The Standout Page 6

  “Then I’ll stay!”

  “Don’t say that unless you mean it.” Nick looks down at his feet, scratching at his temple, while the smell of exhaust accosts my nose. “If I asked you to stay you’d be pissed. You’d feel smothered and you’d tell me this is something you have to do, for yourself and your career.”

  Cars are lining up, trying to find a place to park along the curb, and an airport traffic cop is circling, ready to enforce the three-minute parking rule.

  “You don’t know that for sure.”

  Nick sighs. “So you seriously don’t want to go?”

  I wonder if this is a moment I’ll look back upon one day, and pontificate, if only I’d chosen differently, would everything have changed? Would everything be better?

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “You’re right. I should go.”

  Nick rolls his eyes heavenward as his chest heaves. “Good! I promise I’ll be here when you get back.” He gives me a crooked smile that almost says I still own his heart. I kiss him, hard, sniffing as I pull away.

  “You’d better get going, before you get towed.” I tell him.

  “Go get em’, Rocky.” Nick belts out the movie’s theme song as I walk away, and I shake my head, laughing and crying at the same time.

  “I love you!” I call out, suddenly aware I hadn’t said it yet, and that this will be the last chance I have for two months, unless you count saying it on the phone while being filmed.

  Nick doesn’t hear me. The traffic has drowned out the sound of my voice, and his song is over anyway. He’s gotten back in his car and he’s ready to drive away.

  Chapter 15

  Ted is waiting for me in baggage claim when my flight gets in. He looks as impeccable as ever; even when he wears jeans and a sweatshirt it’s hard to imagine him eating a sloppy joe or trimming his toenails. His face is a little more lined than I remember, but he’s athletic and trim, and with his blondish hair and confident gait, several women give him a second glance.

  When I reach him we don’t hug. “Hey, good to see you,” he says, patting me on the shoulder.

  “Thanks for picking me up.”

  “Sure.” His nod is firm, and then we’ve run out of things to say. Luckily I have only carry-on luggage, so we make it to his car pretty quick. Once we’re on the highway, driving toward his home in Buck County, I ask him about work, Tina, and the kids. His answers are all perfunctory and brief. When I can’t come up with any more polite questions, Ted takes his turn.

  “So, what’s with that weird Facebook post?”

  I wince. “You saw that?”

  He shrugs as he hangs a left. “I got a notice that you posted a photo.” The muscles that surround Ted’s high cheek bones barely move as he speaks, and I wonder for the umpteenth time how it is that we’re related. “It’s a good thing, too. I never know when a coworker will bring up my famous little sister, so I like to be up to date.”

  I tug at the seatbelt, which is cutting into my shoulder. “I’m not famous. I mean, sure, I had my fifteen minutes, but that was a long time ago.”

  Ted laughs sardonically. “Says the girl who’s about to do another reality TV show.”

  Ted will always think of me as a twelve-year-old, so I ignore being called a girl and heave a sigh. “No, you’re right. But I didn’t post that photo on Facebook. Someone hates me, Ted, and honestly, I’m sort of freaked out.”

  He raises his eyebrows but keeps his gaze on the road. “Why? Tell me what’s going on.”

  It’s rare for Ted to be solicitous; usually, if he listens to me at all, it’s with half an ear and a fraction of patience. But right now I get the feeling that he actually wants to hear about my problems, so I tell him everything: about Clara and Robert and the notes and the texts, about accusing Andrea and her subsequent freak-out, about Nick’s seeming lack of concern over any of it except Andrea’s hurt feelings.

  When I’m done I wait for Ted to respond, and when he doesn’t I realize I’m holding my breath. Right as I exhale, he finally speaks. “Big things happen to you, don’t they?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what I said: you lead a dramatic life. Maybe Nick isn’t unconcerned as much as he’s overwhelmed.” Ted raises one corner of his upper lip as if to smile, but settles on a smirk instead.

  “That’s kind of mean, Ted.”

  “I’m not trying to be mean. I’m just giving you my opinion.” He pulls into his driveway and turns off the ignition. “And you have to admit that you’re a drama-magnet.”

  And you have to admit that you’re a schmuck. “Sure,” I concede, though I’d love to give him a tongue-lashing.

  Instead, we get out of the car and I follow Ted inside.

  “You have a big day tomorrow,” he tells me, as we walk through their shiny kitchen, towards the staircase to the second floor. “So unless you need anything, I’ll show you to the guest room.”

  “Are Tina and the kids asleep?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but you can see them in the morning at breakfast.”

  “Okay.” I follow Ted upstairs, for he’s already carrying my little suitcase. He leads me down the hall, right past a bathroom illuminated by a nightlight. When we walk into the guest room he flicks on a lamp, and I see there’s a double bed with a navy blue spread pulled tight, and a nightstand with a digital alarm clock.

  But those things are nothing, inconsequential at best, because my eyes are instantly drawn to what’s hanging on the wall. I gasp. “It’s the Mats Gustafson!” I walk closer, reaching out my hand though I know I’d never touch it. “She’s so beautiful.”

  I stand there, revering the shadowy lady, hands in her pockets, clothes billowing behind her as she walks. Her chin is tilted down and she’s wearing a large-brimmed hat, making her face indistinguishable. She’s the epitome of casual grace and just looking at her makes me catch my breath. “I can’t believe you have this hanging in the guest room. If it was mine, I’d put it where I could see it every day.”

  “Well, it’s not yours,” Ted snaps. “You got the jewelry, and you’re lucky, because Ian didn’t get anything at all. Quit mooching.”

  Stung, I turn towards Ted, away from the painting. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  Ted taps his feet like he has somewhere to be. “Sure, sorry.” He shakes his head. “Tina spent a long time decorating our house and it was her decision to hang the painting here. I left it all to her, so I couldn’t exactly argue about this one little thing, you know?” He hangs his head and the blond highlights in his hair are illuminated. “You’ll understand soon, now that you’re getting married.”

  “Yeah. . .” I fish for more of a response but the words stick in my throat

  “Well, if you’re sure there’s nothing you need, good night.” Ted flicks some invisible lint off his polo sweater, straightens himself, and walks past me, closing the door behind him.

  “Good night,” I say to an empty room. Then I turn back around, and stare at the picture until my eyes are too tired to stay open.

  Chapter 16

  The next morning, after breakfast with Tina and the kids, Ted drives me to the station and he even gets out, carries my bag, and walks me to the train. “You know which stop to take?” he asks.

  His brotherly concern is so unexpected that I don’t even laugh at the ridiculousness of it. “Yeah,” I tell him. “Besides, there will be camera crews waiting, so my stop is sort of hard to miss.”

  “Right.” He leans in and gives me an awkward hug, unsure of where his arms are supposed to go. “Well, good luck,” he says as he pulls away. “I hope they like your outfit.”

  I glance down at what I’m wearing; it’s another one of my upcycled creations. The fabric is from a man’s spring sport coat: silvery, textured, and surprisingly easy to drape. I made it into a sleeveless tunic with little ruffles over the shoulders, a drop waist, purple stitching around the collar and hems, and tiny purple buttons running vertically. It’s short a
nd slightly longer on the sides than it is in the front and back, so I thought it would be perfect to go over a pair of worn Levi's 501s that I dyed a deep indigo and rolled up. The rip in the knee is totally organic.

  “Thanks,” I say, louder than is warranted. My bravado is coming out in a big, fake burst. “I’m totally ready for this.”

  Ted nods and looks at his watch, which reminds me of Nick, because other than Ted, Nick is the only guy I know who still wears a watch. “I should get going. I have a meeting at ten.”

  “Go ahead,” I tell him. “I’ll be fine, waiting here on my own.”

  “Of course you will. You’re always fine, right?”

  The question is without irony, and as Ted meets my eyes, he and I share a brief moment of connection. Ted and I don’t have much in common, but I’ve always felt that if there was a zombie apocalypse, or a super flu epidemic, or a mass hysteria due to the evils of technology, Ted and I would somehow hang on while everybody else perished. It’s just what we do.

  “Right,” I say with half a laugh.

  “Yeah. . .” Ted blinks and looks over his shoulder, towards his parked car. “I should go. Call me after you get kicked off. You can stay with us for however long you need.”

  “Thanks, Ted.”

  He nods and walks toward the parking lot. Although his direction is clear, his steps are tentative. An unexpected surge of nerves makes my feet wobble against the sidewalk. I should just run and capture him in a reckless hug. We should just return to those days when we cared about each other.

  Then he pauses before he gets into his car.

  “Robin!” Ted calls, jiggling his keys as he stands by his Lexus. “Don’t worry about your cyber stalker. I’m going to look into it for you. I know how to take care of stuff like this and it’s going to be okay.”

  Stunned, I hear myself say, “Great, thank you.”

  He gives me a genuine smile, and for a moment my big brother looks like the shaggy-haired, late 80s teen he used to be, so long ago. My heart twists with nostalgia.

  The train pulls in and I board. At first it’s fairly empty, and I stare out a window as the scenery rushes by. But with each stop, more and more people board, and soon the space becomes tight. I take my copy of Vogue from my bag, flip through the pages and study the fashions, trying to incorporate all the latest, hippest trends into my mind before I’m in a high-pressure design situation. I’m analyzing how big the cuffs are, and how every blouse seems to be white chiffon or beige satin, and how they’re all fitted with big lapels. Then I feel a set of eyes on me.

  I glance around. The train pulls to a stop and several people stand. One of them is a woman in her early-thirties, with reddish brown hair secured in a low bun. She’s wearing dark rimmed, square-framed glasses and she’s pretty without being remarkable, like the best-kept mom at playgroup. But there’s something familiar about her.

  She shifts her gaze. Her eyes had been on her shoes, or the opposite wall, or on the door which was about to slide open, but now she looks squarely at me and my stomach drops straight into the earth’s molten core.

  It’s Clara.

  My body temperature skyrockets, blood rushes to my face, and I’m torn between saying hello and bolting out of sight. But bolting is impossible, and anyway the train doors open and she gets off before I can think of what to say. When the train pulls away I see her standing on the platform, watching me, and for a crazy, irrational moment I fear she’ll lunge forward, jump back onto the moving train and track me down.

  But it can’t really be her. I’m nervous and emotional and my mind is playing on tricks on me. Get a grip, I tell myself. Now is not the time to fall apart.

  Chapter 17

  Getting ready for the first Standout fashion show is a flurry of activity and over-stimulation. I should feel awed, star-struck, and intensely competitive. And I do. But every so often the image of Clara, with her silent accusations scorching me on our morning commute, disorients me all over again.

  “I love the dress,” says my model, Zelda. She reminds me of Andrea and she looks just as young. Her huge, doe-like eyes make her seem innocent, and unlike all the other models here, her brown hair is in a pixie cut.

  “Thanks.” I inhale, breathing in the scent of steamed fabric and deodorant. “Why are all the other girls wearing their hair back, in buns?” I ask.

  “Didn’t they tell you?” Zelda arches her eyebrows at me.

  “Tell me what?”

  “The entire season is a ballet-theme. Most of the models here are actually ballet dancers.”

  “Oh.” I look around the room; all the designers seem self-assured as they fit their models into dresses that look like something from the extra-expensive section of Bloomingdales. Does everyone here know more than me? “What do you mean: a ballet theme?”

  “You know, like all the challenges will be based off of famous ballets, with their themes of passion and betrayal. . .” She keeps talking, but passion and betrayal reverberates in my head. “. . .and we’re supposed to really move in the outfits you design. Maybe even dance in them.”

  “Oh.” I’m trying to tighten a seam so it’s more closely fitted to Zelda’s waist, but my fingers feel like they’re covered with cotton and so does my brain. “Well, at least now I understand why you’re so graceful."

  Zelda blushes at my compliment but I’m being sincere. Her limbs don’t simply move; they levitate. She stands up straight and I drape the halter dress over her body.

  I dyed the muslin a charcoal grey, to mirror the shadows in a Mats Gustafson drawing from my Mom’s book. I also took a portion of the fabric and beat it, stretched it, washed it a dozen times, and then beat it and stretched it some more. I dyed it a lighter shade of grey, so it would look transparent, like an extra layer floating over the base of the dress. That extra layer also crisscrosses in front, and turns into a knee length train in back.

  I step back to assess it.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Zelda says.

  “Really? You think so?”

  Zelda nods fervently. “I’ve never liked anything I’ve put on so much. Of course, I mostly wear leotards, sweatpants, or tutus, but I totally think you’ll win.”

  “Okay, designers!” Jim Giles’ sudden entrance into the workroom is punctuated by his officious, well-projected voice. “It’s time. Line your models up.”

  I gulp and let my hands flit, because they’re unsure if they ought to be adjusting the dress or clawing their way to safety. I settle on stretching, reaching up and out, so I can almost skim the fluorescent light beams that hang from the ceiling. “Thank you,” I say to Zelda, and I try not to puke all over the workroom floor or into the camera lens that’s pointed at us. “You’re going to be a great model.”

  Zelda takes a steadying sigh, and we walk together, past the workroom’s purple walls and towards the bottleneck of models and designers trying to get through the doorway. “I’ve actually never modeled before,” she says. “I’m sort of nervous. All those cameras, and standing up there in front of Hilaire Kay. . .”

  “Be brave, Zelda.” I myself am melting with fear so I’m not cool enough to manage her pangs of doubt. I will pretend I am someone else, someone who has studied in New York, someone who knows the difference between Cashin and Cassini, someone who didn’t have to postpone her wedding and risk so much, just to be here.

  I will not get sent home before the show even begins.

  I will be a winner.

  Chapter 18

  Zelda enters the runway and my dress floats exactly as I wanted it to. She’s the beautiful woman behind a sheer curtain, just like the Mats Gustafson picture: the essence of light and beauty without corruption.

  Then Zelda’s toe snags against the floor and she falls: ripping my dress, my hard work, and my aspirations, all with a gut-wrenching shred. There’s a collective gasp followed by a moment of stunned silence and the music is turned off. “Are you okay?” Hilaire asks her.

  “Fine,” Zelda mutters as sh
e stands back up. “But I ripped the dress.” She cups her hand over her eyes, trying to find me in the audience against the glare of the stage lights. “I’m so sorry, Robin.”

  “Robin!” Hilaire demands. “Get on stage and look at the dress. Is it too damaged to be judged?”

  I shuffle from my seat and onto the walkway. I imagine my dress as a roadkill squirrel that I just ran over with my car. I don’t want to see but I must.

  “The straps are torn,” I tell Hilaire, “and there’s a rip in the back. The train is all messed up.”

  “So you’re saying it is destroyed?” Hilaire asks.

  “Umm. . .”I falter. “I don’t want to forfeit, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “But we can’t judge a ripped dress.” Hilaire crosses her arms over her chest like she’s been insulted.

  It is hard to be a winner with a ripped dress. With a ripped dress, I am just me, posing as a designer in my purple jeans and thrift-store tunic. With a ripped dress I am still from Des Moines and I never went to fashion school and I’m nearly old enough to be the mother of the youngest contestant here, had I been a teen, no a tween, mom. With a ripped dress I am waylaid in defending myself because I have momentarily lost my voice.

  But Zelda surprises me by speaking. “It’s not Robin’s fault! Fire me if you want, but you can’t hold this against her. That isn’t fair.”

  Hilaire looks at Zelda like she’s the roadkill. “You are a model. Models do not talk.” Now Hilaire addresses me. “Your dress should be strong enough to endure a fall.”

  Suddenly my voice returns and it’s chauffeured by my temper. “But it’s made from muslin!”

  “Still, if you’re stitching was strong, this would not happen.”

  “I disagree.” I tilt my chin. “I want ten minutes to repair the damage, and then you can judge me however you want.” I square my shoulders and using false bravado, stare down at Hilaire and at the other two other judges.