Free The Standout by Laurel Osterkamp Page B

the words just fall out. “This morning my brother was like, ‘call me after you get kicked off.’ He was trying to be nice, but after I thought about it, I’m annoyed that he thinks so little of my chances.” I lower the dress straps from her shoulders and then I’m tugging it all the way off her. Zelda crosses her arms over her chest in modesty. “And I almost didn’t come at all, because my life is like a Lifetime movie lately, and my fiancé is all, ‘you’d be pissed if I told you to stay,’ so of course I came even though I’m paranoid that a dead woman is following me. And now Hilaire hates me and I postponed my wedding. So I can’t get kicked off first. I just can’t.”
    “I get it.” Zelda says. I take my eyes off the stitching for a second and look at her face instead. “I mean,” she wavers, “I get what it’s like to feel pressure, to not know if you’re making the right choice, like everyone is judging you and everything is at stake. So I won’t mess up again. I promise I’ll make your dress float down the runway exactly how it’s supposed to.”
    “Thanks,” I tell her, but I’m more grateful that she listened to my tirade than I am for her promise. “Come on, let’s put this back on you. There’s not much time left.”
    I refit Zelda into the dress and practically push her back onto the runway. She makes it down and back, and both my dress and my model survive without falling apart.
    After every designer’s piece has been seen, Hilaire and the judges tally the scores. Then they call all the models onto the stage, turn up the house lights, and tell the designers to stand next to their models.
    “You did great,” I say to Zelda, patting her hand.
    “If I call your name, please step forward,” Hilaire says. “Amos. Simon. Casey. Nadia. Elliot. Tara.” Half of the designers have now stepped forward, and the other half, including me, are still in the back. Hilaire pauses and suspense drips from the air. “If I called your name, congratulations. Your score was high enough to qualify you to be a contestant on this season of The Standout .”
    The chosen six let out a whoosh of relief and they are excused back to the workroom.
    Once they’re gone, Hilaire addresses those who are left. “The rest of you represent the highest and the lowest scores. One of you will win this challenge, and two of you will be out.”

Chapter 19
    Standing up there, waiting for Hilaire to declare my fate, is like ingesting an acid that eats away at my soul. I can speak from experience on this, because once I had food poisoning, and the stomach cramps that followed made me want to die.
    But anyway, I don’t get kicked out.
    Only because the judges decided that two other designers were more of a disaster than me. One couldn’t seem to muster the enthusiasm required for the show. He shrugged when Hilaire asked him why he made a shapeless sundress as his signature look, and his garment swathed him in defeat. The other designer had “taste issues.” Her ensemble barely covered her model’s crotch and she had actually tie dyed her muslin. Hilaire said it was part Grateful Dead, part “I Wish I Was Dead.”
    So, hooray, I’m officially on the show! But I sort of wish I could go home, curl up into a ball, and mumble all my woes into the curve of Nick’s neck. I’d tell him that I was put on the bottom, because the “crafting” of my dress was “poor”, how Thomas Craig, one of the judges, joked that my dress looked like the apron for a sexy maid costume, and the other judge, Evie Messina, said the execution was stiff. Meanwhile, Hilaire questioned my vision, implying that I don’t have one.
    And I wasn’t allowed to defend myself or tell them my dress looked a million times better before it was ripped, because that would be making excuses while I’m supposed to be grateful for their critique.
    Now I’m in the apartment that I share with three other contestants: Nadia, Casey, and Tara.