The Standout Page 14

“My office door is locked. We’re safe.” My voice is soft. Tina’s back is to me, and if she hears me she doesn’t acknowledge it. “Come here.” I’m a little louder now, but I make sure not to sound demanding. I just want to sound like the guy who desires his wife, who needs her like he needs water and sunlight.

  She turns, and hot damn, there’s another smile. I pat my knee in a “come hither” gesture and she actually complies. “You have a lock on your office door?” She betrays a hint of laughter as she descends into my lap. “Why do you need a lock, Ted? You’d better not be having assignations with any other women on your desk.”

  She’s wrapped up into me. My arms are around her legs, her arms are around my shoulders, and her head is tucked up against my chest, directly below my chin. Possible jokes come to mind, like all my assignations are on the floor or against the wall; or the lock is to keep me in, not to keep others out, but the words just wilt on my lips. All I can manage is, “You know there’s only you, Tina.”

  If she’s startled by my sincerity, she doesn’t show it. We just sit there for a while, feeling our hearts beating. After a while she says, “I suppose we should get back. I told the babysitter we’d be home by eleven.”

  She climbs off my lap and begins dressing. I watch her, marveling at her beauty. The way that the shadows play across her profile makes me think of the Mats Gustafson watercolor.

  “Hey, can I ask you a weird question?”

  Tina looks at me as she straightens the dress strap over her left shoulder. “What?”

  “Did you ever write me a note in my mother’s handwriting and hide it behind that painting in the guestroom?”

  She squints and puckers her lips. “Why would I do something like that?”

  “I don’t know. But I found the weirdest thing the other day. There was this sheet of paper in my mom’s handwriting with the message: Get yourself together, don’t be afraid, and jump.”

  “What’s your point, Ted?” Tina’s arms are crossed over her chest in a defensive pose.

  “Never mind. I was just asking.” I reach down for my pants and suddenly I’m nicked in the forehead by something heavy and blunt. I realize that Tina’s thrown a paperweight at me.

  “Are you crazy?” I yell. “You could have killed me!”

  “Don’t be so dramatic!” It’s like flames are shooting from Tina’s eyes. “And don’t call me crazy! You’re the crazy one! Are you seriously letting a note from your dead mother trigger your midlife crisis?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She counts on her fingers. “Your trip to Des Moines; your unpaid leave; your private investigator course!” Tina walks toward me and puts her face in mine. “You didn’t even try to hide any of it. Instead you just lied! How stupid do you think I am?”

  “I don’t think you’re stupid.” I’m flailing, grasping for words I don’t have. “I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

  “Obviously.” Her breath comes out in short, angry puffs. “I ran into Stan’s wife at the club and she told me you’ve stopped going to work. I pretended like I knew. All it took was one look at our account activity to figure out the rest.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything until now?”

  “Because it wasn’t worth my time.” She straightens out her dress and grabs my car keys, which were lying on my desk. “It’s a good thing you still have your office,” she says. “Because you’re not sleeping at home tonight.”

  And with that, she storms away, slamming the door on her way out. I don’t chase after her. I just let myself drown in the waves of defeat that wash over me. What hurts the most is that tonight was just an act.

  She was just biding her time until the right moment came to confront me.

  She’s right to be angry. But, bad as I feel, I don’t believe I’m the crazy one. She threw a paper-weight at my head. What was that about?

  My hand creeps over to my computer and I flick it on, though I hadn’t thought consciously to do so. I have access to all sorts of data bases here that I don’t have at home.

  If I can’t figure out my own life, maybe I can fix Robin’s.

  Part III: Robin

  Chapter 38

  “Slow down, Ted.” He is usually so calm and composed that I don’t even recognize this half-crazed voice at the other end of the line. Besides, his “emergency phone call” to the production team at The Standout is also out of character. I look at the caller ID screen and see that it’s neither his home number nor his cell. “Where are you?”

  “At my office.”

  “But it’s Sunday morning! Why are you—”

  “Never mind about that! I have to warn you. The sex tape was awful but we got it taken down. Even still, I think Nick did something bad. Or maybe it was his sister, but I doubt she’d know how. Several days ago, that Rotten Robin website claimed that you bribed one of the judges on The Standout. There was no evidence of it in your bank account. Well, today there is. There’s a transfer of $40,000, only it’s from Nick’s account and in your name.”

  “What? How do you even know all this?”

  I hear him start to answer, but suddenly the phone is snatched from my grasp. I turn and see that Jim Giles is the one who did the snatching. Kyla is standing behind him, chin down, sneering triumphantly. Jim places the phone back in its receiver like it weighs 100 pounds.

  “I was talking to my brother!”

  “Well, we’ll add that to the list of rules you’ve broken!” He literally waves his finger at me. “We have to talk. Now!”

  The cameras follow the three of us to a private space, but “private space” is an oxymoron on any reality TV show. Once we’re behind closed doors, with several cameras pointed at our faces, Jim confronts me for real. “Kyla says you invaded her work station and stole her best pair of fabric sheers.”

  “What? No I didn’t!”

  Jim lifts the shears for me to see. “We found these with your stuff, Robin.”

  “Kyla is lying! She framed me!”

  Jim shakes his head. “You’re the one who disappeared during filming last night, so I’m afraid I can’t give you the benefit of the doubt.” Jim’s face is pink with strain as he turns to Kyla, giving her back her shears. “Kyla, I need you to step out now.”

  Kyla, poser that she is, nods gravely. “Of course,” she says, giving me a snaky grin as she shuts the door behind her. Then Jim speaks again. “Evie Messina got a text from you this morning.”

  “Um. . .Uh,” I stutter, “I haven’t been using my phone. It’s against the rules. And you guys have it anyway.”

  “I don’t know how you managed but we have proof.” Jim gives me my phone. Sure enough, there’s a text from me to Evie Messina. Check your bank account. I’ve just given you another reason to take me to the top.

  “Robin,” Jim drawls, “if this text was all it was, I’d believe that you’re being framed. But $40,000 has been transferred into Evie’s bank account in your name.”

  “I knew nothing about this!” I say. “I mean, not until just now when my brother called to warn me. But someone has been messing with my phone and my computer. I can even show you the website!”

  “So you’re saying that your fiancé acted independently of you?” Jim purses his lips and I wonder if he’s actually listening to me.

  “What? No! Nick would never do that. Besides, he doesn’t even have that kind of money. We’re both being framed.”

  Jim shakes his head, deeply disappointed. “I can assure you, Robin, he has the money because it came from his account. I’m sorry, but, given the circumstances, I have to ask you to leave.”

  I can’t let this happen. I’ll be the Tanya Harding of the fashion world.

  “Jim, I swear I’m innocent. Don’t I even get a chance to defend myself?”

  “This is your chance!” He places his hands on his hips. “Can you give me some details about how this happened? I mean. . .” his eyes roll toward the ceiling, “if it’s not you, can you tell me who is resp
onsible?”

  Chastised, I scratch at my wrist. “Someone has been messing with me. I think I was pushed while I was on the treadmill, and yesterday someone dumped water on all my fabric. . .” saying it out loud sounds so lame, just schoolyard crimes.

  “And you didn’t report it because. . .?” Jim asks.

  “Because I was worried I was just being paranoid.”

  Jim strokes his chin slowly, deep in thought. “I wish you had reported it. Maybe you’d have a leg to stand on now.”

  “Talk to Gabe.” I gesture towards him, as he’s holding a camera in my face. “He came in right after I fell and he got it on film. And he also caught my freak out after I found water on my dress.”

  Jim glances at Gabe but he doesn’t actually say anything to him. That would be taboo. You don’t talk to cameramen, not while you’re being filmed. Meanwhile, Gabe stays silent; he’s merely the eyes and ears but definitely not the voice, and no matter how much I implore him, that’s not going to change.

  Jim sighs. “Unfortunately, that’s just not enough.” He sighs. “Robin, I really want to believe you’re innocent, but there’s too much evidence stacked up against you. I hate to say it, but I need you to go clean out your work station.”

  “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.

  Part IV: Zelda

  Chapter 39

  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.

  Chapter 40

  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.

  Chapter 41

  “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.