The Standout (18 page)

“Fine.” Angry tears threaten to burst like a broken dam, so I rush out of our “private space” towards the workroom. I’d rather just get out of here fast. At least now I’ll have use of my cell phone. I can talk to Nick and we can figure out what’s going on.

Everybody’s looking at me while I pack up my stuff and the room goes silent. I keep my head down because if I meet anyone’s eyes, I’ll bawl, and it will be ugly crying, with oozing snot and possibly drool. I’m throwing sketchpads, pincushions, tape measures and spools of thread haphazardly into my box when the models come in. Zelda must have heard the news because she’s wiping away tears as she rushes over.

“But you’re innocent,” she cries, as if we’d already been arguing about my dismissal.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, trying not to let my voice shake. Gabe is capturing all of this. “I know this totally screws you over too.”

Zelda shakes her head. “Don’t worry about me. Amos’s model has mono, so I’m not out. They’re shifting me over to him.”

“Well, good. Amos is a great designer, so that should work out.”

“But I want to work with you.” Zelda is wearing a black sweatshirt and her short hair is slicked back. It makes her appear even more waif-like than usual, and her big brown eyes grow so large, she reminds me of a tearful, saucer-eyed tot from a kitschy 1970s painting. “I’m going to figure out who’s behind this,” she says. “Don’t worry, Robin. I’ll do some snooping, and I’ll catch the person and then they’ll bring you back.”

I’m sorting through stuff, disoriented, when my phone dings with a text. What the heck, I may as well look at it. What are they going to do, kick me out twice?

It’s from an unknown number.
Now do you believe me? Break up with Nick or this torment will never end.

I look back at my only friend here. “Don’t snoop around, Zelda. We don’t know what this person is capable of. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Somebody pushed you. Somebody dumped water on your fabric. And I’m finding out who!” Zelda yells this last part and she looks around the room, deliberately letting her eyes land on Kyla. Then she breaks her gaze and gives me a hug. “Don’t worry, Robin. This isn’t goodbye.”

I hug her back, speechless. If I had the words, I would thank her for being the one person who believes me without question. But as it is, I just give her a trembling smile, pick up my stuff, and walk out through the workroom door.

I don’t even say goodbye.

I’ll start at the beginning.

Around eighteen years ago my mom and dad temporarily fell in love and had me. As I grew, people said I was sort of graceful, relatively smart, and not completely unattractive. But I was timid, afraid to take my share. Until one day I met Julie, who knew how to fight for what she wanted. Sometimes I even believed she could use magic to help her cause.

I met her on my first day of dance class, where the other girls pointed and snickered at me. Everyone else’s leotard was black but mine was pink. The teacher looked at me and nodded, but it was a dismissive nod, a “what are you doing here” nod.

I was ten years old. I was following in my mother’s footsteps. I was making a big mistake and I was sniffing, trying not to cry, until the girl in front of me turned, and her whisper floated to my ears.

“Don’t worry. Everyone here has a bad first day.”

Her smile was better than hot chocolate with marshmallows. Then the music stopped while the teacher chatted briefly with the piano player. There was just enough time to thank this short girl in a black leotard, black tights, and pink ballet skirt. “Cool skirt.” I whispered. “I still like pink.”

“Me too.” She winked at me. “I’m Julie.”

I marveled that someone so nice could also be so good.

Julie learned to dance before she learned to walk. When she’s in the midst of a pas de duex, twirling and jumping into her partner’s arms, her body stretches like a swan’s neck and she defies the laws of gravity.

And I see something in her that I don’t have.

I can tell you a story
, she says.
I can tell it with the flex of my foot and the arch of my back. I can spin tales of love and betrayal through arabesques and grande jetes.

Sometimes the stories will have magic and other times they’ll have madness. But as long we dance ballet, there will always be a story.

Just like my friendship with you; I think this but don’t say it aloud. On good days you and I are magic, trading jokes at the barre and sharing confidences after class, as we hurry home through the cool evening air, so our muscles won’t lose heat too quickly and cramp. On bad days you are angry for no reason, quick to judge and reprimand me for my mistakes. But that only makes me want to please you more, to win your approval, to feel special, chosen as the only girl qualified to be your best friend.

I am Scheherazade
, she tells me.
I am magic because I know stories of love and betrayal.

Sometimes, there might even be some madness thrown in.

“Have you heard the news?” Julie prances up to me in the dressing room. She’s in her leotard, pointe shoes, tights, and leg warmers. A simple black ballet skirt is tied around her waist because she’s convinced that she has a big butt so she always tries to cover it.

I drop my duffel bag onto a bench and take off my jacket. I wore my leotard here and my tights are hiding beneath my sweat pants. I’ll want my change of clothes later, after everything I’m wearing now is sweat-soaked. I sit next to my duffel bag and remove my converse sneakers which are damp from walking through puddles.

Julie’s forehead is pinched, both from the tight bun her that hair is pulled into, and from her electric smile.

“What news?” I ask.

“Ballet Institute East is partnering with that TV show,
The Standout
. This season, instead of using real models, they want to use ballet dancers instead!”

“Why?”

“It’s their latest theme, so every challenge will be based off of a famous ballet, like
Swan Lake
or
The Firebird
. But it’s incredible, right? We’re going to be on TV!”

I lace up my toe shoes. “Really? Are we just automatically on?”

“Well,” Julie says carefully. “I guess you need to be at least 5’4” and 18 years old, but we both are, so we’re good.”

“I can’t believe it’s that easy.” I don’t remind Julie that she’s only 5’3” and three fourths, something she usually flaunts, because at 5’6” I’m a little tall for a ballerina.

I stand and stretch. “Don’t we have to audition, or get selected somehow?”

“Who cares if we do?” Julie demands. “Nobody is going to beat us.”

She loops her arm through mine and leads me from the dressing room into the dance studio, where we have spent thousands of hours over the past ten years. Julie and I tell each other everything. On the outside, she’s like any other girl at Ballet Institute East; her light brown hair is always pulled into a tight bun and she’s the right height. She doesn’t stick out when we stand in a line. Because of my extra two inches, I’m always on the end or in the back, but Julie is always in the middle, where she will blend in, unnoticed, while everyone sees her.

I notice her. I see her. That’s our unspoken deal.

“Do you think your mom will freak out when you tell her?” Her voice rasps like she has a cough. “Oh Zelda!” Julie always stresses her “ahs” when she’s imitating my mother, “reality television is so common!”

We stretch at the barre and I’m already contemplating my walk home in the dusky evening. “Do you want to get coffee later?” I ask. “I have stuff to tell you.”

“Can’t. Wish I could, but I’m expected home. Tell me whatever it is now.”

“It’s not important. Just more about my dad.”

Julie raises her foot onto the higher barre and rubs her blistered toes. “Is he still boning his assistant? God, that’s so gross.”

“Yeah. . .” my voice trails off as Yuri walks by. Actually, Yuri soars more than he walks and in his wake there’s always the scent of ego.

Julie smacks her lips. “The Russian is mine.”

I laugh and whack her in the shoulder. “Says who? Every girl here has claimed him.”

“What do you know about it?” Julie’s chin is quivering with irritation. “Just because you’re a celibate freak doesn’t mean I have to be.”

I let the fire of her words scald me. You would think that by now, I’d be immune to Julie’s sudden angry outbursts, but I’m not.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “Just kidding on that last part.”

“No worries.” I say it because I have to.

We skip over the moment, pretend it didn’t just happen. Our eyes follow Yuri to the corner of the room, where he opens his gym bag and takes out a black crew-neck T-shirt. Muscles rippling, he peels off his white tank top. Julie is practically salivating and when he pulls on his black shirt she shakes her head and mumbles. “Guys like Yuri should only ever go around shirtless.”

“He’d get pretty cold,” I say.

“You just don’t get it.” Julie’s tone is now affectionate.

Then the teacher walks in, the music starts, and class begins.

When I get home Mom there is but Dad is not. As always.

“How was class?” Mom asks.

“Fine.” I breeze towards my bedroom, where I take off my converses. Then I plop down on my bed with the black satin comforter that reminds me of
Swan Lake
. Mom follows and stands in my doorway, assessing the mess. She picks a book up off the floor, scowling like it’s a dirty gym sock. “Why do you have an AP Economics textbook?”

“For school.” We both know that by “school” I mean the online option I have chosen in order to graduate. Dance class and rehearsals take up too much time for me to be normal.

“Yes, but AP Economics? Wasn’t there something easier you could take?”

I ignore her question, pick up my pastel colored pyraminx, and start turning, trying to line up the colors, keeping my gaze off Mom. When she’s standing among my clutter of books, dancewear, and collection of Rubik’s Cube type puzzles, she seems even more glassy and brittle than usual in her perfection. But she’s still beautiful, which is only fair, since she spends a lot of time and money on her looks.

She sighs. “Zelda, why didn’t you tell me that you’re taking AP Economics? It could distract you from your dancing.”

There is a little purple triangle in my puzzle that is out of place and I can’t rescue it from a sea of pink. I turn it to the right, but that just makes it worse, so I turn it back and then down. . .

“Zelda!”

Mom snatches my puzzle away. “At least pretend to listen when I talk to you.”

I sigh in defeat. “Mom, it’s no big deal. I just thought it would be challenging. Economics is like a really complex puzzle, and someday I’m going to need a plan, you know, for when I’m no longer dancing-”

“Don’t think that way! That’s defeatism, and I won’t accept it.” Mom puts the puzzle and my book on my desk, but it’s hard to find space amidst all my tiny model skyscrapers. “I know you like all this stuff, and it’s good to have hobbies.” She gestures to everything: the puzzles, the models, the school books. “If you would just focus, Zelda, you could be the best. You will get that internship you’ve always dreamed about and then you will have options. But you have to focus.” She punctuates each word with emphasis.

I’ve been hearing the same spiel all my life.

And since we’re talking about options, the last time I had one was when I was ten years old. I chose “ballerina” and now I’m tied to that, irrevocably. I mean, I love dancing. But there are other things I love too. “Mom, the economics class won’t distract me from getting an internship. I promise.”

Mom bites her lip like she’s holding back, like she might say more, but she’s not completely insane. Most parents want their kids to work hard at school, and she gets this. But her singular purpose is to make me the next, great prima ballerina. “It had better not,” she says. Then she leaves.

Without asking if I’ve had dinner.

I pick up my phone and text Julie.
I want to audition for The Standout. Give me all the details.

Two trains get us to the audition and it’s packed with models who have got to be European. I bet that they speak French and that they never go a minute with their hair uncombed. “Is that what we’re supposed to look like?” I whisper to Julie, gesturing toward a tall, skinny girl with a sleek, jet black bob. Her full, bright lips are scowling poutily. Or pouting scowlily.

Julie gives her half a glance. “Speak for yourself. I do look like that.”

In your dreams
, I want to say, but Julie is in one of her moods today.

The type where her nails will come out if I just look at her sideways.

I say nothing, but still that’s the wrong thing, because she’s quiet as we fill out our audition forms.

“Hey, Adrian!” Julie calls exuberantly to a girl from Ballet Institute East and talks to her like they’re besties. But if I say anything I get the silent treatment back.

I almost leave because I feel so young. Inexperienced, like I’m a fourth grader who’s with sixth graders because I’m good at math. And all the other kids think I have cooties.

But it would be so cool to have a real job. I’d have a sliver of independence. Maybe I could veer off the life path I’ve been barreling down for as long as I can remember. Maybe I could afford myself some options that don’t include pointe shoes, sore feet, or being a minion in a tutu. Still, a thousand times I eye the exit sign and I almost make a run for it when my name is called.

“Zelda Lansing?”

“Here,” I reply.

I hand the casting agent my headshot and resume’.

“You’re from Ballet Institute East?”

“Yes,” I tell her.

“Very good.” She raises her eyebrows. “You’re sure you’re eighteen?”

Like I could be mistaken about it. I tell her yes, I’m sure. I climb up to the walkway and for a split second I close my eyes, remembering everything I’ve learned from
America’s Next Top Model.
I lift my chin and saunter like I’m Cara Delevingne. At the end of the walkway I pivot, resisting the urge to pirouette or grand jete’. All I’m supposed to do is walk. Walk with an attitude.