Free The Standout by Laurel Osterkamp Page A

“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 she 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.
    Hilaire narrows her almond shaped eyes. “You give me permission to do what I am already able to do, whenever I wish.” But she then turns her head, lowers her voice, and confers with the other judges.
    “Fine.” Hilaire says. “We will take a ten minute break. You can use that time to mend the dress, and afterwards, your model will walk down the runway again.”
    “Thank you,” I say, doing my best to sound reticent. I grab Zelda’s hand and pull her to the workroom. Within an instant I am assessing the damage, sticking pins in my mouth and then into Zelda.
    “Okay, take this off,” I tell her. “I need to use a machine.”
    “I really am sorry,” Zelda murmurs.
    I shake my head and