The Standout

by Laurel Osterkamp

  I try to steady my breathing and become aware that all the cameras are focused on me, as is every set of eyes in the room, and even Nadia is pretending like she doesn’t know me. I’ve become the chimpanzee at the zoo, rattling the bars of my cage, hooting and hollering, while everyone silently observes how primal I am.

  “You’re right,” I chirp. “In fact, I was probably just given a favor. I need to rework that dress anyway. Now I can start fresh, but I’d better get going because I have a lot to do.”

  I throw all the charm and pluck I have directly into the dark abyss of the camera lens and then I get to work, removing pins so I can give my dress a run in the dryer. I should know better than to lose my temper or let my emotions show. If I can remain calm and unshaken then I will win this game of cat and mouse, even if I don’t know who my cat is.

  Chapter 24

  The judges hate my kimono dress. They say it’s too gimmicky and that the construction is poor. They’re right. My organza shrank in the dryer and I couldn’t drape it correctly afterwards. Plus, I lost time, having to re-pin everything. This is one of the worst dresses I’ve ever made, including the prom dress I put together in high school, after watching Pretty in Pink. “You’re lucky you have immunity,” Hilaire tells me.

  Kyla, whose dress is on top, glows.

  When the other dismissed designers and I get backstage, I mumble something about needing the bathroom, and I take a surreptitious route into the workroom. This is the perfect time to sort through Kyla’s stuff. Maybe there will be some tell-tale clue, like the password to the Rotten Robin website, scribbled on a scrap of paper. Or maybe she’ll have left behind her membership card to the official “I Hate Robin Club.” I suppose that’s as likely as anything else.

  I pull open her desk drawer. There’s a notepad, but there are only sketches with no writing. I flip the latch to her sewing box, which is perfectly organized with spools of thread, scissors, and multi-sized pins. But it’s her Samsung tablet that will hold the answers, if there are answers to be held. I take it out, praying that there’s no password to access it, when I hear footsteps.

  Shit. I know the booted contestant always has to come up after getting kicked out, to be filmed cleaning out his or her workspace. But it’s too soon for that. So who is coming?

  I hastily put all of Kyla’s belongings back where they belong, and I’m praying they’re in the right spot. Then I bolt over to my own work station, knowing that whoever is coming will find me out of breath, in the dark, and making some lame excuse for what I’m up to. I am so totally busted.

  “Robin?”

  A whoosh of relief: It’s just Zelda.

  “Hey,” I squeak. “What are you doing up here?”

  “I think I left my phone on your table.” She flicks on the lights and walks over, instantly finding a phone in a shiny pink case. She swipes and as it lights up, she winces. “My head is pounding,” she says.

  “Tell me about it,” I reply. Zelda is already scrolling through her missed correspondence, completely unconcerned with my awkward situation. That gives me an idea. “Zelda,” I say, and her eyes meet mine. “Can you keep a secret?”

  I go to bed that night knowing I can trust Zelda one hundred percent. But my sleep is restless and disturbed. I dream that I am standing outside my bedroom door, but the handle will not turn and the hinges are rusted shut. I know that Nick is on the other side, his smile wide and his arms extended, ready to hold and accept me. But not only are we separated, I feel sure that danger is lurking: invisible, like a poison gas.

  I have to get to him.

  All our lights are off, and the shadows play tricks with my mind. I stand there, rattling the door and calling out to him, when I feel the foundation of our house slip away, as if we are growing and diminishing at the same time. The floor beneath my feet sprouts into a skyscraper, high and unstable, so beautiful, so full of potential, but so vulnerable as well. I am numb with terror.

  I look up and see the moon and stars; somehow the roof has disappeared and the sky is within reach, but that means the ground is far, far below.

  I am about to fall.

  When I wake, breathless with a racing heart, it takes me a moment to remember where I am. Heck, it takes me a moment to remember who I am.

  Oh yeah. I’m posing as a fashion designer on another reality show. That’s my identity right now.

  ****

  At 9:00 AM I’m standing at my work table, trying to construct a tutu out of an old prom dress and a red plaid flannel shirt. I have to win The Firebird challenge, because as the other designers all made sure to point out, it’s geared towards me. Jim Giles would never admit it, but when he announced that we’d be shopping for fabric at a thrift store, the ball was officially thrown into my court.

  I keep sticking my thumbs with pins, because folding and pleating together tulle and flannel is like cooking with hot butter and ice cream. But what’s worse is I can’t decide if this design is genius or hideously ugly. At any moment Jim could come by, assess my work, and furrow his brow for that awful, silent moment before he says something fatal, like, “Robin, I’m worried this looks like a drag queen’s kilt.”

  I feel someone standing near me, so I look up and am met with Kyla’s fierce glare. “What?” I ask.

  “Somebody messed with my work station last night,” she says venomously.

  “That’s terrible!” I widen my eyes in hyperbolic concern. “You must feel so violated, like somebody tripped you or sabotaged your design.”

  Kyla’s mouth hardens like concrete. “So it was you.”

  “I didn’t mess with your stuff.”

  She steps in closer while raising her voice, which is super annoying. “You disappeared last night while everyone else was being filmed in the green room. I know it was you, Robin, and I’m telling Jim.”

  Mercifully, a production assistant chooses that moment to come right up to me. “Robin,” she says softly. “You have a phone call.”

  “I’m allowed to get phone calls?”

  She nervously tugs on the hem of her shirt. “I guess it’s an emergency?”

  I feel the blood drain from my face and my body goes cold. Nick. Something happened to Nick. That’s what my dream was about. I was being warned and I ignored it and now it’s too late.

  These thoughts whirl through my mind in the space of a second, as I hurry past a bewildered Kyla and follow the PA out into the office area, where I can get my call. My mouth is completely dry as I pick up the receiver and attempt a “Hello?”

  “It’s Ted.”

  Ted. If Ted is calling me, then it’s not Nick who is in trouble. It must be my father, which is also terrible. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Is it Dad? Is he okay?”

  “Yeah, Dad’s fine. I’m calling about this Rotten Robin website. I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but Robin. . .”

  I stamp my foot against the linoleum floor. “I’ve seen it, Ted and I watched that montage. Look, I need to hang up. If they catch me on the phone—”

  His voice is loud and urgent as he interjects. “There’s more, Robin. A sex tape with you and Nick was posted. And on the same day there was stuff about a bribe, which seemed to be all talk, but now—well, I wanted you to know before it’s too late.”

  “Huh?” Something in my brain explodes and I literally see flashing lights in my peripheral vision. “God, Ted! What are you talking about?”

  He coughs in his self-important way. “Look, Robin, this is truly an emergency and I think I know who is behind it. I will tell you everything, but you’re really not going to like it.”

  Part II: Ted

  Chapter 25

  The sun is setting and I’m sweeping off the helicopter seeds that fell from the Maple tree to our deck below. I wonder why I bother. The deck will just be covered in more of them tomorrow. When I was a kid I loved this time of day, sunset, when the sky turned orange over the plains, and I’d sit on our patio in West Des Moines, enjoying a cherry Popsicle and dreaming
of all the places I could travel, the thousands of paths my life might take.

  I could blame it all on my mom. No.

  I could blame it all on the truck driver who rammed into my mom late one afternoon, killing her just two weeks after my fourteenth birthday. But that’s so cliché. Maybe her untimely death has nothing to do with my unpleasant personality or my sense of hopelessness. Maybe I’m just a dick. End of story.

  Still, she saw the beauty in everything. She saw the beauty in me.

  Dad was aware of this, and he liked to give her beautiful things. When I was born he gave her a teardrop pearl necklace, which she wore every time they hired a babysitter and went out to a nice restaurant. When my younger brother Ian was born, Dad gave her pearl stud earrings to match.

  When my baby sister Robin arrived, Dad got creative. He found a first run print by her favorite artist, Mats Gustafson. It’s a watercolor of a woman, her face in shadow while she walks toward light. She’s slouched yet graceful, dynamic yet still, perfect in her ignorance of all those admiring eyes.

  Sometimes my love for that picture and my love for my mother became intermixed, like the blurred lines that formed the beautiful lady’s silhouette, like the fading memories I still cling to, like the sense of possibility I know I have lost.

  Chapter 26

  When Robin was a toddler she loved playing peek-a-boo with Mom and me, and she was convinced that when she closed her eyes, she actually disappeared. “Where did Robin go?” Mom would cry, and Robin would giggle, her smile huge as her sticky hands covered her face. I’d join in the search, always being loud and outlandish, because that tickled Robin even more. “I can’t find her anywhere! Is she behind the couch? Under the pillows?” And because I knew Robin was peeking between the cracks of her fingers, I would make a show of looking underneath our worn, brown couch cushions.

  Mom thought my charade was almost as funny as Robin did, and her goofy laugh still echoes in my ears.

  I was a lonely kid at thirteen-years-old; even then something was missing for me. I never had the “fun” gene that my younger siblings seemed to inherit. For me, life has always been serious, but when I played with Mom and Robin, the weight of my heavy personality lessened a bit. Suddenly Robin would drop her hands from her face, and squeal, “Here I am!” only it sounded like “Hey A MMM!” and we’d all laugh and I’d hug her, telling her how happy I was that she wasn’t lost forever.

  I have photographs of my mother and one of the last ones comes from the early 80s. She’s wearing a down parka vest over a lavender ski sweater and corduroy pants; her hair is up and pale lipstick is her only makeup. She squints at the sun and smiles at the camera, unaware that this will be one of the last moments that’s ever captured of her.

  She’s beautiful and I try to feel her when I stare at that fading Polaroid, conscious that every day, the chemicals in the photo paper break down a little more, distorting her truth. Maybe photographs aren’t the most accurate representations of who we are, or were. They change even as we cling to the memories they represent.

  I’m a businessman, but if you ask me, that’s the purpose of art. It captures truth, and even through a million different interpretations, the truth doesn’t change.

  Chapter 27

  Last night I woke from a dream where I was being smothered and it took me a moment to find my breath. I stared at the darkness, listening to Tina breathe steadily as she slept next to me, and I remembered that in a few hours I have a meeting, where if one thing goes wrong, I will be destroyed. But there’s no pressure.

  I have one of those jobs that nobody really understands. I rarely try to explain it because people aren’t interested, unless that person is a client, and then they’re only interested because it’s their money I’m messing with. But in a nutshell, I give financial advice to major corporations and the decisions I make can cost millions of dollars.

  My meeting is with a client from Singapore, and we’ll be discussing his assets. Now I take the elevator up a skyscraper in downtown Philadelphia, to my client’s office, and when the door opens I am greeted by a huge picture window that gives view to the city below. I take a moment to enjoy it, appreciating the cityscape: all the angles and shadows that the buildings create. There was a time, before Harvard business school, that I thought about becoming an architect, about building and creating. But I’m no Howard Roark.

  I work within people’s expectations but I never defy them.

  I make my way towards the reception desk, where I announce myself to the young woman sitting there. “Ted Bricker to see Mr. Chew Choon.”

  The receptionist, whom I’ve encountered before, smiles and waves her finger at me. “I know who you are,” she tells me in a lilting voice. “Your sister is Robin, from The Holdout! Am I right?”

  I feel heat gather behind my cheeks and under my arms. “That’s right.” I try to smile.

  “She was incredible! I just watched the whole season on Hulu, and I was totally rooting for her. You must be so proud that she’s such a survivor.”

  “More proud than you’ll ever know.” I mumble. “Now can you announce me to Mr. Chew Choon? He’s expecting me.”

  She picks up her phone, speaks into it, and places it back in the receiver. “You can go on in,” she tells me, then lowers her voice. “Good luck,” she whispers. “He’s sort of in a mood today.”

  I feel my breath catch the way it did last night, in my dream. I wish I was back at that window, staring at those buildings, looking down but protected by glass. And as I walk in to face Mr. Chew Choon, I think that next to me, Robin knows nothing about survival, but the world will never know, never understand.

  Mr. Chew Choon rattles on about investments and I nod my head like I care. I assure him that everything is under control, that he should trust me, that I would never let him down. But I am actually thinking about the video I found online the other day. Some guy was singing, playing the piano, and proposing to my sister. It happened a while ago but I only just found out, like I’m some fan of hers and not the guy who taught her to drive.

  Mr. Chew Choon finishes his spiel and makes me promise that he won’t be disappointed. “Of course you won’t be,” I tell him. But even I don’t believe what I’m saying, so why should he?

  When I get home from work, Tina is upstairs in our bedroom, trying on outfits. I loosen my tie as I walk in, looking forward to changing into jeans and a sweatshirt, even as she’s draped in a cocktail dress.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, gesturing with my eyes towards the strapless, red sequined gown she’s adjusting over her breasts. It keeps slipping down.

  “I need to figure out what I’m wearing to the auto show gala.” Tina keeps her eyes on her reflection. Her light brown hair falls loosely at her shoulders so she scoops it up, but that action makes her dress fall down even more.

  “You probably need to get that taken in. It’s falling off you.” I grin and stand by her, placing my hands on her warm, bare shoulders. “You and your dieting. . . I know I give you a hard time about not eating more, but God, you’re in great shape.” I kiss her neck and she steps away from me.

  “Not now, Ted.”

  Stung, I walk towards my closet, where I remove my work clothes and put on something more comfortable. “What’s for dinner?” I ask, thinking I was wrong to compliment her, to encourage her at all. If she’s cooked anything, she won’t eat it.

  “There’s salad and some chicken breasts you can sauté for the boys. I’m not very hungry.”

  “Okay.” I turn back towards her. She’s taken off the red dress and has put on a midnight blue, strappy thing with beaded flowers. It’s also way too loose on her. “Hey,” I say, trying to sound warm, “why don’t you get a new dress for the gala? Wouldn’t you rather have something from this season?”

  Tina rolls her eyes. “Aren’t you the one who said we should be cutting back? Miles and Mason’s tuition has just gone up, and we’re renovating the patio, and I’d really like to get these done.
” She grabs her breasts and squeezes. “They’ve gotten so droopy.”

  “That’s because you’ve lost so much weight.”

  She spins toward me like she’s that girl in The Exorcist. “So you agree that my boobs are sagging? What about my face? Or my neck? Are they okay, Ted? Or should I just have work done everywhere?”

  Tina is practically spitting out fire and I back away. “You know I think you’re beautiful,” I tell her. “I just want you to feel good, happy about yourself. . .”

  “Whatever!” she huffs.

  I try to apologize, to say something that won’t get me in more trouble, but my cell phone rings. I pull it out, thinking it’s work and my stomach contracts at the mere idea. Today’s meeting didn’t go well.

  But it’s not work; it’s Robin. My finger is poised, ready to swipe “ignore,” but Tina slams a door, locking herself in the bathroom. There’s nothing productive I can say to Tina right now so I go ahead and take the call.

  “What?” I realize I sound like a dick, but at the moment I don’t care.

  There’s a moment’s pause as my sister finds her voice. “Ted?”

  “Yeah, it’s Ted. Who else would be answering my phone?”

  “Sorry. . . you just sound stressed. Is this a bad time?”

  Well, I just got home from a hellish day of work, I need to make dinner, and my wife hates me almost as much as she hates herself, but other than that, sure, it’s a great time. What’s up, Sis?

  “It’s fine,” I gripe. “But I need to get dinner going. Did you need something?” I move downstairs, grasping the heavy maple railing, my feet shuffling down the thick carpeted steps. Every one of our decorating choices was carefully researched by Tina, from the skylights to the molding along the floorboards.

  And it’s never felt like home.

  “I, um, well, I just wanted to let you know that I’m getting married.”