The Standout (20 page)

Yuri smiles and his eyes widen. “I like peanut spread. Do you like it too?”

“Peanut butter? Yeah, sure.”

Yuri glances at Julie in question and she points him to the right shelf. Then she takes a bold sip of her steaming coffee and glares at me.

“What?” I ask.

“You really want all those calories?”

I sit on a stool by the island in her kitchen. “I’m hungry. Coffee isn’t enough for me.”

She snorts. “Really? What is enough for you, Zelda? Tell me.”

Yuri has found the peanut butter and he goes to the toaster, checking on the bagel’s progress.

“Never mind,” Julie says, before I can interpret her question, let alone answer it. “My parents will be home tonight, so you both need to find somewhere else to stay.”

She walks away, clearly pissed. Yuri takes the bagel out of the toaster, oblivious to any tension. He spreads it with peanut butter and offers me half. “Delicious,” he says, talking through a bite. “Do you agree?”

“Sure,” I respond, chewing slowly. But honestly, I can’t decide if it’s the best bagel I’ve ever eaten, or the worst.

Later, we’re at Ballet Institute East, before class. Yuri is stretching in the middle of the floor. I swear his muscles are made from rubber bands and there are secret suction cups on the bottom of his feet. He grabs his left ankle, and with his leg perfectly straight, he raises it up to his ear; he makes it look as easy as breathing.

“Where will you go?” Yuri asks.

I try not to stare in awe. Instead I press my toe shoes into the wooden floor, limbering up my arches. “I suppose I’ll go back home.”

I’m already dreading the apologies I’ll be required to give to my mother, and the conditions to which I’ll have to comply. “But if she says I can’t do
The Standout
then I’m not staying. I’ll be homeless.” I laugh although, really, it’s not funny. “What about you, Yuri? Do you have a place?”

He nods. “I share with four other peoples, but room is very small for so many. I have mattress on floor, part of closet and that is all.”

“Well, at least you can stay with Julie some of the time. I think it’s great that you two are together.”

“I like Julie.” Yuri somehow lowers his leg while looking deep into my eyes. The boy has skills. “But we are not together, like how you say. We have fun. Julie knows we are for fun.”

Just then, Julie comes prancing out, her pink ballet skirt fluttering like a butterfly wing. She doesn’t seem angry anymore and she squeezes one of Yuri’s very firm butt cheeks. “Hey, Babe,” she coos. Julie’s face is flushed with pride and pleasure. Her smile can’t be contained, and it reminds me of when she was cast as the Sugar Plum Fairy over all the other girls in fourth form.

“Are we going out after class?” she asks both of us. “We should go dancing at Murmur. I hear it’s really hot.”

For Julie, it’s about winning. It’s about being chosen by the sexy, straight guy that all the other girls want. It’s about the glee of ownership. So she doesn’t mind having me around, because that way I can be an audience member, a witness to their relationship.

I shrug, feigning indifference. “You have to be twenty-one to get in. Besides, tomorrow is the first day for
The Standout
. I want to get a good night’s sleep.”

And I need to figure out where that sleep will be.

“But you do not sleep,” Yuri says. “You dance at night, yes?”

“Huh?” Julie glares at me, her temper on the brink of explosion.

“You were asleep,” I tell her. “Last night, Yuri and I were both awake and we talked about how we dance when we have insomnia.”

“Then we did dance,” Yuri adds, and I want to hit him. “Zelda choreographs ballet to trumpets. It was very special.”

I’m a fish, floundering and squirming, wishing to be thrown back into the ocean. “It wasn’t anything. It’s not like we practiced lifts, or—”

“Don’t be such a freak, Zelda.” Julie laughs a little too loudly and gives Yuri a proprietary back rub. “I don’t care if you two were dancing.” She wraps her arms around him, so his back is pressed into her chest, her chin resting on his shoulder so she can speak to me, “But don’t worry about tonight. Yuri and I can go, just the two of us.”

Yuri gives me a smile of apology, and then—Oh God—a wink that Julie does not see. He turns toward her and kisses her on the nose while I hold back my barf.

“Yes, we will go,” he says. “Just two of us.”

It’s dinner time. I came straight home, right after class because I might need several hours to smooth things over before I can crawl into bed in hopes of a good night’s sleep. Our apartment is quiet, dark, and cold.

It’s like nobody has been around to use electricity. It’s like one of those silly horror movie scenes. It’s like when the young girl walks unwittingly into a room with a monster.

“Mom?”

No answer. I walk down the hall, towards Mom’s bedroom, flicking on every light as I go. Her door is ajar. I slowly open it and peer inside.

“Mom?” My voice is soft this time.

Silence. There’s a mom-sized lump lurking underneath her covers, so I sit on the edge of the bed. My pulse is pounding in my ears, which is silly. She’s probably just taking a nap.

But Mom never naps. Naps are for the weak, she says.

With a tentative hand, I shake her shoulder. She grunts, turns over, and opens her eyes. “Zelda?” she rasps, not trusting her eyes.

She’s alive and I’m relieved enough to breathe. “Are you okay, Mom?”

“He won’t return my calls, Zelda. I don’t know what to do. I gave up everything and now he’s casting me aside.”

In the dim light her face looks greyish and sweaty. I place my palm against her forehead and my heart skips a beat. “Mom, you’re burning up. How long have you been sick?”

“Don’t know,” she mumbles, and her eyes flicker shut.

I go to the kitchen and call my dad. His voicemail picks up. There’s no point leaving a message because he won’t call me back. I look in the cabinets for soup but we don’t have any, so I walk to the corner market, where I find Gatorade and Campbell’s chicken-noodle. That’s what Mom always gave me whenever I had a fever.

She lets me feed her and I give her Tylenol, and by the end of the evening she’s better. We don’t talk about tomorrow, when I’ll abandon her again. Instead, we watch
Casablanca
on the TV in her bedroom, but she falls asleep before Humphrey Bogart tells Ingrid Bergman to get on that plane, so I turn off the television, get into my pajamas, and climb into my own bed. I’m wide awake, anxious, and staring at my ceiling in the dark.

The next morning I slip out of the apartment before Mom wakes. I walk to
The Standout
with a spring in my step and a rock in my stomach. I’ve heard that modeling is even more cutthroat than ballet.

At least being Julie’s friend has thickened my skin.

I tell myself that I need this.
Forget about how scared you are. Just remember the fun; remember the paycheck; remember that you’re doing this with Julie.

Julie.

She and I were supposed to show up for the first day together, but she texted me earlier.
Crazy night. Yuri is an animal. Don’t wait for me.

I texted her back:
You’re still coming, right?

She never replied.

I enter the lobby of The Clarkson School of Design. The lady behind the desk tells me to go up a floor and into the last door on the left. I find a room full of models and there’s no way I can be one of them. My tongue feels large in my mouth, swollen, and so does my heart. Some of the girls here are from Ballet Institute East, but we’re not friends; we just tolerate each other. There are also girls I don’t recognize and they are so gorgeous that I can feel myself diminishing next to them.

At least I’m moving and acting like a person.

“Excuse me,” I address a beautiful, brown-skinned girl with huge, mud puddle eyes and red finger nails like bloody talons. “Are you here for
The Standout
?”

She doesn’t snarl, or spit, or even make a face. “Yeah.” She points to a rack of shiny black slips. “You’re supposed to change into one of those.”

“Thanks.” I pigeon walk over, feeling like I’m inching along a precipice, and I find a slip with a notecard that says
Zelda
pinned to it. And since other girls are getting dressed and undressed right here, I do the same.

Where is Julie? I look at my phone probably hundreds of times even though there’s no possible way I could have missed a text from her. But the minutes tick by and she doesn’t show. We’re lined up backstage and the production assistant, who is wearing headphones, waits for some cue before she motions us forward and tells us to go. I’m fifth in line.

I hear a door open. “Thank God,” I say, rushing forward and leaving my spot. “Where have you been?”

“I told you I’d be here,” she growls. I take a step back.

“Um, actually, you didn’t and I wasn’t sure if you were okay.”

“I’m fine. Stop being such a drama queen, Zelda.” She somehow knows where she’s supposed to stand and goes there. I do the same. The girl wearing headphones motions towards me.

It’s my turn. I suck in my stomach and lift my chin. I try to recall why I ever thought I could do this. Then I remember; it was Julie. Julie made me believe I was capable of being a model.

When we are all on stage, one by one we’re assigned a designer. My designer is named Robin. She’s tall and blond and she could be a model herself, except her face is too open, too distinct. Once we get backstage, into the workroom, she fits me into this incredible dress. It’s made of muslin, which I guess is the cheapest fabric ever, but the way she sewed it, it’s like a silk evening gown. Robin’s forehead has these deep creases as she stitches. Her jaw clenches more with each pin that she removes from between her teeth.

“You seem really nervous,” I say. “Don’t worry; your dress is the best one here.” I look around the workroom and mean what I say. Julie is wearing a black cocktail dress, which is cool but not very original. Somebody else is wearing a biker chic sort of outfit, and another girl looks like Elsa from
Frozen
. None of the dresses compare to the one I have on.

Robin smiles through gritted teeth. “I’m having a really weird day,” she says. “I mean, weird besides being on a reality show.” She looks up and sees a camera looming over us. “I thought I’d be used to all this, but I’m not.”

“I don’t understand. Why would you be used to it after less than a day?” Everything about Robin—from her long, capable fingers to her intense focus over this dress—makes me feel like a kid, like I should be sipping a juice box before recess.

She raises both eyebrows. “I was on
The Holdout
before.”

“Oh.” My cheeks warm. I should know who she is. I’ve heard of that survival show but I’ve never actually watched it. “That’s cool. Did you win?”

“Nope.” She tugs on the hem of my dress, checking to see if it’s even on both sides.

“Better luck this time, huh?” My stupid giggle-grunt combo embarrasses us both. “I love the dress,” I offer, hoping I sound sincere, since I am.

“Thanks.” She takes a deep breath. “Why do all the other girls here wear their hair back, in buns?” she asks.

I explain it to her, and soon, Jim Giles comes in and tell us it’s time. There’s a flood of activity and heightened voices. The designers make final adjustments on their masterpieces and we’re all herded into place. I worry that my guts are exploding so vigorously that they’ll seep through my skin and stain this amazing gown.

Robin smiles and squeezes my hand before she leaves me backstage. “Be brave, Zelda.” So I try.

The runway lights are blinding. I keep my shoulders back, like I’m about to sweep my torso in an arc-like motion, but I stay upright, relying on the beauty of the dress for confidence.
You must rock the dress
, I tell myself.
Just play some trumpet music in your head and feel free, like you’re jumping from somewhere high.

One foot in front of the other. It’s the longest walk of my life. At the halfway point, I pivot and it’s all downhill from here. But I’m used to ballet slippers, not platforms, and I snag the toe of my shoe against the floor. I go flying, and the lights surrounding me are an endless crest of nothingness as the darkness bottoms out. It only takes a second to fall but it feels like an eternity. And when I land on my knees and palms, I hear the appalling rip of fabric.

I wish to melt, to disappear, to find a teleportation device and use it. Somehow I keep functioning, I’m not sure how, and I’m not really conscious of what I do or say until Hilaire’s voice cuts into my brain.

“We can’t judge a ripped dress.” She says it in this spiteful, happy way.

Words eject from my mouth like a broken DVD. “It’s not Robin’s fault! Fire me if you want, but you can’t hold this against her. That isn’t fair.”

Hilaire glances at me. “You are a model. Models do not talk.”

My mouths drops open before I clamp it shut.

Sonofabitch.

I’m used to being silent. Models don’t talk and neither do ballerinas: that’s what’s wrong with me, with my life, with my world.

I need to use my voice.

My first day of
The Standout
is finally over. I’m exhausted but I rush out before they can fire me.

Once I’m safely on the sidewalk outside of Clarkson School of Design, I search my overstuffed bag for my cell phone. It’s wedged between a pack of chewing gum and some Chapstick. I find three texts from Mom.

5:12: When are you coming home?

5:38: Zelda, we need to talk about your participation in this show. I still do not approve.

5: 56: Have you talked to your father recently? Did he mention Janice?

I drop my phone into my bag, wishing I could hurl it to the ground. Mom always gets clingy right when I’m trying to assert my independence. But if dad is leaving her for real this time, then I’m terrible for not being more sympathetic.

“Zelda?”

The Russian inflection of my name makes me jump. I turn towards him, semi-air borne, which has to be comical. It’s no wonder that Yuri laughs. “All right?” he asks, but it sounds like “alvight.”