The Standout (12 page)

“Well. . .” I laugh self-deprecatingly, “at least you said ‘upscale”.”

Jim frowns but pats me on the shoulder. “Figure out how to fix it, Robin. You can do this.”

I don’t let out the angst that’s building in my ribcage. I just grab my tape measure and start measuring the navy blue organza I selected at Metaphor. It has large white flower petals printed all over and I’m constructing a simply lined dress with sleeves that flare, hopefully creating a sense of mystery. The dress itself will be kimono-like; I thought that would be exotic without being too literal about the
Scheherazade
theme.

Maybe if I shorten the dress, and have the skirt flare like the sleeves do? Or would that make it even more costume meets ready-to-wear?

I feel a tap on my shoulder. Nadia, one of the few designers who’s older than me, is by my side. “Hey, Nadia. What’s up?”

“Umm. . .” Her voice is always whisper soft. “Robin,” she breathes. “I’m having an issue? My fabric isn’t working and I don’t have enough?” Her big brown eyes pool with tears. “I don’t know what I’m going to do!”

My head still hurts and I’m on the verge of tears myself, mostly over my own misguided ensemble. But I have immunity and Nadia is a wreck, so I stop what I’m doing and search for a way to help.

I consider giving her a yard of my black chiffon, but I might still use it for a camisole. “Couldn’t you make the dress sleeveless, and add the extra fabric where you need it?”

“But I’m not sure how to do that,” Nadia whispers. “You’re so good at reworking things. Would you mind, just for a minute, showing me how?”

I shrug with resignation and walk with Nadia towards her work table. “I feel so out of place here,” Nadia confesses.

“We all feel that way,” I reply. But we pass Kyla, who couldn’t look more comfortable if she were wearing a pair of jammies and slippers. What’s more, Kyla has no problem letting everyone know that she is the best designer to ever appear on
The Standout
. Maybe that’s why she sticks out her foot just as I step in front of her. I stumble forward and fall, hitting my knees on the hard linoleum workroom floor.

“Oh my God,” Kyla cries, rushing toward me. “I am so, so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing. Are you okay?”

Two falls in twenty-four hours: No, I don’t feel super-okay. But I’m not going to give Kyla the satisfaction of seeing me suffer or go crazy with accusations. “I’m fine!” I chirp as I stand and brush myself off. “No worries.” I can hear how hollow I sound, how full of fake cheer, but there’s nothing to do about it. If I’m going to catch Kyla in the act of true duplicity, she can’t feel accused over a benign tripping incident. “Come on, Nadia. Let’s look at your sleeves.”

We walk away, and I swear I see an evil smile spread across Kyla’s face. When we reach Nadia’s station she steps in close and speaks in even more of a whisper. “Be careful, Robin. I think Kyla has it out for you.”

“What did I ever do to her?”

“Nothing. You’re just confident so she feels threatened. Anyway, I’d watch your step around her. Literally, right?” Nadia laughs at her own little joke and I smile in appreciation.

“Okay, we don’t have much time, so we’d better get moving.” I spin Nadia’s dress form so I can see all 360 degrees of her outfit. It sort of reminds of early Carol Brady: a super short baby-doll mini-dress with bell sleeves and a square shaped, lacy collar. But the skirt is too short; it will be riding her model’s butt cheeks. “Yeah, I would just get rid of the sleeves and make a pleat on the skirt. You don’t want to be accused of having taste issues.”

“But how do I do that?”

I go through it with Nadia, step by step, of how I’d use the sleeves for the skirt even though this is basic stuff. She seems distracted, eyes darting around the room, and at one point I turn, thinking I’ll see someone communicating with her behind me. But there’s no one. “You got it?” I ask.

She grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Thank you so much, Robin. You’re an angel.”

I head back to my work station, walking in the middle of the aisle, away from Kyla’s feet or from anyone else who might trip me. But the wind is knocked out of me nonetheless. Somebody has dumped water all over my kimono dress.

“Who did this?!” I yell. Every cameraman in the room, including Gabe, rushes towards me. “This is sabotage! Who did this?”

Amos comes over. “What happened?”

“You must have seen, Amos! Someone ruined all my work!” I circle the room with my eyes but nobody will even look at me. “Who did this?”

“I. . . I don’t know.” Amos is either a really good liar or the confusion on his face is real. “I went to get a snack. I only came back a second ago.”

I turn to Gabe and the other cameramen. “One of you must have seen it happen! Who has it on film?”

Gabe shakes his head and frowns. The cameraman MO is that they’re an invisible, silent presence in the room.

“Where’s Jim?” I ask, to nobody in particular. “I have to talk to Jim about this.”

Amos stands next to me and inspects my sodden dress. “Robin, is it possible that somebody was walking with a water bottle, stumbled and spilled accidentally?

I let out a harsh laugh. “I don’t know. Did they stumble because Kyla tripped them?”

Kyla’s head snaps up and she makes a dry response. “Watch yourself, Robin. You’re acting crazy.”

Amos examines the fabric. “Well, nothing is destroyed. I mean, it isn’t torn or shredded or anything. It can be fixed by a run in the dryer.”

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.

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.”

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.