Charlotte Cuts It Out (3 page)

In this very place, in fact.

When I was little, Grandma used to run the deli/bakery. But when she got sick and chemo took its toll on her, she hired Patti. Those first few months—the summer after Lydia and I had finished third grade—whenever Patti couldn't get a sitter, she'd bring Lydia to work with her. Those were the best days, because it gave me a break from stacking cans on the lower shelves or helping Ralph pull expired products from the dairy case. Instead, Lyd and I would braid each other's hair and play hide-and-seek in the meat cooler. We were the only kids we knew who played house in a grocery store. We've been best friends ever since.

Lydia!
Of course! I call her cell. “Where are you?” I ask
before she can even finish saying hello. I hear music blaring.

“On my way home.” She turns down the radio. “Why? What's wrong?”

“I have a pastry emergency.”

“Be right there.” She hangs up without another word. Except unlike Nina's, Lydia's hanging up is comforting.

I pace the entire ten minutes it takes for her to get here, on the verge of tears the whole time. Extension-lady walks past the counter three times, glaring. I would hide in the back, but I have customers. I slice a pound of honey ham for Dr. Pinson, scoop three containers of cranberry salad for Mr. Rehberg, and make a turkey and Swiss sandwich on white bread for our cashier Barb, who tells me about the time she dropped a cake on the floor while putting it in the cart, as if her story is supposed to comfort me. Finally, Lydia bursts through the automatic doors like a paramedic rushing into the ER. “I'm here! What's the problem?”

Within minutes, her hair's pulled back, she's gloved, and she has the cake frosted and the pastry bags loaded. I watch every step carefully. She whips out the flowers and the fancy script as if she's writing with a marker.

“Wow!” I knew she had skills from working with her mom all these years, but this is beyond good. “It looks amazing! You want a job?”

“Grassy ass.” Lydia's sarcastic
gracias.
She laughs. “But I have my hands full with school and the bakery.” She slips the cake into the box and sets it on the counter, just as
extension-lady returns to pick it up. The woman doesn't say a word. She just loads it into her cart with her other groceries and wheels away.

“Have a nice day!” I call. No response. I turn back to Lydia. “Come on, work here. It'll be like old times.”

“No way!” she says, much too quickly. “No offense, but there's no way in hell I'd work for you.”

“Just because you start off saying ‘no offense' doesn't mean that what follows is any less offensive.” I shake my head. “Whoa! That sounded way too much like my mother. Anyway, you'd be working for Dad, not me.”

“Yeah, right.” She stacks the icing bowls in the sink. “I know better. No way, no how, no thanks.”

I raise an eyebrow, trying not to be offended. “So I take it the answer is no?”

She laughs, and it breaks the tension.

“Well, if you ever change your mind . . .”

“Trust me, I won't.” She peels off her plastic gloves and tosses them in the garbage. “I've got a lot of homework to do. I'd better get going.” She grabs her purse and coat.

“Hey, Lyd.” She turns back, and I say, “Thanks. You saved me.”

Her face softens. “No problem. I've always got your back.”

“Same here.”

“I know.” And she's gone.

When I get home, our Newfoundland, Buffy, is lying in a puddle. It isn't pee, though. She “swims” in her water dish, paddling waves onto the floor with her gigantic front paws whenever she's bored. Since Mom's been gone all day, she must have had nothing to do.

“C'mon, Buffy.” I hold the door open to let her out. Only her eyes move. She looks at me and then back down. I jingle the bells that hang from the doorknob—her signal that she needs to go out. Still nothing. I bend down and yank on her collar, but since she weighs a good fifteen or twenty pounds more than I do, all of my pulling is pointless.

She looks at me as if to say, “Is that all you've got?”

I let out an annoyed sigh and give up, even though I know she needs to go out.

As usual, there's a list on the counter. Before I turn to it, I fill Buffy's bowl with kibble. Some of it bounces out and scatters across the floor. “C'mon, Buffy,” I coax her. “Yummy lamb and rice nuggets stuffed with cornmeal filler and
topped with preservatives. Mmmm!” Her head drops back down to the floor.

When she was a puppy, it took everything I had to keep her from knocking me over when I fed her. Now it takes everything I have just to get her to eat. I swear that she's just trying to get to me. Nobody else agrees. Mom always says that I've spoiled her by giving her attention when she doesn't eat, that the vet says she's healthy—a bit overweight, but healthy—and that maybe she should skip a meal or two. Pops says it's because she's getting old and slowing down, like he is, and eating is just a hassle. Dad agrees that she
is
just like Pops, but that they're not old, just obstinate. Oliver says that's what makes Buffy a Pringle. I say that that's exactly what I said—she's just being difficult—and then the whole conversation starts over again, with each of us explaining that's
not
what we meant.

Maybe she'll eat if I put some yogurt in her food. I wave the spoon at her so she can get a whiff. Then I stir it, scraping the yogurt and kibble around until each piece is evenly coated.

She doesn't seem the slightest bit interested. I move the bowl right in front of her, so she can eat without getting up. Still nothing.

“Whatever, Buff. I don't even care.” Even though she and I both know that I do.

I pick up Mom's checklist. There's also a manila envelope marked
Some things to consider.
Knowing Mom, I'm guessing
it has something to do with college. She's been relentless lately, pushing for me to go to a four-year university instead of a local college. I'm not even sure I need any college, since Lydia and I already have business experience and mentors. Adding an associate's degree to the Grand Plan was a compromise—give Mom an inch and she pushes for a mile. I set the envelope aside until after I start dinner.

First on the list is to put the chicken in the oven
.
Got it. Done. Easy.

Next is to assemble a casserole. Mom's already chopped the veggies and put them in the fridge. I read over the printed recipe she included. The steps are confusing and require me to sauté. What does that even mean? I'm not an Iron Chef! This is not assembly; this is
cooking.
Since all the ingredients end up in the same dish eventually, I decide to just mix them up and let the oven work it out—except for the mushrooms and onions, of course, because they're gross. I throw those in the garbage, where they belong. Then I cover the casserole dish with foil, put it in the oven, grab my list and the manila envelope, and head down to the basement.

Next on the list is laundry. I empty the dryer and fold the towels, sewn edge against sewn edge, in half and in half again and then in thirds. Then I stack them in the basket. Neat. Perfect. It's relaxing, like rolling a perm—even and methodical. Lydia doesn't understand why I like it so much. At her house they fold laundry any which way, edges crooked and uneven, slapped together haphazardly. What's the point of folding if the result isn't aesthetically pleasing?

I pull clothes out of the washer, hang up my favorite shirt carefully, and wince at my mother's jeans. She needs something more updated. These jeans are a serious style crime.

After I clean out the lint trap and start the dryer, I go back to the checklist and the manila envelope. I finally peek inside. Sure, enough—college pamphlets.

When Lydia and I announced in eighth grade that we were going to do the cos program, Mom was less than thrilled. She pretty much said that by the time eleventh grade came around, we'd change our minds. We didn't.

She had a huge attitude at the welcome meeting, which was held last year during the final week of tenth grade. We'd already taken our skills tests and had our interviews with both the staff and the graduating seniors. We, the chosen twenty-four soon-to-be juniors, had received our acceptance letters and were “invited”—along with our parents—to the mandatory informational meeting.

That's when it hit Mom that this was real, that we weren't just playing around. All week she tried to get me to change my mind. First, she talked about all the classes Oliver loved in high school and how sad it'd be for me to miss out on them. Then she mentioned how hard it would be to start at a new school halfway through.

Finally, as we were on our way to the meeting, she said, “There was a report on NPR about how people with college degrees earn a million dollars more in their careers than their less educated counterparts.”

“Did they give sources for the data? You of all people
know how often studies are skewed just to prove a hypothesis.” I threw Mom's statistical background at her. She didn't say another word.

That is, until we were at the meeting and Ms. Garrett said, “Completing our program, students earn up to thirty-four college credits, so those who wish to continue their education already have a head start.”

Then Mom perked up and nudged me. “Did you hear that? College credits!”

Ms. G continued by outlining what it takes to become state licensed and explaining that we would be eligible to take the tests immediately following graduation. “Many of our graduates use cosmetology as a temporary or even backup career. They get flexible salon jobs to help pay for college and go on to do something else if they choose.”

College credits
for
something else.
That's what she's held on to—and pushed—ever since.

I finally agreed to use the credits toward an associate's degree in business. But I have no intention of going further. What's the point?

I don't even look at the college pamphlets. Instead, the envelope goes into the recycling next to the dryer.

Back upstairs with my basketful of towels, I find Buffy lying in the same place, but her bowl is empty and licked clean, and every stray morsel from the floor is gone. She
was
hungry. I was right—she just messes with me to get her twisted canine jollies! I balance the basket on my hip and
open the back door, jingling the bell, so she can go out and do her business, but she still won't budge. I growl at her.

After the towels are put away, I inspect the tear in my skirt. It's not too bad. A few stitches and it'll be as good as new—after I redo my nails. I grab the polish remover, cotton balls, and my home mani kit, flop onto my bed, and turn on Bravo to catch an episode of
Tabatha's Salon Takeover
before I start on my homework. I remove Lydia's botched polish and, while I'm at it, I do my feet, too. I've already seen this episode—actually, I've seen them all—and taken mental notes on how
not
to run things.

Lydia and I are on the same page about pretty much everything having to do with our salon. It's going to be upbeat, professional, and welcoming. Thanks to Tabatha and Ms. G, we also realize how important continuing education is. We'll budget for hair shows every year to keep up with the latest styles and techniques.

Mom's idea of education is different from mine. I get why she's so insistent. She went to college right out of high school, so to her, college is the only door to success. She wants me to have the opportunity to do anything. I just wish she could see that
this
is what I want!

Just as my hands and feet are perfectly polished in Iridescent Iris with black and light-pink polka dots, I hear the bell on the back door jingle—and not a little, like it does when someone comes home. A lot, like Buffy, Her Majesty, has summoned me—pronto!

I jump up, careful not to smudge my nails, and hobble gingerly on my heels down the stairs. I smell the roasting chicken and realize that I'm really hungry. By the time I get to the kitchen, I expect to see Buffy circling the table, like she does when she needs to go out, but no, she's sprawled on the floor again. That can only mean one thing. Yup. She peed on the floor, right by the door—her way of letting me know that I didn't hurry fast enough. She glares at me imperiously.

“Buffy!” I yell. “Bad dog!” I try to project authority as I stomp across the kitchen, but I'm still waddling on my heels with fingers splayed. I'm about as badass as a penguin. She must realize that I mean it, though, because she lumbers to her feet and follows me. Ha! At least I'm an
emperor
penguin!

I grab the roll of paper towels off the holder and turn around—except instead of taking my next awkward step, I slip in Buffy's emptied water bowl puddle and land right on my butt with one foot underneath me. The other foot slides under the leg of the table and scrapes the hell out of my toes, smearing purple nail polish all over the table and floor, and probably my skirt and underwear, too.

I scream, partly in pain, but mostly in frustration, and try to get up. Instead, I slip again. My nail catches the rip in my skirt, tearing the zig from the zag along my thigh. So much for repairing it! Now I'm wearing a chevron dust rag, and my whole back is soaking up dog drool water. Buffy bends down and kisses my cheek, leaving behind a rope of slobber.

Right then, the back door bells jingle again and Oliver and Nina come into the kitchen. Buffy barrels between them, practically knocking Nina off her feet, to get outside.

“Ugh!” Oliver says, noticing the pee puddle, then follows Buffy out to lock the gate so she doesn't get into the street. Nina rushes over—as fast as a hugely pregnant woman can rush, that is—and yells, “Oh my God, Charlotte! Are you okay?”

This would be hilarious if it had happened to someone else. Lying on the floor soaking wet and slimy, I turn my head and see Nina's freshly French-tipped toes in black disposable salon flip-flops. Just seeing them sends me over the edge. Nina didn't leave work because of pregnancy exhaustion. She wanted a pedicure—from a salon, not from me. And here she is, all polished and pretty, standing by the smeared, slobbery mess that I'm lying—no, more like wallowing—in.

I scoot over and wipe my Buffy-slimed cheek across her perfect little pedi.

Nina screams. “Ew! What was that?”

Laughing, I tell her, grab the paper towels from the floor, and clean up the rest of the mess.

Just then, Oliver shows up. “I latched the—” He notices something is going on. “What the—?”

“She slobbered on me!”

“What?”

“Charlotte wiped slobber on my foot,” Nina says again, slowly.

Trying to process everything, Oliver keeps looking from Nina to me and asking her questions. Then she and Oliver argue about the cleanliness of a dog's mouth.

I toss out the paper towels and head back upstairs to do homework. On the way, I hear Oliver ask his phone if dog slobber is harmful to pregnant women. Even though I'm a total mess, the look on Nina's face was priceless. I can't wait to tell Lydia all about it.