Free The Standout by Laurel Osterkamp

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.