The Standout by Laurel Osterkamp

Everything is shiny, like living in an Ikea showroom, with white walls and furniture and red accents. There are no televisions or computers allowed, and the bedrooms have two single beds each. I’m bunking with Casey, who is twenty-five and from LA. She strikes me as the bohemian, granola type.
    Casey unpacks her bag, which is full of soft, flowing blouses with cords that have little bells tied at the end, and skirts that will touch the floor when she wears them, because they’re long and her legs are short. “Where did you go to design school?” she asks in a husky, musical sort of voice that reminds me of an oboe.
    I try to make myself comfortable and recline on the bed but the mattress is stiff, and there’s only one thin pillow. “I went to Hoyt College, in Iowa, where I majored in theater. I worked in the costume shop all through school. But basically, when it comes to design, I’m self-taught.”
    “Ahh, that’s awesome.” Casey hangs a paisley blouse in her closet. “Good for you.”
    Gabe, the cameraman, is in the corner of our small little bedroom, probably looking for some conflict that can be blown out of proportion through clever editing. I smile. “What about you, Casey? Where did you study?”
    “California College of Arts, in San Francisco.”
    “Wow, I bet that was great.”
    “Yeah, you know.” The musicality of her voice turns nasally. “It was the right move for me, learning design theory. I want my work to have a strong foundation before I venture off into my own style.” She’s done unpacking, so she sits on the bed and a smile teases the corners of her mouth. “I know that’s not for everyone. Some people are better off, just doing their own thing. But we can’t all be celebrities, right?”
    It takes me a moment to catch her drift. I’m the celebrity here, which supposedly affords me the option of ignoring fashion fundamentals. And while my first instinct is to get annoyed, Casey has a point.
    I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for my reality-show past.
    “Well, I almost got kicked off today, and I’m really not much of a celebrity, so I wouldn’t worry about me having any sort of advantage.”
    “Oh! No, I wasn’t.” She laughs.
    Should I turn snarky? My reality-show past tells me no. No snarkiness allowed.
    I get up to use the bathroom. After I splash my face with cold water and rub some of Casey’s stress-relieving essential oil on my temples, I come back out. Gabe has lowered his camera and he and Casey are laughing about something. They turn and their faces fall when they hear me enter the room.
    Clearly their joke isn’t intended for me. I’m only surprised at how quickly and completely I feel like an outsider.
    The next morning our call is at 6:30 AM. Jim and Hilaire meet us at the Metropolitan Ballet, where there is a special, ten minute performance for us of Swan Lake .
    A beautiful ballerina in a white tutu dances mournfully while a misty background hangs behind her. She twirls and stretches, defying normal human movement, and a guy in black tights and a white satin tunic comes out and joins her. He lifts her over his shoulder, so her back is pressed against him and her arms are toward the ceiling. They spin like figure skaters, only the ice is merely in our imagination. But the longing they communicate is also icy, like they want each other but know it’s impossible.
    Or at least, I think that’s it. I could really use some coffee.
    The whole thing is being filmed of course, but the cameras are focused as much on us, sitting in the audience, as they are on the dancers. When the pas de deux is over, the prima ballerina curtsies and we jump to our feet in a standing ovation. Then Jim Giles, who is dressed in an impeccably tailored light grey suit, and Hilaire, who is wearing a black tutu dress (which she can totally pull off) enter the stage.
    “Bonjour à tous!” she cries, “Good morning, designers! And congratulations! You have all survived the initial