.

  I grab Zelda before she disappears out the door. “Thanks for today,” I tell her. “You were great.”

  Zelda beams. “I really did like your dress and the whole concept of being awakened by love. I mean. . .” she drifts off for a second, gazing ahead like she can see more in the distance than just a row of sewing machines, “it’s just a dress, but I could feel all that when I wore it. And maybe that’s your purpose, you know? To make people feel.”

  “Yeah, maybe it is.” Indulgently I reach to hug her. “Thanks again, Zelda.”

  She squeezes me, hard, and I get the feeling this girl has needed a good hug for a while. “I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

  “Right. Sounds good.”

  She walks off toward outside, and even though I hardly know her and I’ll see her again soon, I already miss the one person here I can trust, the only one sure to be on my side.

  Chapter 21

  Today’s challenge is based off the ballet Ondine.

  I’d never heard of it until now, but apparently Ondine is a water nymph who falls in love with a human named Palemon, but he’s engaged to a woman named Berta. Palemon leaves Berta for Ondine, and then there’s a storm and Palemon thinks Ondine is dead, so he marries Berta anyway. Of course, Ondine is still alive and heartbroken, so she finds Palemon and gives him a deadly kiss. Then she goes back into the sea and loses all memory of him forever.

  Love, betrayal, revenge: this challenge should be right up my alley.

  But we don't get to go shopping at Metaphor. Instead, we are randomly given boxes of fabric and that’s what we get to use. When I lift the lid off my fabric box I find bolts of red, but nothing silky and no chiffon. No, it’s bright red linen, which is difficult because it wrinkles so easily. I also got a yard of delicate pink cotton printed with tiny white flowers.

  “What did you get?” I ask Casey. She shows me the contents of her box. There’s some sea-green taffeta, which looks way more appropriate than what I got for a challenge about a water nymph.

  “Nice taffeta,” I say. “I’m sure you can do something great.”

  “Yeah, but there’s not enough to make anything long and flowy, and my other fabric is awful.” She holds up a yard of mustard-colored oxford cloth. “What the heck am I supposed to do with this?”

  I take the fabric and gently pull with two fingers, examining its weave. “Do you want to trade? My pink cotton for this?”

  Casey raises her eyebrows so high they nearly bump into her hairline. “Seriousl
y?”

  I shrug. “Sure.”

  She grabs my pink cotton before I can change my mind.

  Now I’m putting together my dress, keeping in mind that my goal is to make people feel. I’ve decided to focus on poor Berta, who couldn’t compete with a water nymph for her boyfriend’s love. She must have felt so spurned. She must have felt like inviting Ondine up to her tree house just so she could push her to the ground.

  Berta is lit up with hurt and anger, like a fireball of resentment, so I design a tight fitting top out of the mustard-colored oxford cloth, with long sleeves and a straight, horizontal neckline. But it’s cut right below her bust line, and I’m draping the red linen so it forms a long skirt that’s hangs in triangular shapes around her calves, like flames. It’s not as easy as I thought it would be, to construct something that even resembles what I imagined. I’m running out of time, and when the production assistant beckons me to do a filmed testimonial, my frustration threatens to overflow.

  “Does it have to be now?” I bark, aware that she’s only doing her job.

  “Didn’t you hear?” she asks. “We’re filming Skype sessions with everyone’s loved ones today. Your fiancé is waiting for you.”

  I jolt up and move urgently past her. I get to hear his voice. I get to see his crooked smile. The production assistant points me in the right direction and I practically jump into that computer. “Nick?” He’s sitting at our dining room table, where his laptop usually is. He grins as soon as he sees me and then laughs in this joyful sort of way.

  “Hi, Rocky! How are you?”

  “I’m okay. I didn’t know until just now that I get to talk to you.”

  “Really? Because some producer called me and arranged it several days ago.”

  “Umm. . .” the production assistant, who is standing off to the side, breaks in. “You guys only have a couple of minutes, so you need to talk about your lives and not the details of this show.”

  “Oh, okay.” I turn back to Nick’s beautiful face. I wish more than anything that I could reach through the computer screen and touch him, to brush his hair that’s grown kind of long off his forehead, to give him a kiss. “So what’s new?”

  “Well, I have great news.” Nick’s gravelly voice turns down a notch, like it always does when he feels humble. “Two pieces of great news, actually.”

  “Tell me!” I demand with a smile.

  “I got a long-term sub job at East High, because the band director is going on maternity leave. And I guess they’re looking to expand their music program, because the principal said they hope to have another full-time position the following year.”

  “That’s amazing! And you’ll have an in, right?”

  Nick shrugs. “Yeah, maybe.” His smile fades just a little and he grows thoughtful. “I’ll have to take extra courses this summer if I want my teaching license by then. But they said that I can count the subbing as my student teaching, so that’s really, really good. I didn’t know how I was going to afford teaching full time without getting paid, you know?”

  “Yeah. That’s wonderful, Nick. I’m so happy for you.” But would a public school be so keen to hire him if they knew he was engaged to a notorious internet whore like me? My stomach sways at the idea. I should really say something, figure out a code to warn him. . .

  The productions assistant clears her throat and taps her watch, and I swallow back an exasperated sigh.

  “So,” Nick continues, “the other great news is that Andrea got a scholarship to Drake. Almost a full ride.”

  “Wow! This is quite the month for the Davies siblings,” I say. “Drake was her first choice, wasn’t it?”

  Nick nods. “Yeah, she’s pretty excited. But not everything is covered. She’ll, um. . .” Nick’s eyes dart around nervously. “. . .she’ll have to keep living with us if she wants to afford it.”

  Deep down, I knew this was coming. Realistically, there was never any way that Nick and I would get to live alone, just the two of us, during our first year of marriage. And I can see the regret mixed with anxiety in his face. He wants me to be okay with Andrea living with us, so he can be okay with it too.

  “Well, that’s not a problem” I try to sound extra flippant to mask my true feelings. “Once she has her fancy degree, she’ll thank us by taking us out to eat at some expensive restaurants.”

  Nick laughs in relief. “You haven’t told me anything about you! Are you doing okay? Winning every challenge?”

  He raises his eyebrows expectantly and his face is just this blank slate, ready to be filled with good news. For a brief, irrational moment I’m annoyed. He has no idea of the pressure I’m under and he’s not interested in hearing the rough parts. But he must detect some flicker of irritation because he leans forward and lowers his voice, like he would if we were alone. “Hey?” he breathes. “Tell me how it’s going.”

  “It’s fine.” I execute a smile through a vat of anxiety and longing, and the P.A. is tapping her watch again. “I guess I need more of a vision. I need to show them what I want, through my clothes.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I need to figure out what I want, first.” I run both of my hands through my hair, wishing it is his hair my fingers are coursing through.

  He grins but there’s that line between his eyebrows when something stresses him out. “I thought you already know what you want, Rocky.”

  “No, I do. Of course, but career-wise, I have things—”

  “Okay! Time’s up!” The production assistant steps in front of me. “You have ten seconds to say goodbye and then it just automatically shuts off.” She steps out so Nick and I can see each other again. “Ten seconds, starting now.”

  “Bye, Nick. I love you.” It’s like a switch has been flipped, my tear switch, and now I’m bawling. I wipe my face with my sleeve. “I think about you all the time, okay?”

  “I love you too. And don’t worry about—”

  The screen goes blank.

  ****

  My outfit is ugly. What was I thinking? It’s like spilled ketchup and mustard with a neckline. All it needs now is some dead meat, which is what I’ll be if I show this later today. And if I wasn’t sure of that before, I am now that Jim Giles is standing before me, assessing the dress as if it’s my fourth grade science project.

  “Robin,” he slowly drawls, taking a breath of procrastination, “I’m sorry, but I just don’t get it. It looks like a picnic gone wrong. I mean, the color combination is unfortunate, and the lines of the dress resemble an apron or a table cloth.”

  I gasp. “So it’s even worse than I thought!” I throw my hands up in the air. “I’ve used up all my fabric, Jim. Everything I have is cut. What do I do?”

  He spins the dress form around 180 degrees. “That’s for you to figure out, Robin. But you’d better do something. I don’t want you to be out for this.”

  I bite my lip, trying not to hyperventilate.

  “Robin. . .” Jim’s voice is firm, like a warm, dry handshake. “You can do this.”

  “I sort of have to, don’t I?”

  “Yes, you do. You’ll figure it out. I believe in you, okay?”

  I nod my trembling chin in thanks, and Jim moves on to the next designer. I run my hands up and down the dress form, hoping that just by touching the fabric I’ll be divinely inspired with a game-changing idea.

  I close my eyes and think. Berta thought she was marrying Palemon and once he left her, she was wounded. My eyes reopen with a jolt. So there’s my inspiration. It’s so easy that I’m ashamed I hadn’t thought of it sooner.

  Two hours later Zelda shows up and I fit her into my Ace bandage dress. I’ve recut the fabric so it now looks like horizontal strips of Ace bandages, which are wrapped around her to form a tight, strapless bodice. It starts out red at the top but turns into yellow about halfway down, and all over is blood-red stitching in small diamonds that overlap one another. The skirt fits snugly around her hips and rests at h
er ankles, but I made a slit on the side so she could move easily. The result is very flame-like, to represent the fire that’s within her.

  “Well,” I say, “if I go home for this, at least it wasn’t because I didn’t take a chance.”

  My words seem to reach Zelda and she pulls herself out of whatever deep thought she was in the middle of.

  “You think you’ll go home for this? But it’s so cool.” Zelda spins and the fabric holds its shape beautifully.

  “Ooh. . . could you spin like that on the runway?”

  “Sure. Is there anything else you’d like me to do? Like, a jump or something?” Zelda takes a timid little leap in the limited space of the workroom. Then she frowns, which is unlike the Zelda I’ve witnessed so far. Every other time I’ve seen her dance I’ve also seen her smile.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I had a long night and some weird stuff happened.”

  I now notice her eyes; they’re puffy, with dark circles underneath and the whites are a little pinkish. Maybe it’s allergies or maybe she’s been crying.

  Zelda juts out her chin and it’s like she’s continuing aloud a conversation she was having with herself. “I mean, I’m such an idiot, getting involved with a guy who will take off and let me get arrested! God knows what else he’s capable of! Julie is right, there’s something weird about him. If he calls, I’m telling him that we’re done.”

  I fumble for a reply. “You got arrested?”

  “Yeah, and my mother is going to kill me once she finds out.” Zelda does a teenage-girl-sigh and looks at the clock. “I think we should head over to styling. Maybe I should have slicked back hair with blood red lips, to match the outfit? That could be cool.”

  “Um, yeah. Maybe.”

  I’m glad Zelda can focus on what might be cool, because I feel overheated.

  Soon I’m headed toward the runway, where I might be eviscerated, shredded and torn like a discarded piece of fabric. Have I focused on what matters? Does my dress make people feel? I wonder where this might lead me and if I even know where I want to go.