The Standout (11 page)

“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.

Whatever. It’s time to face those stage lights that are brighter than the sun, to pretend that I can see.

“Robin, tell us about your look.”

I’m squinting against the glare of the stage lights. My outfit has either gotten one of the highest or the lowest scores. I wish I could steady my shaking hands which dart around while I talk, but I am powerless to do anything but blab, so I answer Hilaire’s question. “I was inspired by Berta’s betrayal, and I wanted people to feel that in this dress. So I thought of flames, and Ace bandages, because you know, she was wounded.”

“So, Robin,” Hilaire asks, “do you think you’re in the bottom, or the top?”

My hands travel toward each other and my fingers scratch at my left wrist. “Umm. . .” I laugh. “I don’t know, but I’d have put me in the top.”

There is an eternal, excruciating moment, when Hilaire and the other judges gaze at me with blank faces. “Well, Robin,” Hilaire finally says, “I loved your look. You are on the top.”

You know how when it doesn’t rain for a while and our primitive animal instincts can sense the tension? And when the gathered storm clouds finally release the rain, there’s this carnal break in the atmosphere? That’s what this moment is like.

I gush out a thank you and devour the praise. The stitching, the cut, the vision: they say it all came together perfectly and it’s wholly original and lovely. But best of all, the guest judge, Martice Van Patten, whose clothes I buy whenever I have the money, tells me that I can work for her, any time.

That is huge.

Of course, I could never take her up on it. I’d have to move to New York and that’s just not possible. Nick is tied to Des Moines and to Andrea, and I’m tied to Nick.

The other designers are picked apart, and then we are sent off into the other room while they decide who wins and who is out. We’re all instructed to sit on a couch in the green room, and several cameras record our interaction.

“So, who was on the bottom and who was on the top?” Kyla, one of the designers, asks. Her dress was scored in the middle, so she’s been sitting on this couch for a while. “No, wait, let me guess.” She raises her dark eyebrows, scoops her long brunette hair back over her shoulders, and then points a finger at each person who just stood before the judges. “Top, bottom, bottom, top, top. . .” and when she gets to me her smile broadens, “bottom.”

I should be pleased, right? Because it’s better to have people underestimate you. “I was on the top, actually.”

Kyla’s smirk offers no apology. “Really?” She pushes up the sleeves of the lightweight men’s blazer that she’s wearing over her faded black AC/DC T-shirt. “They
liked
the Ace bandage dress? I guess the network executives have more power than we thought.”

Casey, who is sitting next to Kyla, pushes her shoulder teasingly and grins. “Don’t be mean, Kyla.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay,” I sit up straight, ready to stare Kyla down. “Explain what you mean by that.”

Kyla just laughs. “It’s nothing to get upset about, Robin. Obviously the network wants you on the show for ratings, so they’ve pressured the judges into liking your stuff.” She gives an annoying little shrug. “You should be flattered.”

“I should be flattered that you’re insulting me?”

Her face hardens. “Whatever. This isn’t about you, okay? It’s about network politics and I wasn’t insulting
you
. I was insulting your dress and the way the executives run the show. So calm down.”

I look around at the other designers, scanning their faces for a sign of support. Of course it’s occurred to me that one of them found that
Rotten Robin
website and left it on my tablet. Was it Kyla, or is she just the most open about not wanting me here?

“I liked the Ace bandage dress,” says Amos, whose design also scored high.

“See!” Kyla waves her hand, gesturing broadly as if to make an easy point to a very dim student. “Amos liked your dress. Stop acting like everyone is against you.”

“I wasn’t acting like everyone is against me. But if you refuse to censor yourself, don’t expect me to follow some script on how to respond.”

“Oh, don’t worry. We all know how spontaneous you are, Robin.” Kyla chortles. “We’d never expect you to be anything but uninhibited.”

My body temperature skyrockets. She must be referring to the
Rotten Robin
video montage.

“Thank you,” I say, as if her compliment was genuine. If Kyla insists on playing mind games with me, fine. I’ll be a worthy competitor. So a few minutes later, when I’m told that I won the challenge, she’s the first person I go to hug. The cameras are rolling, and Kyla can’t afford to look petty by turning away from my squeals of enthusiasm.

Later, after we’re all shuttled back to our apartments, I’m jumpy. The building where we’re staying has a little exercise room in the basement, and I go there, prepared to work up a sweat. I’m not used to getting so little physical activity and I’m a bundle of mismatched wires—sparks are coming out at dangerous times and inappropriate places. I’m sure I’ll feel much better if I can run off a little bit of adrenaline.

Thankfully, the windowless, beige room is empty and I can work out on my own. A fluorescent lamp flickers over the treadmill as I climb on and hit the start button. I wish I could run outside but I’m not allowed, so this will have to do.

I power on my iPod and soon my feet slap against the moving belt in rhythm to the music I’m listening to. I’m keeping pace and my heart rate is rapid but even. But everything inside me is still unsettled.

Then I notice a shadow behind me.

Is it because of that sputtering lamp over my head, like something from a horror movie? I attempt to turn around but that’s not easy to do on a treadmill; you have to either slow the thing down, or jump off of it, or move both feet to the edges. I’m disoriented, trying to figure out which option to take, but it doesn’t matter because I’m sure there are hands against my back, shoving me down.

Or am I just imagining things again? I don’t know, but I do know that I fall and land on my butt, which I suppose is the best of all landing options, yet I hit my head in the process. That’s when things get really freaky.

I’m lying on the floor, my body twisted around the treadmill, a low buzz reverberating from its moving belt. Above me the fluorescent light still flickers and when I try to sit up I see that my iPod fell from my grasp. It’s in the corner of the room. I move to get it, marveling that I don’t feel any pain from my fall, when a foot clad in a Gucci platform heel steps right up into my face.

I reel back, look up, and discover that the foot belongs to Clara. “Oh hi,” I say, as if no time, emotional distance, or life-ending events have elapsed since we last spoke. “I like your shoes. Very 1970s.”

“They were my gramma's.”

“Neat.” She just stands over me, which is kind of intimidating, but I don’t have it in me to get up. “Did you just push me?”

“Of course not. I’m dead, remember?”

“You’re missing.”

She sighs. “Robin, you really think I’m going to walk away from an explosive bus crash, just so I can torment you and push you off a treadmill? Please. Bobby wasn’t worth the effort and neither are you.” She sits down on the edge of the treadmill so I can see her face. It’s still beautiful, but there’s an angry red scar along her chin. “You need to find out who’s doing this to you, though. Don’t take it lying down.”

Then everything turns white, like I’m unable to shut my eyes against the sun. I don’t know how much time passes, but it could be an entire night where I’ve slept until 10:00 AM. “Robin!” Someone is shaking my shoulder. I blink several times and see the flickering fluorescent light once more. “Robin, are you okay?”

Now I focus on who’s in front of me. It’s Gabe the cameraman.

I mean to tell him I’m fine, but I grunt out something that sounds more like “Ergg. . .”

“Should I call an ambulance?”

“Won’t you lose your job? Shouldn’t you be filming me instead?”

He laughs and, placing his hand beneath my shoulder, hoists me up to sitting position. “I guess you are okay, after all.”

I rub my head as Gabe goes over to the water cooler, fills up one of those thin paper cups, and brings it to me “Here,” he says, “you should drink.” I don’t disagree, and as I swallow down my water he looks at me, eyebrows arched quizzically. “How did you fall?” he asks.

“I’m not sure. Maybe somebody pushed me.”

Gabe’s round face distorts in surprise. “Who would do that?”

“I don’t know. Did you see anyone leaving as you came in?”

Gabe shakes his head no. “The place was empty, except of course, for you. But I should hit record. This sort of thing is gold.” Gabe picks up his camera and points it at me. “Now tell me again everything that happened, and don’t worry if you cry a little. Viewers will love that.”

The next day is a brand new challenge and my head hurts like a bad breakup. I’m convinced that one of the designers snuck up behind me last night, and now, as we’re shopping at Metaphor, I should be careful. Maybe Kyla will blindside me with a bolt of fabric or Casey will attack me with a set of industrial-strength scissors. Amos is several feet away, kneeling down and examining some burnt sienna brocade. I look at his large hands. Were they the ones that shoved me off that treadmill?

Aware of being watched, he glances up. “What?” he asks, referring to his fabric choice. “Is it too much? I’m thinking avant-garde and exotic.”

The fabric is amazing and I wish I had his eye. I realize that Amos is way too talented to feel threatened by me. “I’m sure whatever you do will look great,” I tell him, and his cheeks lift with a smile that’s even shinier than his bald head.

“Are you feeling blocked?” Amos asks, genuinely concerned. I am just standing here in a daze when we only have a half an hour to shop. Probably twelve minutes have gone by already.

I struggle for an adequate answer and it comes out in a snivel. “I don’t want to fall into that curse, you know? One week you’re the winner, and the next week you’re on the bottom. It seems like it happens all the time. Not to you, obviously, but to other contestants from other seasons.”

“But you have immunity,” reminds Amos, who is now standing upright, clutching his bolt of golden fabric. He reaches out a warm, chubby hand and pats me on the shoulder.

I flinch.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I’m just jumpy.”

“You need to keep your head in the game, Robin.” Amos’s chastisement is gentle and warranted. “Don’t flake out now. I want to be up against you at Fashion Week, not someone who shouldn’t be there. That way, when I win, it will be well-deserved.”

I laugh and nod. “Point taken.”

Amos carries his fabric off to the cutting table. Gabe, who has caught my conversation with Amos, stays with me and lowers his camera. “You should tell someone, you know. What if you have a brain injury?”

“I really don’t think I have a brain injury, Gabe.”

“I’m just saying. . .”

“I’m fine,” I hiss. “Stop pressuring me! I know you only want to capture some dramatic footage.” I feel a pang of guilt as I turn my back on Gabe and start searching for the perfect fabric, but the last thing I need is to fall apart. This splitting headache is going to disappear. I’ll spirit it away through strength of will and in addition, I’ll catch whoever is out to get to me.

It’s funny how even the ballets with happy endings, like
Scheherazade
, are pretty twisted. A sultan has the nasty habit of always killing those who serve him, until Scheherazade tells him stories of love, betrayal, and adventure. Then, after 1001 nights, her survival no longer depends on her ability to spin a good yarn.

She just has to marry the sultan.

At least my relationships aren’t that unhealthy. Still, if I have to compare my life to the plots of ballets just to feel good about myself, then I’m in more trouble than I thought.

Jim has come to assess my work and his finger is resting against his chin. There’s that moment of undying suspense as I wait for him to speak. “I just wonder if it looks too ready-to-wear?” Jim cocks his head, studying my dress. “But then I wonder if it’s bordering on costume-y, and I start to worry that it’s like something from an upscale children’s Halloween catalog.”