Charlotte Cuts It Out (22 page)

We are so legendary that we become the standard by which first place is judged in upcoming years.

9 days to the Winter Style Showcase

Wednesday morning, Ms. Garrett calls Shelby and me up to her desk. “I got a phone call yesterday from Anita Worthington at Allegiance.” Ms. Pink Pants? How does she know Ms. G? Turns out, actually, that she doesn't. “She wanted to tell the head of the cos program about the fund-raiser for the pediatric oncology department and how she found you, Charlotte. Pretty impressive. Way to represent ATC cos!” She holds up her hand, and I high-five her with a smile.

This is great—but I have no idea why Shelby's here, too. Ms. G goes on: “Apparently the idea has gotten such a positive response that Mrs. Worthington wants to make sure she has more than one stylist there.” She looks at me. “I guess Lydia backed out?” I nod. I don't tell her that I didn't give Lydia a choice. “She asked me to recommend another conscientious, trustworthy student.” Now she looks at Shelby. “And I thought of you. Are you interested?”

She starts telling Shelby the details, but all I can think is
Why? Why would Ms. Garrett do this to me?
She knows Shelby
is my biggest competition in the showcase. It's bad enough that she has Gabriella—and my ideas. Now she can see my “mad skills” up close, and be able to copy them.

Before I can object, Shelby says, “Of course! I'd love to!” The next thing I know, she's at Ms. G's computer, filling in the paperwork. A few clicks later, it's a done deal. I'll be spending next Saturday night with Shelby Cox.

“Thanks, Ms. Garrett,” she says before returning to her seat. “And, thanks, Charlotte. I'm really looking forward to this.”

I nod with a tight smile.
Yeah, I bet you are.
She already has my best dress idea. Why does she need to grab my service project, too?

When I get to work that afternoon, Hannah has a huge smile on her face. I don't think I've ever seen her smile, at least not like this. “What's up?” I ask.

Nina says, “Charlotte, I'm so glad you're here. I'm pooped. I need a nap before class tonight.” She hugs Hannah. “I'm so excited for you. See you later.”

“Sleep tight. Thanks for everything.”

“No problem.” As I stand there, baffled, Nina grabs her coat and purse from the back. “I'm glad it all worked out,” she says as she leaves.

“Me too.”

Once Nina's gone, I ask Hannah, “What worked out?”

“Everything.” There's the smile again. “Nina convinced
me to call my mom.” A customer comes up, and Hannah stops mid-explanation to wait on her. She does everything right. Maybe she's going to work out after all.

“Sounds like it went okay,” I say when she's done.

“It's better than okay.” She's practically bouncing. “I gave your dad my two-week notice today. I'm moving back to Ohio by Christmas!”

“Moving? Really?” Just when I'd adjusted to her—and maybe even started to like her a little—she's leaving. What are we supposed to do now? Nina's about to have the baby, so she'll be off work for months. That leaves just me and Katie, which translates to just me. What a disaster!

“What's the matter?” She pulls out an almost-empty container of cranberry salad. “I figured you, of all people, would be thrilled.”

“Nothing. Yeah, well, no. I mean . . .” What do I mean? A few weeks ago, if Hannah had quit, not only would I have been happy, but probably a few dollars richer, since I bought up a bunch of squares in the pool. But getting to know her and her story—she's just a tired, overextended mom, not a slacker party girl—has changed things. I was just getting to know her, and now I won't have the chance. “I'm glad you're working things out with your family, but—well, I've just gotten you trained so that you're not a total liability.”

Hannah laughs. “If I didn't know better, I'd think you're going to miss me.”

“Maybe I am, okay?” I snap.

“Wonders never cease,” she says as she refills the
cranberry salad. “Can you do my hair before I go?”

We're scheduling a time to do it—the Monday afternoon before Christmas—when Mom texts me to come to the office ASAP. We're not too busy, so I do.

“What's up?” I ask before I realize that she's on the phone.

She motions for me to stay put, says good-bye to whoever it is, hangs up, and says, “We have a slight situation. Don't say a word until I'm finished telling you about it.”

Already this is not looking good.

“Oliver's on his way to Detroit. The Red Wings are playing tonight.”

Right. Nina said she had birthing class. It's
that
night. The class he needs to miss, so Mom is standing in.

“Nina needs someone to go to class with her.” I raise my eyebrows. “That was work on the phone. All hell is breaking loose. I thought the study was done, but the reports are contradictory, so we need to meet tonight to figure it out. Otherwise, there will be major lawsuits—” She stops mid-explanation. “Anyway, long story short: I can't go.”

“I already said I couldn't do it. And I already served my time, remember?” I plant my hands on my hips.

“First, yes, you did. Second, you ‘served time' for talking back. I
do
remember.” Mom stands now. She means business. “Hannah said she'd do it.”

“Great. So what's the ‘situation'?”

“In order to go, she needs a babysitter.” Mom cocks an eyebrow. “Which would you prefer—the class, or Caden?”

“None of the above.”

She glares at me as if that's not an option. I glare back.

“Charlotte, please.” Her tone is less
I'm begging you
and more
I've had enough.
When I still don't budge, she pulls out the big guns. “I'm going Christmas shopping next weekend. While my love is deep and unconditional, my generosity is not.”

“Blackmail? How unbecoming!” I hold my hand to my chest dramatically.

“I prefer the term
leverage,
” she says in a tone reminiscent of Marlon Brando in
The Godfather.

“Well played.”

“Thank you,” she says. “So you'll go?”

“Do I have a choice?” I ask, still trying to think of a loophole.

“You always have a choice,” she shoots back in a way that implies I don't—again, like Brando.

“I'm going back to work,” I say, turning to leave. I will not admit defeat. She knows I'll do it. That's enough.

“Thank you, sweetie. I love you.”

I'm not sure if I hate her or want to be her. I let the door slam behind me.

When I get in the car two hours later, Nina immediately says, “I'm sorry. I know you don't want to do this.”

“It's okay.” I try to sound sincere, but I suck at it.

The ride to the hospital is pretty awkward, but it's nothing compared to the looks I get when I walk into the
classroom with Nina. She introduces me and explains that Oliver has Red Wings tickets. Some of the dads and a couple of the moms say they'd rather be at the Joe with him. The laughter makes things a little less weird, but only slightly.

“Let's get started, shall we?” The instructor's voice is too even and gentle. While I'm sure she's trying to sound comfortable and reassuring, it just comes off as creepy to me. Her pajama-like gauze outfit and long, wispy gray hair aren't doing her any favors, either. I want to tell her that it would look thicker if she cut it, but I decide that's probably not her goal.

Everyone sits on the floor like kindergartners. Most of the women lean into their husbands. Nina and I are between a young woman and her mother—the only other “non-couple”—and a bearded guy whose belly is bigger than his wife's. We listen to the instructor drone on for over an hour about the stages of labor.

I knew it was an exhausting process—I've seen enough TV shows and movies—but she makes it sound terrifying. The early stage alone can take twenty-four hours. And that's only the beginning. The description of active labor and then its final part, transition, sounds like torture, not the “miracle” Ms. Smooth-talker refers to it as. Contractions coming closer and closer together, harder and harder, until eventually there is no break in between. And this excruciating pain could go on for hours!

There is no way I'm going through that—ever.

And while I do enjoy an extensive vocabulary, I could
have lived my entire life without learning the definitions of the words “effacement,” “dilation,” and “episiotomy.” By the time we get to the birth itself—and watch a movie depicting so much detail that I might need counseling to recover—all of the partners are in shock and the mothers-to-be are visibly panicking.

After the movie, the instructor clues in and switches gears. “We're going to practice the breathing exercises I introduced last week,” she says, “so, Moms, I'm going to ask you to find a comfortable position. You can recline against the foam wedges”—which are in a pile in the corner of the room—“or sit leaning forward, whichever puts less pressure on your pelvic bone.”

The other “birthing partners” and I collect a few wedges each and bring them back. Ugh. When was the last time these things were washed? Nina props them behind her to make a forty-five-degree angle and leans back.

“Partners, I'd like you to sit next to these beautiful women. I want you to breathe along with them. Take a deep cleansing breath. In, in, in through your nose. Fill those lungs.” Her arms extend out and then up in some sort of yoga ballet. I hear and feel all the air being sucked from the room. Is this what a cult is like? Nina breathes in and looks at me with desperate eyes; I quickly inhale and hold my breath.

“Now, release slowly through your mouth, letting go of the stresses of the day.” The dad next to me exhales a cloud
of chili-and-cigarette-smelling breath, jacking up my stress level. Is it nine o'clock yet?

After a few more “cleansing breaths”—frankly, toothbrushes and mouthwash would have been a better choice—the instructor tells us we're going to simulate how these techniques actually help with pain control. The moms are supposed to close their eyes or choose a focal point and concentrate on slow, deep breathing while we, the partners, squeeze their knees, lightly at first and then harder and harder until we're squeezing as hard as we can.