The Standout

by Laurel Osterkamp

  “I think so,” I say, stepping away from a camera that’s a little too close for comfort. I walk towards a window that looks out on the cityscape and press my hands against the glass, reminding myself that I’m inside so I can’t fall.

  “What do you mean, you think so?” asks Kyla.

  I close my eyes and see Ted balancing on that railing, Julie’s dead body several hundred feet below. Heights make me more nervous than ever before. “It’s about memories,” I tell her. “How they sort of blur in our minds, but a few details remain in sharp contrast. Each piece is a reworking of some previously made garment, and they’re all muted and soft, except for one detail that stands out.”

  “Interesting concept,” Amos says. “I’m sure you made it spectacular.”

  “Thanks.”

  Kyla laughs in this throaty way that some people find likable, but to me, she sounds like she needs to cough up phlegm. The cameras turn to her and she slides her gaze, tucks her hair behind her ear, and chortles in a way that’s straight from the reality TV star playbook. “That’s so brave of you, Robin. I can’t believe you simply reworked thrift store items. They’ll either love it or hate it, right?”

  “Right,” I answer.

  I didn’t “simply rework thrift store items.” They were all just a starting point and I gave them a new life. I made them my own. I started by thinking of the song Nick sang me when he proposed: all the memories of people, of moments filled with love that I’ll never lose affection for.

  Each piece is a snapshot of a person or a moment that’s important to me. Only I will ever know that the beige trench-coat mini-dress represents my dad, or that the strapless silver jumpsuit is for my best friend Isobel. It’s not important if people don’t get that the vintage, pleated cocktail dress is about that time when Nick and I went ice skating last February. I have it all stored away, so who cares what Kyla thinks?

  But I feel dizzier than ever, and the view from the window is only part of it.

  The next two days is a whirlwind of hiring models, meeting with stylists, and putting the finishing touches on my pieces while listening to Jim Giles’ critique. Zelda comes down on the afternoon before the show and I fit her into the signature piece in my collection: a reworked wedding dress that’s now an evening gown. I dyed it a sepia tone, gave it a plunging back with a collar that slopes at the base of her neck, and a poofy skirt that trails in the rear but is knee length in front. The sharp, contrasting detail is the red satin lining underneath the skirt that will peek out as Zelda floats down the runway.

  “I wanted you to be the white swan this time,” I tell her. “But then I thought, nah. The white swan dies of a broken heart, and that’s not Zelda. She’s a fighter. So I tried to make a dress that communicates how awesome you are; both inside and out.”

  “This is gorgeous,” Zelda says, her huge eyes cast down, focusing on the skirt. “I know I always say that, but this one is really special. You should wear it when you get married.”

  “I made it for you,” I reply. “And after the show is over, it’s yours to keep.”

  As Zelda looks up at me, her face crumples and she pinches her eyes shut. “I don’t deserve that.”

  “Of course you do.” I place a finger underneath her chin and prop it up so that she’s forced to look at me. “I know you think Julie’s death is your fault, but the only person who blames you, is you. Accept that you did the best you could, because really, most of it was out of your control.”

  She nods. “Thank you for saying that.” After an emotional sniff, Zelda pastes on a smile. “Most of the time I’m so busy with school, I don’t even have time to think about Julie. I guess being here brings it all back.” She brushes the skirt with her hands and spins around, reminding me of a little girl playing dress up. “I can’t believe you’re giving me this dress.”

  “I hope you’ll find somewhere fancy to wear it.”

  “Well, there’s a campus formal coming up, and there’s this guy. . .” Zelda shrugs. “Who knows? But I’ll figure something out. I’m not going to let a dress like this hide in a closet. It deserves to be seen and appreciated.”

  “Just like you.”

  ****

  Backstage is like an amusement park on the day of the fashion show. Models are standing in these weird, random lines that seem to have no beginning or end, and I can’t tell what purpose they serve. All the noise forms this collective rushing sound that I can’t escape and there’s this consistent, heart-pounding panic, like someone is going to forcefully strap me into a roller-coaster. I can’t find the right pair of shoes to go with my evening look and I’m searching underneath every countertop in a 200-foot radius when I see her.

  Clara.

  My head snaps back and the floor shifts beneath me. What’s she doing here? My stomach tosses and turns as she breezes past, like she belongs, like she’s going somewhere, with her auburn hair brushing against her shoulders and her bangle bracelets tinkling down her wrist.

  It’s harder than you think, to leave your husband when he’s cheating on you. Her words echo in my ears and suddenly I get it. She left Robert and came to the one place that made sense. She came to New York, to reverse the fate her grandmother suffered with a philandering spouse in Des Moines. So what if she had to supposedly die to live out her dreams?

  “Places, Robin!” Jim straightens his tie as hurries to me. “You’re up next.”

  I have to find her, to chase her down and see if she’s real. I wave my hands around like I’m checking my pockets or grasping at air. Maybe what I’m really doing is chasing a ghost. “I’ll just be one minute, Jim.”

  “Wait! Where are you going?”

  I don’t answer. I rush past, in pursuit of Clara. It can’t be some strange coincidence that she is here, now, right before I face the masses to be judged for my supposed vision and skill, for the part of myself I want most desperately to be real. Clara will judge me first, for the part of myself I want most desperately not to be real.

  I squeeze around other people, dodging every little obstacle in this huge space, following her cloud of red hair as it moves further and further out of reach. When I get to the door I push it open; I’m sure she will be waiting for me on the other side, to give me no more or less than I deserve. But all I am met with is open sky and a round observation deck with a low railing that could be too easily mounted. That is how someone gets hurt. That is how someone falls.

  I am not falling apart but my heart is pounding as if I just finished running an eight minute mile. I look around, aware of my nerves vibrating beneath my skin. She’s got to be hiding up here, ready to jump out and confront me, and I am overwhelmed with black-swan guilt.

  They are waiting for me inside. Now is my moment. Now is my chance. Don’t I want to take it?

  I do. I just need one more minute.

  I can’t walk away yet. I hear the clanging of stilettos against metal. Clara is climbing up the ladder that runs along the wall to the roof. Blindly, I follow.

  One rung after another, I make a point of not looking down and soon I have reached the top of the skyscraper. I’ve seen YouTube videos of people parachuting off buildings this tall, or they’re using zip lines to enter a swimming pool on a roof that’s a quarter mile down. It’s a crazy death wish, and up this high, with no barrier to catch my fall, my ability to reason evaporates in the oxygen-thin air. There is nowhere to hide and nowhere to go, except, of course, down.

  Crap. Going down means using sweaty palms and hesitant feet to navigate unstable pieces of metal, hoping I won’t slip or that gravity won’t win. I cover my forehead, using my fingers as a visor, convinced that with a bit of shade I’ll see Clara and everything will make sense. She’ll be wearing one of her gramma’s wrap dresses, the blue and black one, with perfect accessories, because she was bestowed with an impeccable sense of style. But she is nowhere and panic zips through me. I hurl myself toward a protrusion of concrete, wishing to attach myself to the most solid looking thing I see.


  “Clara!” I yell, my voice raspy and panicked. “Where are you, Clara?” I run around, searching and not paying attention to my footing or to where I go.

  “Robin?”

  At first I think Clara is answering my call but no, the voice belongs to Zelda. I peer over the edge, past my feet, down to where she is. “I’m right here,” I yell, relieved to see a friendly face. Relieved to see any face at all.

  “What are you doing?” she calls. “It’s time. You have to come, now. Everyone is waiting for you.”

  My pulse is hammering away and strands of hair cling to my damp forehead. “I thought. . .I saw someone I know.” I hear my words and know they sound unbalanced. I guess I have gone crazy.

  “Nobody is up there, Robin,” Zelda shouts. “You’re just nervous about showing your collection and your mind is playing tricks on you.”

  Everything is dream-like and I’m not even completely sure I’m awake. The sun is a peaking from behind a cloud, shooting out rays of light that bathe Zelda in this impossibly beautiful, iridescent way. My mind takes a photo of her, in her sepia toned ball gown with the red lining, and I know already that this is a standout moment, one I will see in my mind’s eye for the rest of my life. I close my eyes and I still see her but I see my mother’s Mats Gustafson print too; they are one and the same.

  “Robin,” Zelda calls. “Come down and introduce your collection.”

  “Yeah, okay. Be right there.” I look for the ladder, but when I realize where it is, alarm clutches at my heart. In my frenzied search for Clara I must have jumped from one protrusion to another, because the only way back to that ladder is by leaping over a foot-long gap. A gap that hangs over the sidewalk several hundred feet below.

  Zelda peers up at me, understanding. “If you got over there, you can get back.”

  I violently shake my head. “No. No, I can’t. Just go in without me. I’ll wait for a fireman to come.”

  “No, you won’t!” I startle at the unique sound of Zelda’s raised voice. “There’s no time, Robin. You worked too hard for this and your family is waiting. Hell, your future is waiting, and I’m not going to let you throw it away because you chose now to have a meltdown.” She takes a deep, patient breath. “If I thought there was any chance you would fall, I wouldn’t tell you to do it. But you’ll be fine. So get yourself together, don’t be afraid, and JUMP!”

  Her words are a slap in the face, the kind where people are being cruel to be kind, the kind that forces you to wake up. “What. . .what did you say?”

  “I said get yourself together, don’t be afraid, and jump.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought you said.”

  So Mom’s note wasn’t just meant for Ted.

  Right now, the way the light hangs over Zelda, putting her in shadow while illuminating her from behind, I swear to God: she has become the illusive lady that Mats Gustafson once painted, the lady my mom once loved, a physical manifestation of the beauty and truth I have looked for my entire life. Only now do I realize that I’ve had it all along.

  I take a moment. I look to the sky and offer a silent apology for all my mistakes. I thank my mom for looking out for me. I give up the ghosts and remember the living, the people who are waiting for me, the opportunities I can always create whether I win or lose, and the unconditional love I vow never to take for granted.

  I get myself together. I tell myself not to be afraid.

  I jump.

  Acknowledgements:

  Big thanks to Lynn Osterkamp, Matthew Corey, Shauna Slade, Allan Press, and Brett Carter for your help with this book. I would be lost without your friendship, feedback and support.

  Thanks as well to Candace Robinson at CBB Promotions for your help with my Kindle Scout campaign, and to Christa Holland at PaperandSage.com for designing the amazing cover!

  Finally, to Rich, Eli, and Pauline: thank you for your patience and support while I’m always writing, for your enthusiasm at my success, and always, for your love. For you, I will always jump!

  Other Books by Laurel Osterkamp:

  The Holdout: A Robin Bricker Novel

  The Next Breath: A Robin Bricker Novel

  American Angst: Robin & Lucy Stories

  November Surprise: A Lucy Bricker Novel

  Blue State: A Lucy Bricker Story

  Starring in the Movie of My Life

  Following My Toes

  Keep reading for a glimpse at how Robin’s story began, in The Holdout!

  Preview Chapter of The Holdout:

  My only mistake was falling in love. Other than that I played a nearly perfect game. But it doesn’t matter. Do you remember Janet Jackson’s halftime performance during the Super Bowl back in 2004? It was stunning but nobody will ever recall the actual dance because at the end of it, she showed her nipple on national television. Well, Janet and I have something in common. I didn’t think things through, I exposed myself to the nation, and now that is what I’ll be remembered for.

  Except it hasn’t happened yet.

  I filmed the current season of The Holdout months ago, but it’s still airing. There are three episodes yet to be broadcast, and my most humiliating moments are still to come. Right now I only occasionally get spotted on the street, but I was edited out of a lot of the earlier footage. I’m not naïve enough to believe that will be the case later on. What happened was devastating but it will undoubtedly make delicious TV.

  So I’m wondering if anyone will recognize me today, and if so, will that increase or decrease my chances of being dismissed? I park my car and walk from the lot to the federal court building, clutching my jury summons in my hand. If I’m chosen, it will be the second jury I’ve been on in a year.

  Inside, I give my bag to the security guards and walk through the metal detectors. They give me my bag back on the other side, and I take the elevator to the fourth floor, which is where my summons said to go. When the elevator doors open I immediately see a desk and behind it stands a perky brunette wearing an adorable suit jacket with bell sleeves and a Peter Pan collar. She totally pulls it off.

  I pull on the edges of my oversized sweater and smooth out my skirt. My outfit seemed reasonable when I left this morning but I’ve never worked downtown and I’ve never owned a pair of heels. What do I know?

  “Hi,” she says, with a floating voice. “Can I help you?”

  I hold up my summons. “I’m here to report for jury duty.”

  She takes the summons and looks it over. “Robin Bricker. Great. Please sign in.” She gestures toward a clipboard with a sign-in sheet. Mine will be the fourth signature.

  “Here’s your card.” She gives me a new piece of paper, and it has a stamp with today’s date on it. “Hold on to this. If you’re selected for a jury, you’ll present it every morning to be stamped and that will be documentation for your boss.”

  “Oh,” I stammer. “I'm sort of between jobs right now, so there's no need.” I tilt my head to the side, trying to stretch away the tension. Who cares if I don't have a regular, nine to five gig? I'm not obligated to explain how I support myself.

  She nods and oozes sincerity, and even though she’s wearing heels I tower over her. She’s the sort of girl I wanted to be when I was in high school. “Well, then you’ll get paid for your time here!” Her perfect brown bob curls just so, right under her ears. Maybe if I blow-dried my hair every morning I could get my hair to do that too. “You’re a little early, but go ahead and have a seat in the lounge. There’s coffee, juice, and muffins, and in about half an hour, we’ll get started!”

  I thank her and walk into the lounge, a large room with oversized windows and strategically placed tables and chairs. Although I’ve had breakfast, I grab a chocolate muffin because I’m still hungry, and besides, it’s my policy never to turn down anything chocolate. I lost a lot of weight while filming The Holdout, but even if I gain it all back I’ll still be thin. For the first eighteen years of my life I hated that I was always the tallest, scrawniest girl in my c
lass. No cute curves for me. But once I went to college I appreciated that I could eat cafeteria food and still fit into my size six jeans, while my friends all struggled with the freshman fifteen.

  I sit down in one of the many cushy chairs, take out my book, and settle in to read while enjoying my muffin. Who said jury duty has to be awful? But then the television that’s mounted to the ceiling switches from the morning show to commercial, and an ad for The Holdout comes on. My castmates are walking along the beach, some wearing teeny tiny bikinis, others shirtless in swimming trunks. Joe Pine’s voice can be heard over it all, loud and clear.

  “This week, on The Holdout. The stakes are high, loyalties are tested, and hearts are broken.” Then it switches to a close up of Grant. He’s sitting and smirking; even the way he blinks seems self-satisfied while the waves lap the shore behind him.

  “The Holdout is a game,” he says, “and I’m not here just to play. I’m here to win. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  Then – oh my God – it switches to a shot of Grant and me, locked in an embrace. But even worse, it switches again, and now Grant and Klemi are making out. Finally it switches back to Grant, sitting alone on the beach, laughing to the camera and clapping his hands. Joe Pine’s voice comes on again. “Will lover boy Grant endure? Will he persist? Will he be The Holdout?”

  The commercial ends and I shrink down in my seat. I look around the room and see that others are all busy on their phones or reading the paper or nodding off as if they’re practicing sitting in the jury box. Nobody seems to recognize me, which is my goal. I’ve cut my hair since the show and I dyed it a darker blonde. I’d have gone more extreme, but contractually I’m only allowed to make minor changes to my appearance. So I’m wearing thick rimmed glasses with fake lenses, and I dress in ways that will hopefully help me blend into the wallpaper.

  All my life I’ve wanted to be famous. Now that my day has arrived, I’m clinging to my old, faceless existence like J.D Salinger gone into exile after writing Catcher in the Rye. Except instead of publishing a groundbreaking classic novel, I got duped by a pretty boy and his girlfriend and cheated out of a million dollars. What’s worse though, is soon the world will see it all play out on national television.