The Standout (5 page)

Two, always listen to Jim Giles: He’s the salt-n-pepper haired, impeccably dressed mentor who offers advice. His catchphrase is “You can do this!” But sometimes designers turn snooty and defensive at his critique. One lady snapped when Jim said that her military-style dress looked like it belonged to a drum majorette, and she made the shoulder pads bigger out of spite. She lost the challenge and was booted out.

Three, be a team player: One girl was swiping pattern pieces when others weren’t looking. Then there was a group challenge using materials from a hardware store, and her job was to hot glue little metal washers all over this 1920s style ball gown. When the washers fell off and scattered across the runway, the other designers had no problem pointing their fingers at her. She was kicked out.

Four, when you do get kicked out, be gracious. The ousted designers almost never turn bitter. They always say something like, “Thanks for the amazing opportunity.” Then they tearfully hug ex-supermodel/show-host Hilaire Kay as she bids them “au revoir.”

I know I’ll have trouble with that. My exit out of
The Holdout
was anything but smooth. I guess I’ve never been good at accepting defeat. So I’m mulling this over, resolving to change, when a draft of cool air accosts me, making me shiver even though I’m wrapped in a blanket on the couch. Andrea has opened the front door and she enters in a flood of stuff—the heavy book bag that’s weighing her shoulders down, a dripping rain poncho, and in her arms, a mysterious package.

“So you don’t have orchestra today?” I ask. “Or study group, or Key Club, or Young Farmers of America?”

“You know I’m not in Young Farmers of America.” Indignation tings her voice as she drops her bag and sheds her rain gear.

“Right, right.” I watch her wring out her soggy ponytail; the water drips onto the little piece of carpet that’s underneath our little mail table, in the entryway that’s right by the little living room. “What’s with the package?”

She picks it back up and brings it over to me. “It’s for you. The mailman left it outside.”

I make an annoyed grunt. “He could have rung the doorbell. I’ve been here all day. Now whatever is in here is wet.”

“Were you expecting something?” Andrea sits next to me.

“No.” I look at the return address, and instantly I know. “It’s from
The Standout
.” I rip open the package, which isn’t hard to do, since the cardboard is softened by rainwater. Inside I find two yards of muslin and an instruction sheet, which thankfully had been wrapped in plastic.
You must create a piece using only the material provided. It should represent who you are as a designer. You will show your look before the first day of filming. The two contestants whose looks are judged with the lowest score will be immediately eliminated
.

Andrea reads over my shoulder and gasps. “You mean you might not be on the show after all? After postponing your wedding and your honeymoon, they could kick you off before filming even begins!”

“I guess so.” I run my hand over the coarse fabric, already imagining what I might design.

“They could have told you that before you agreed to hijack your life.” Andrea doesn’t grow indignant on my behalf very often, but I love it when she does. I place a soothing hand on her knee.

“That’s not how reality television works. Signing on to do a show is like saying, ‘No, please hijack my life, and throw in some massive road construction too.’ All I can do now is start working.” I turn off the television, get up, and prepare to go downstairs.

“Wait, don’t forget about this.” Andrea holds up an envelope. “It was sitting on top of the box outside.”

She hands me the soggy piece of paper, and the only writing on the envelope is my name, ROBIN, in big block letters. “Somebody must have dropped this off,” I say, “I don’t think it’s from the show.”

“Well, aren’t you going to open it?” Andrea looks up at me from the couch, her eyes big and expectant as she waits. But I just stuff the envelope in my fist and move away. “Later,” I tell her. “I want to get to work.”

But as soon as I get downstairs I tear open the soft, wet paper, and my nerves are already dancing around my gut. One glance inside confirms my suspicions; it’s from my crazy hater-fan.

Yes, I know where you live. I’m starting to think you aren’t taking me seriously. Well, you ought to, because I’m not about to stop.

A couple of hours later, Nick comes home. “You wouldn’t believe the day I had!” Nick is practically radiating light, he looks so happy. He finds me in the kitchen, where I am heating up some leftover Asian takeout, and kisses me firmly on the mouth.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I got not one, but two big commissions today. And I got an A on my curriculum project.” He wanders over to the piano, which sits in the only space in our house where it’ll fit: between the “foyer” and the living room. I follow and plop down next to him, and watch as his fingers skim the keys, like they often do when he’s in a good mood.

“I think things are going our way, Rocky.” He smiles, gleeful. “You’re going to be a big star in the fashion world, I’m finally making some money, and pretty soon we’ll have the careers we both want. Everything is good right now. I can feel it.”

I stroke his cheek, taking a moment to revel in his happiness and to admire the curve of his strong chin. “I’m sure you’re right, but I’m starving. Let’s eat dinner.” I pull him up and towards the kitchen.

Later, after we’ve eaten and I’ve told him all about the new
Standout
challenge, Nick finds me in our dank little basement, where I have a sewing machine and a cutting-table set up. I’m sketching, playing with the fabric, and studying an art book of shadowy silhouettes. I hear the thump of Nick’s feet, first on the ceiling above me and then descending the steps to where I am. I become aware of the time; it’s almost midnight. “Hey,” I mumble, clenching a pencil between my teeth, “I’m coming to bed soon.”

He runs his fingers through his hair and it occurs to me that he’s been wearing his stress-hair look a lot lately. “Shouldn’t you wait until tomorrow to get started,” he asks, “when you can be at your studio with the proper space and lighting?”

“I know, but I can’t help myself. The moment I got this package my mind starting racing and I had to begin.”

Nick comes and peers over my shoulder, shifting his gaze from my sketch pad to the book I have propped open. “What’s this?” he asks, pointing to the book.

“They’re fashion illustrations by Mats Gustafson. My mother really loved his work. She even had a first-run print by him.”

Nick looks at the page that my book is open to. Like most of Mats Gustafson’s work, this illustration is about shadow and light, and it’s almost as if the page itself is illuminated. The model’s face is impossible to make out; she’s all contours and strategically placed smudges, but her body is dynamic yet relaxed, draped in billowy fabric that curves into a little black dress with a v-shaped neckline and a cinched waist. Behind her there’s a feathery bustle that’s as airy as a cloud. She’s perfection.

“How are you going to make this dress out of two yards of muslin?” Nick asks.

“I’m not going make this dress,” I say, pointing to the page. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. That would be fashion plagiarism. But I’m supposed to create something that represents who I am as a designer, and if I have to name one thing that’s influenced me, it would be these illustrations.” I leaf through the book. “This book was mom’s before she died, and when I was a kid I’d grab a stool and pull it from our highest bookshelf, and stare at the pages, over and over. Something about them just mesmerized me. Finally, when I was around twelve, my dad said, ‘keep the book, your mother would want you to,’ and on rainy Saturdays I’d hole up in my bedroom, pouring over it, trying to make similar sketches of my own.”

Nick runs his fingers over the page, as if he could feel some texture rather than the flat, glossy paper that’s dulled with age. “Was it because you knew your mother loved these pictures?” He looks up and meets my eyes. “I mean, they’re beautiful. But was the fascination with them because of her?”

“Maybe.” I examine a sketch of a woman’s face, simple in its construction. The lines of her hair, mouth, eyebrows, and chin are slanted with very little curve, but they’re all emphasized with beautiful blemishes. “Every woman in here is so mysterious, like they’re standing behind a sheer curtain, just out of reach. But they’re all so striking too.”

“Like how you imagined your mom to be?” Nick’s voice is gentle.

I shrug. “Sure, if you want to get all Freudian on me.” I snap the book shut, resigned to thinking about something else.

“Hey, I have to show you something, but please try not to overreact.” I reach for the note, which earlier I’d shoved out of sight, into a drawer. I hand it to him and he reads, his eyebrows tensing and his jaw clenched.

“Did it just come today?”

“Yes.” I scratch absently at my wrist and then I just start rubbing. I can tell that Nick’s blood pressure has already spiked. This is just one more reason for Nick to be stressed, rather than happy, like he was when he came home this evening. Impulsively, I grab the note from his hands, tear it up and throw it away. Now it’s nothing more than lonely shreds of paper in a metal wastebasket.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” Nick says.

“Forget about it, okay? It’s stupid to even worry about.”

Color creeps into Nick’s cheeks, which I’ve learned is a warning sign of angry words to come. I’m bracing myself, but there rapid are footsteps coming down the stairs. “Nick!” Andrea’s voice sounds throttled with tears and she’s holding out her phone. “Nick, I just got the worst text ever from Dad. I didn’t even know he knew
how
to text! Look!”

Nick shudders in confusion. He’s trying to shake off one drama so there’s room for another. “Let me see.”

Andrea shows him her phone. “How can he be so mean?” Then she starts sobbing.

Nick wraps his arms around her, makes shooshing noises, and leads her upstairs. For a moment I consider following, but what would be the point? I’d rather feel useful, so I pick up my pencil and sketch pad and get back to work.

The last time I saw my old sex-buddy Robert was years ago, when he ran from Clara’s tree house, but this morning he texts me with a picture attached. He’s sprawled on his bed, wearing nothing but a suggestive pose and a cowboy hat. What’s even more horrifying is the message
: I’ve been thinking about you too
.

Never mind how uncanny the timing of his text is. No. My first reaction is repulsion; how could I ever have slept with a guy who’d send a picture like this? The hat is so tacky! But after I get over his poor taste in accessories, I realize there are multiple reasons to be disturbed. The feathered cowboy hat is just the tip of the pornographic iceberg.

What if Nick had been around when I’d gotten that text? How could I possibly explain it away? And why did Robert decide to text me now, with everything else that’s been going on? It has to be more than a coincidence.

So I text him back.
Can we talk? Today?

Sure,
he responds, and sends me his work address.

His single-story office building is on the edge of downtown and I wait outside during lunch hour. At 11:52 I spot Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome walking out and heading straight for the Jimmy Johns. I step into his path.

“Hi, Robert.”

His face has aged little in the last few years. Unlike Clara’s mother, Robert seems virtually unchanged by tragedy.

“Robin.” He smiles like he can picture me in nothing but a lacy thong. “Hey, how are you?”

“I’m fine, good actually. I’m getting married.” I dig my heels into the sidewalk and hug my arms to my chest. The wind whips through me but I’ll make it clear: I do
not
want him warming me up. “I’ve never been happier and I can’t imagine EVER doing ANYTHING to jeopardize that.”

“Congratulations.” He tugs at his tie and the realization that I’m not going to sleep with him skips across his face. “Look, it’s great seeing you but I’m pressed for time—”

“This won’t take long. I’m sorry to hear about Clara.”

Robert’s finely chiseled jaw goes rigid. “Thanks. But we separated years ago, pretty much right after she found out about you and me. I mean, it’s terrible that she’s missing, but—”

“Missing? Her mother said she’d died.”

“She’s presumed dead.” Robert’s nostrils flare but his shoulders sag. “Clara was traveling in Greece and there was a bus accident. Lots of bodies were burned. It was pretty gruesome. But they looked at dental records and her body was never found.”

“Oh.” Images flood my mind: a bus tumbling down a cliff and erupting into flames, Clara’s beautiful face melting in the ashes, or perhaps, Clara getting up and walking away?

Robert raises his hand as if to pat my shoulder but then he changes his mind. “Sorry, Robin. I really do need to go. Good luck with your marriage; I’m sure you’ll need it.”

He’s almost become a blur on the sidewalk before his comment sinks in.

What a jackass.

“Hold on,” I shout, and he stops. I’ve also caught the attention of several other passersby. “Why would you say that?” I jump to where he is. “I never even asked for an apology, so spare me the snide comments.”

Robert’s mouth twists in disgust. “Why would I
ever
apologize to you? You destroyed my marriage!”

“If that’s how you feel, then why did you send me that picture?”

He does a double take. “Gosh, because I was looking to get laid? I mean, after you sexted me today —”

“What?” I yell, too angry to care if other people can hear. “I didn’t sext you!”

He takes out his phone and scrolls down. “Then what’s this?”

I read the crazy, dirty message, things I would never, ever say (to anyone but Nick), yet it’s from my phone number. “I didn’t send you this,” I tell him. “I’m engaged!”

Robert barks out a sardonic laugh. “Okay, fine, rewrite history. I don’t have time for this!”

“What are you talking about? I’m not rewriting anything!”