The Standout (9 page)

“Ahh, that’s awesome.” Casey hangs a paisley blouse in her closet. “Good for you.”

Gabe, the cameraman, is in the corner of our small little bedroom, probably looking for some conflict that can be blown out of proportion through clever editing. I smile. “What about you, Casey? Where did you study?”

“California College of Arts, in San Francisco.”

“Wow, I bet that was great.”

“Yeah, you know.” The musicality of her voice turns nasally. “It was the right move for me, learning design theory. I want my work to have a strong foundation before I venture off into my own style.” She’s done unpacking, so she sits on the bed and a smile teases the corners of her mouth. “I know that’s not for everyone. Some people are better off, just doing their own thing. But we can’t all be celebrities, right?”

It takes me a moment to catch her drift. I’m the celebrity here, which supposedly affords me the option of ignoring fashion fundamentals. And while my first instinct is to get annoyed, Casey has a point.

I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for my reality-show past.

“Well, I almost got kicked off today, and I’m really not much of a celebrity, so I wouldn’t worry about me having any sort of advantage.”

“Oh! No, I wasn’t.” She laughs.

Should I turn snarky? My reality-show past tells me no. No snarkiness allowed.

I get up to use the bathroom. After I splash my face with cold water and rub some of Casey’s stress-relieving essential oil on my temples, I come back out. Gabe has lowered his camera and he and Casey are laughing about something. They turn and their faces fall when they hear me enter the room.

Clearly their joke isn’t intended for me. I’m only surprised at how quickly and completely I feel like an outsider.

The next morning our call is at 6:30 AM. Jim and Hilaire meet us at the Metropolitan Ballet, where there is a special, ten minute performance for us of
Swan Lake
.

A beautiful ballerina in a white tutu dances mournfully while a misty background hangs behind her. She twirls and stretches, defying normal human movement, and a guy in black tights and a white satin tunic comes out and joins her. He lifts her over his shoulder, so her back is pressed against him and her arms are toward the ceiling. They spin like figure skaters, only the ice is merely in our imagination. But the longing they communicate is also icy, like they want each other but know it’s impossible.

Or at least, I think that’s it. I could really use some coffee.

The whole thing is being filmed of course, but the cameras are focused as much on us, sitting in the audience, as they are on the dancers. When the pas de deux is over, the prima ballerina curtsies and we jump to our feet in a standing ovation. Then Jim Giles, who is dressed in an impeccably tailored light grey suit, and Hilaire, who is wearing a black tutu dress (which she can totally pull off) enter the stage.

“Bonjour à tous!” she cries, “Good morning, designers! And congratulations! You have all survived the initial challenge and we officially welcome you to the show.” She gestures toward Jim. “Jim, would you like to tell them why this will be such a special season?”

“Thank you, Hilaire. I would love to." When he speaks I’m reminded of my middle school science teacher, Mr. Monroe, who was known for his ability to say
Uranus
, patiently and repeatedly, without ever cracking a smile. “This season,
The Standout
is doing something special. Every challenge will be centered on a famous ballet, like
Giselle, Swan Lake
, or
The Firebird
, just to name a few.”

“Hold on!” Hilaire shouts to the cameramen and they all poke their heads out from behind their heavy equipment. “I don’t think the designers look amazed enough.” Now her focus plows into us. “Designers! This is incredible news. Respond to it! Ah! D’accord! Okay!”

We’re all packed into the first two rows of the audience, and Gabe the cameraman comes and shoves his lens within spitting distance of my mouth. But I don’t spit; I smile like I’ve just been told that we’re skipping winter this year.

“All of the garments you construct must be practical for a dancer to move in,” Jim says. “Your model should be able to stretch, or even fall, and the garment will withstand it.” He looks over at me and I laugh as if we’re sharing an inside joke.

But on the inside, I’m breathing fire.

“Your first challenge will have a
Sleeping Beauty
theme,” Jim continues. “We don’t mean the Disney version, but the classical ballet. You all have your Samsung tablets, and we’re giving you thirty minutes to research and sketch. Then we will go fabric shopping at Metaphor. Any questions?”

“Jim?” Casey raises her hand. “So we’re supposed to pick a character from
Sleeping Beauty
and design a gown they can dance in? I’m not sure I understand.”

Jim weaves his fingers together, unflinching in his absolute composure, just like Droopy Dog. “You are letting yourself be inspired by the ballet.”

Casey cocks her head in question. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, we can’t spell it out for you Casey.” Hilaire’s tone is not as patient as Jim’s. “You must think abstractly, comprendre?”

“Umm, I guess?” Casey’s voice lilts and I’m guessing she doesn’t understand.

But I do. And I can’t wait to get to work.

It’s late in the evening and I feel like the exclamation point at the end of a panicked sentence. It’s just a dress, I tell myself. It’s not your future; it’s just a dress.

“Robin, how are you?” Jim approaches my work station. His salt-n-pepper hair is slicked back and today’s suit is navy pinstripes with wide lapels and a dark purple tie. I wish I’d designed his outfit instead of this garment, which is half nightgown, half cocktail dress.

“I’m okay,” I answer.

“What have we got going on here?” Jim points to the dress dummy that is wearing my
Sleeping Beauty
look.

“Well,” I say, projecting false confidence, “I was thinking about how Aurora is woken up by the prince’s kiss, and that’s what I’m going for with this look: an awakening.”

“Uh huh.” Jim fingers the midnight blue satin that’s the base of the strapless bodice, but over it is a long-sleeved teal chiffon blouse, with wing-like draping. There’s also teal chiffon as the lower layer of the skirt. “I like the teal,” he says, “it’s very subtle. And the fit is lovely: the combination of tight and loose is a great aesthetic.” He looks up at me and tilts his chin. “Robin, I totally think this works.”

“Oh my God, thank you!” I’m so relieved that I almost start to cry. “I’ve been so scared, after the last challenge. . .”

Jim waves one hand dismissively. “Oh, please. That whole thing was ridiculous. Your dress was lovely. It’s not your fault your model tripped and fell. And what muslin dress is going to survive that?”

I feel like I’m swallowing air. “Really?”

Jim leans in and whispers in my ear. “You didn’t hear this from me, but Hilaire was against your being added to the show. She said she wants designers, not reality TV stars. I said you are a designer, but she can be. . . well. . .” Jim straightens up, steps away, and speaks at his normal, nasally pitch. “Well, hang in there, Robin. And good work with your dress! You can do this!” He pats me on the arm to be reassuring, but suddenly there’s a pound of gravel in my stomach and I don’t even know why.

I need a break.

I leave the workroom and go outside, to the rooftop terrace. The air is crisp and the evening skyscape is millions of tiny lights. Although I’m not up very high I still feel small and unsteady, and just gazing at the stars gives me the sensation that I could fall. But I imagine that Nick is standing in our backyard right now and he’s looking up at the same sky. I hope that he’s missing me and I hope that he isn’t. He should be both happy and miserable, just like me.

I think about how I was here in New York many years ago, with a different love, dreaming of a future with him in this very city. And for years I believed I would never recover from the loss of him or from the loss of that dream. But I did, and if I can do that, I can go a few weeks without Nick. I can trust that he’ll take care of my cyber-stalker for me while I’m gone, that I can focus on winning while I’m here, and that once I get back we’ll figure out everything else.

I go back inside, resolved to finish the straps of my dress before it’s time to go. But as I approach my work station I see that someone has been messing with my Samsung tablet, which all the contestants were provided with as a perk for doing the show. Mine had been put away in my desk drawer but now it’s sitting out and the power is on.

The internet has been accessed. That’s totally against the rules and I’m about to exit out before I get caught, but too soon I’m hit with a sickening realization: my tablet is on something called
The Rotten Robin Website
. There are multiple unflattering photos of me and my cheeks sting as I read the bullet points:

·
        
Robin is an adulteress: She slept with a married man and now she’s cheating on her fiancé.

·
        
Robin is a whore: Do you know how long her “list” is? It’s well into the double digits and I can give you the names to prove it!

·
        
Robin is a cheater: She cheated on
The Holdout
and she’s cheating right now, while filming
The Standout
.

·
        
Robin is a liar: She lied about her past, she’s lied about her present, and she’s lying about her future. Does this girl ever tell the truth?

Then there’s this tirade of made up accusations, but made up or not, shame blisters my lungs as I try to breathe.

And that’s not even the worst of it. At the bottom there’s some video footage.

I don’t want to press play but my finger acts independently of my brain, and it touches that little arrow. I see a montage of carefully selected moments: me on
The Holdout
, saying “I’ll do anything to get ahead.” Me, making out with Grant (who I actually trusted) on the beach. Me, on a talk show, saying, “I did what I had to do. Cheating and lying were just part of the game.”

After that there are clips from plays I’ve been in, some dating all the way back to college. Who had access to my computer so they could post these? There’s me as Karen in
Speed the Plow
, admitting I only had sex with a guy so he’d green-light a movie; me, taking off my blouse and making out with the guy; me in more clips from more plays.

I never realized how slutty my characters were.

But they were just roles I stepped into. Maybe it was typecasting, but I have been misrepresented and I don’t know who to blame. I could blame Clara, or Andrea—hell; I could blame Nick for not taking care of things like he said he would. I could even blame the Internet or anyone who uses the Internet for more than reading NPR’s headlines or Skyping with their grandchildren.

That reminds me of my dad. God, what if he sees this?

The way it’s put together, it all looks real and I look like a terrible person. And then there’s the grand finale photo montage: me in a bathing suit, me in just a T-shirt, me with my hair all mussed and my lips pursed—a selfie that I sent to Nick one evening when I was anxious for him to get home.

“Robin, what are you watching?” Amos, the designer whose work station is next to mine, startles me out of my trance. I close out the screen and slap my tablet’s cover shut.

“Nothing!” I lean against the work table and pretend my insides don’t feel pulverized. “Hey, did you see anyone come over and mess with my tablet?”

He shakes his head no. “But you should be careful. If they catch you on the internet you could be in big trouble. I’m surprised you were even able to access it.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t. Somebody else did!” Amos flinches at my indignation but the smile never leaves his face. He gently tugs at the tape measure draped around his neck as he responds. “Okay. . . I swear I didn’t see anyone come over.”

Meanwhile, Gabe the cameraman has approached and now we’re being filmed.

I remember myself and paste on a smile. “Okay. I guess it’s just a mystery.”

I need to think this through. I need to come up with a plausible explanation for how someone who is neither Nick nor Andrea got access to these photos and videos. They’re the only two people who would be able to access them, but I can’t think that it’s Andrea. And it certainly can’t be Nick.

So until I have a workable theory, I can’t mention a word, not to anyone, not unless I want to walk away from the show right now.

With trembling hands, I get back to work. Even as images of Clara flash through my head I shake them off.
Clara is dead
, I tell myself.
Some bully is trying to get to you
. But that still doesn’t explain who, or why, or how.

I’m not allowed to call Nick. I’m not allowed to call anyone, or use the internet, or investigate this stupid website. So I work on my dress, even though every time I look at the straps, all I see is a noose.

The next day we’re picking models. All the designers sit in their stadium seats in the runway room and the models are made to stand on the stage. They all look so cold, dressed in their identical black slips, even as the bright stage lights shine on them from every direction.

Hilaire picks a designer’s name from a bag and then the designer gets to choose her model. It’s like waiting to get picked for teams in gym class, only a million times worse. Zelda’s chest caves a little more each time a designer doesn’t choose her, because two models will get the boot today.

When Hilaire reads my name, I don’t hesitate. “I’ll stick with Zelda.”

I give Zelda a wink but I doubt she can see it. She walks off stage, going out of her way to sit with another one of the chosen models who looks about her age. Zelda goes in for a fist bump and the other girl returns the gesture, but with a plastic smile. As soon as Zelda looks away, the other girl shares an eye roll with the model sitting on her opposite side.

After all the models have been chosen and the two rejected girls walk gloomily off stage, we’re released into the workroom, where we can fit our models into their dresses. I’d already fit my dress to Zelda anyway, which motivated me all the more to choose her. And the dress conforms to her body like a fantasy.