Charlotte Cuts It Out (4 page)

By the time I get downstairs about an hour later, everyone is at the dinner table. The store must've been slow enough for Mike to handle alone, because Dad, Pops, and Ralph are here, too. Mom takes a bite of the broccoli rice casserole and almost instantly spits it into her napkin. “Charlotte.” One word and a single look. That's all it takes.

I stab a piece of chicken with my fork and transfer it to my plate. Nina picks at her roll and the salad that Mom must've made when she got home, and Oliver shovels food into his face obliviously.

Dad asks Ralph to pass the salt. Mom intercepts it and gives him the
Moose-you-know-you-shouldn't-eat-salt
look. Then Ralph flashes him the
Sorry-but-I-tried
look. Dad takes the salt and sprinkles it on his food anyway. He smiles at Mom and soothes her by complimenting her dinner and calling her Angel 3.14, his pet name for her, which means “Angel Pi(e).” Ugh. This is what you have to deal with when your parents met in Statistics 101.

Mom returns her attention to me. “You didn't follow the
recipe I left for you.” Translation:
You should do what I tell you—follow my instructions, look at those catalogs, forget hairdressing, and go to a prestigious university. Then you'll become something I can brag about.
Mom considers a hairdresser someone you hire, not something you become. No matter how often I tell her that
stylists
are
entrepreneurs
who dictate their own schedules and fees, she doesn't listen.

“I followed it for a while, but then I chose to forge my own path instead.” I take a roll and drop it onto my plate. It bounces off and onto the floor, which is not exactly the punctuation I was going for. Buffy nabs it.

“Sometimes tried-and-true methods are more palatable.” Mom primly pops a baby romaine leaf in her mouth.

I spoon some of the casserole onto my plate. “And sometimes they're pointless and boring.” Then I take a bite. It's really gross, but I swallow quickly and grin.

We can all hear what Nina whispers to Oliver. “Are they still talking about this rice stuff?”

Oliver replies, “Not exactly.”

He did what Mom wanted. He dual enrolled his last two years of high school, so when he graduated, he was able to finish college in only two years. Total waste of money, if you ask me. He'd be doing the same job at the store, with or without a degree.

He married Nina while they were both in college—Oliver was in his last semester, Nina in her first. Even though Nina quit school when she got pregnant, Mom still brags that “she'll be back at it as soon as the baby is weaned.” Who
knows if that's true—especially since Nina hadn't even declared a major yet—but Mom spins the brags her own way. Too bad she hasn't figured out how to make my cos career sound acceptable to her fancy friends from college yet.

“Did you look through everything I left for you?” Mom pushes away her empty plate—empty except for the casserole, of course.

“Everything except the manila envelope.” I grab another roll and take a bite. With my mouth full, I add, “Buffy peed on that.”

Pops coughs. Is he choking, or laughing? He takes a drink of water, then says, “Speaking of the rain in Spain.” He sets his glass down once he has our attention and has made his point—time to change the subject. “Did anyone catch
My Fair Lady
on AMC last night?”

Ralph takes another piece of chicken and passes the platter to Dad.

Mom isn't done, though. “Then you didn't see the itinerary for the college visits I set up for you?”

“It's a movie, Pops.” Dad grabs a drumstick and sets the platter down. “It's the same performance every time.”

“Nope,” I say to Mom. There's no need to visit colleges I'm not going to attend.

“Shows what you know.” Pops holds firm. “Movies change every time you watch them, depending on your mood and point of reference.”

Mom pulls out her phone. “I'll e-mail it to you then, so you can put it in your calendar.”

Or not.

“I liked
Breakfast at Tiffany's
better,” says Nina.

Mom hits Send. “Audrey Hepburn was at her best in
Sabrina,
” she says. Then she stands and starts stacking our dinner plates.

“Ah,
Sabrina
!” Pops beams. “Now
that
was a film!”

“Wasn't Rex Harrison in that, too?” asks Dad.

Pops shakes his head. “You're thinking of Harrison Ford. He was in the remake
.
” He might mix up the details of the day-to-day sometimes, but when it comes to anything before 1995, I'd bet the store on all he knows.

My phone pings—Mom's e-mail. Out of curiosity, I click on it. One date jumps out. March 21—the weekend of the Chicago hair show! Which I have already registered and paid for.

“Mom . . .”

She doesn't hear me because she's clearing the table and everyone is talking at once—about their favorite movies and who starred in them, and if there have ever been any remakes. I take a bite of chicken and wait for a lull, but instead Oliver blurts, “Charlotte slobbered on Nina today.” I swallow hard.

Everything stops. The chatter. The clearing. The last-minute chewing.

“Thanks, Oliver!” What an asshat! This is not the attention I was hoping for.

“Come again?” Pops asks. I'm guessing he thinks he heard wrong.

Oliver repeats himself. Then everyone looks at me.

“Get over it,” I say. “It was just a little dog drool. Once that baby is born, you'll both be covered in all sorts of grossness.”

“An infant can hardly be compared to a dog,” says Nina.

“I don't know,” I say. “Have you seen Oliver's baby pics? Woof!”

“All right,” Dad says. “What's done is done. Let's clean up and move on.
Some
of us need to get back to the store.” God bless Dad. He never takes sides.

“When are we going to hire someone to help in the deli/bakery?” Oliver asks.

Shut up, Oliver.
If I don't tell Mom about the scheduling conflict now, who knows when I'll get another chance.

“I'm working on it,” says Dad. “I should have someone within the week. Until then, it'd be nice if we all pulled together, huh?” He looks around the table at each of us, but gives me an especially meaningful look. Why me and not Nina? She's been practically running the place since Patti left. It's her responsibility. I know she's pregnant, but she's got two months to go. Lots of women work right up to their due date.

“Mom!” I yell louder than I intend, getting everyone's attention. She looks at me, eyebrows raised. “I have a conflict with one of the visits you set up. March twenty-first is the Chicago hair show. I already committed and paid—one hundred and seventy-five dollars. You signed the permission slip, remember?”

“No, I don't, but that doesn't matter.” Mom brushes me off like crumbs on the table. “Scouting colleges is integral to your future. I'd say it's more important than some hair show, wouldn't you? I'm sure we can get your money back once we explain the situation. I'll talk to your teacher.”

“No, Mom!” I'm nearly in tears. “I've already reserved my spot. It's too late to back out. I'm going to be a stylist. The biggest hair show of the year is much more integral to my future, especially after I win the showcase and get interviewed for the TV and newspaper.”

Ralph changes the subject. “TV and newspaper?” He seems impressed.

“Yes.” I jump on Ralph's curiosity and use it to plead my case. “The winner of the winter style showcase will be on the news—practically a local celebrity—the next day. Once I win, there's no way I can blow off the hair show. It would be like a slap in the face to my instructors, who work so hard for us to succeed in our chosen entrepreneurial field.”

It's clear that Ralph is trying not to laugh at how hard I'm working my angle.

My mother, however, is unimpressed. “It's a long shot. Your school's pretty competitive. Lots of talent. I'm sure plenty of people want to win that showcase.”

Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom.
“But
I'll
win,” I say.

Dad winks at me. “Confidence is key, kiddo.”

“And what am I supposed to tell your grandmother?” Mom asks, picking up the silverware. “I have it all set up for you to stay with her that weekend.”

“Tell her the truth,” I say. “There's a conflict. Isn't that what you were going to tell Ms. Garrett?”

Mom and I glare at each other, neither of us willing to budge.

Ralph leans into Pops. “I smell an opportunity.”

Oliver sniffs dramatically. “Oh, yeah! A bet! Now we're talking.”

Nobody cares about a disagreement—until there's a wager on it. Then everyone's interested and wants in on the action.

“What are the terms?” Ralph asks. Dad grabs a sheet of paper and a pen from the buffet and hands them to Ralph.

“Simple. If Charlotte wins the showcase, she can go to the hair show,” Oliver says. “If she doesn't, off to Grandmother's she goes. Lucky you,” he says to me.

“Let's up the ante a bit.” Dad taps the table. “If Charlotte places—first, second, or third—she can go . . .”

Mom tries to object, but Dad reminds her how competitive and talented my school is, so she backs down. “And if she comes in first, she can choose her own career path, including college.” He's looking right at Mom. She's fuming. I love it. Way to go, Dad!

“So if she doesn't place in the top three, she does what I want her to do?” Mom clarifies.

Dad looks at me, and I nod. I'm not worried, because I'm going to win. I can barely contain myself. Not only will I win and be on the news, but I'll also have Mom off my back. Bonus!

“So it's settled, then,” says Ralph. Then he recaps the terms, writes them down on a legal pad, and drafts a pool so everyone can place their bets. Wagers need to choose my exact place. The higher I place, the higher the buy-in for the square, which will weed out the dollar warriors. This is gearing up for high stakes—not only is it the highest buy-in in Pringle history, but my entire future is on the line.

Either I look nervous or Dad realizes how serious this has become, because before Mom and I sign the terms agreement, he asks, “Are you sure you want to do this?” He's probably also worried about being caught in the middle if one of us reneges.

Mom takes the pen and signs her name. Then she hands the pen to me with a sly smile, gathers a pile of dishes, and heads to the kitchen. She's sure she's going to win, which makes me even more determined.

“Charlotte, you don't have to.” Dad puts his hand over the paper. “I'll talk to your mom. I'm sure we can work out a compromise, where you can go to the hair show and visit your grandmother another time.”

Is Dad just trying to keep peace or does he doubt me, too? Even if we could work something out, Mom will still be on my case about college and every other life decision. It needs to stop now. And winning the showcase is the way to do it.

I move Dad's hand and sign my name. It's a done deal.

38 days to the Winter Style Showcase

The stack of catalogs on Ms. G's desk distracts me the whole time she talks about our fund-raiser. This Thursday and Friday morning, we'll be in our salon doing manis and pedis to raise money for the showcase. We'll have mini fund-raisers every other Friday morning after Christmas vacation to raise money for general cos supplies.

“In your computers class today, you'll be creating flyers,” continues Ms. Garrett. “Personalize them, print them, and hand them out. You'll earn ATC bucks for every client service you perform. You get credit for every person who requests you, plus you'll all take turns with walk-ins.”

The top ATC buck earners will receive a selection of makeup and hair care samples. I don't care if they're samples of things I use or not—I want them!

Shelby must, too, because she asks a bunch of questions.
Forget it, Shelby. They're mine.
Winning the fund-raiser is the first step to winning everything. And it's not like Shelby needs it. Although she could use a little heat protectant spray; her ends are fried.

Toby makes some lewd comment about being paid for his services, and Ms. G sends him down to Mr. Finn, our principal/dean/disciplinarian/guidance counselor. We have a lot to cover today, she warns. We all sit up a bit straighter.

“And now, let's talk about the winter style showcase. Mark your calendars—it's in six weeks.” I've had it marked since the first day of school.

She
finally
passes out the catalogs, and everyone starts flipping through them. Our cos teams will join with the fashion design teams to present a live portfolio—three or four models displaying our talents—as well as create a bunch of written reports and give a PowerPoint presentation. Lydia and I, of course, are a stylist duo. “PICs, baby!” I cheer, high-fiving Lyd when I see us on page 114.

We slide our desks together and study the catalog so we can fill out our partner preference forms. The fashion design class is doing the same. After school today, the teachers from both programs will meet to match us up, partly based on our choices, partly based on whom they think will work well together.

“What do you think of them?” I point to a fashion design team who call themselves the Runway Divas. All of the design teams have names; none of us in cos do. I wish we'd thought to name ourselves. It's the first way to make a statement. I'll have to suggest it to Ms. G for next year.

“Yeah, sure.” Lydia, who is back to looking like herself, fiddles with the ties on her jewel-green tunic. She doesn't seem very enthusiastic.

“Okay?” I give her a chance to express her disapproval. She doesn't, so I put them on our list. “We have to pick two more.” I check out the photos and read through the descriptions. “Definitely not the Denim Duo.” I wrinkle my nose.

“Country theme,” Lydia and I say at the same time.

“No country, no way, no how!” she adds.
There's
the strong reaction I was looking for.

“Anyone jump out at you?” I ask.

“How about Neon Taffeta?”

“Eh, I don't know,” I say. “They seem kitschy.”

“I know!” She beams. “Kind of creative, like they'd stand out.”

“I want to stand out because we're the best, not the loudest and tackiest.”

She gives me a look. “How do you know they're tacky?”

“I can just tell. Okay, next . . .”

“Five minutes!” Ms. G announces.

“Oh my lanta!” I hate being rushed, and scramble to find the perfect choices, but none of the words sink in. “Lydia, help! We need attention to detail, stellar skills, and extra flair.”

“You choose.” She's flipping through her catalog, not even in the fashion section anymore. “I don't really care.”

“Don't care?”
Lydia knows that apathy is a hundred times worse than vulgarity. “Are you mad because of what I said about Neon Taffeta? If you want them, I'll put them down.”

“No, it's fine. We'll find someone else.” She goes back to the fashion section. “How about them?” She points to a random listing.

I raise my eyebrows. “Leather and Lace?”

“So they're kind of badass,” she says. “What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing. If you're into skulls and Harleys and Ed Hardy, which we aren't.”

“Then do what you want.” She closes her catalog. “I. Don't. Care.”

Ugh! What is
with
her? I try to find the team with the most strengths, but they all start jumbling together. So many of the listings say the same things—
team players, flexibility, proficient in this stitch or that stitch.
None of it screams
winning team.
I decide to judge them by their names. Classic Elegance and Enchanted Velvet seem to best fit my style—and Lydia's, of course—and the showcase theme. Lyd just nods when I tell her. She doesn't even look at their profiles.

I hand our form to Ms. G just as she calls, “Time's up!”

We spend the rest of the morning taking a test on pedicures. I whip through the short answer procedure questions, even though the building trades guys are making a ton of noise down the hall—pounding, sawing, drilling. Why isn't their room down near automotive mech?

The true/false part is trickier than I thought, so I take my time. Yes, sodium hydroxide's pH is highly alkaline. Or is it highly acidic? It's highly something.

Lydia sighs heavily several times, which tells me that either she didn't study or the noise is getting to her, too. Everyone else seems to be equally distracted—except for
Shelby, of course. I raise my hand and ask Ms. G if I can close the doors. As I get up, I see that Lydia's hardly written anything.

I hurry back to my seat and a few minutes later, while I'm pondering the percentage of bleach in a basic disinfecting solution for tools and foot spas, Lydia hands in her test. I still have another page to go. She's quick, but this is quick even for her. I turn back to my paper and refocus. I need to ace this.

I'm one of the last to hand in my paper. When I get back, Lydia is thumbing through the catalog again. “Find a better team?” I whisper. “She might let us change our form.”

She shakes her head. Ms. G shushes me. I'm looking up some of the questions in the text to check my answers when the bell rings.

“Just as I thought.” Lydia taps my catalog. “There's nobody in here named Reed.”

“What?” I open it up and realize I don't even know where to start. There's no index, and I don't know which program he's in. “You must have missed him. There are a lot of people in here.”

“I checked them all.” She grabs her backpack and slips her purse onto her shoulder. “See for yourself.”

“I will.” I put the catalog in my purse. “Is culinary arts doing lunch today or are we sneaking out for BOGO Tuesday tacos at Loco's?”

“Culinary arts day is Thursday this week—Mediterranean flatbread pizza and Greek salad. Today is the same mystery
casserole the regular cafeteria had the first week of school. So, tacos, duh,” she says.
“Ándale.”
Her Spanish accent is so appalling it's funny, but when it comes to choosing food, Lydia is an aficionada.

I was kind of hoping that we'd run into Reed so I could prove that he's real, but I'm not willing to choke down “chicken surprise” when I can get a delicious, authentic taco—half-price—instead. Hopefully, we'll run into him later.

Rachel, a sweet girl from custodial services, waits by my locker, smiling. She rarely says anything, but she always smiles. On the first week of school, in front of everyone in the hall, some little bunhead told her she had a staring problem and to “take a picture, it'll last longer.”

Without thinking or breaking my stride, I snapped, “Maybe if you didn't use shitty boxed color, your roots would last longer.” Even though her roots
were
hideous, I wouldn't have brought them to her attention if she hadn't been such a rip-roaring bitch.

Ever since then, Rachel stops by my locker at least once a week to show me something. Last week it was a cute hairstyle in
Glitter
magazine. Today it's her French braid. “My cousin did it,” she tells me.

“It's a great look for you,” I say. “Practical, yet pretty.”

She smiles and runs off toward the cafeteria hugging her brown bag lunch. She doesn't say good-bye or anything, but she never does.

“That braid was super crooked,” Lydia says halfway to the parking lot.

“I know, but she was so proud of it. It's not her fault that one of us didn't do it. Not everyone is as awesome at braiding as we are.”

“True.” Lydia stops suddenly. “Hey! Hear that?”

I pause, pretending to hear the sombrero-wearing cat mascot of Loco's Tacos calling. “Oh, hells yeah.” Then I yell, “We're coming, Loco!”

In mathematics and economics—which Lyd and I call “icks”—that afternoon, Mr. Sims, aka Mr. Comb-over, gets us all jazzed talking about ATC bucks. It turns out that we don't just earn them at the fund-raisers—we earn them whenever we do manis and pedis in the ATC salon (along with real money for the cos program to buy supplies), and also if another program subcontracts services from us for their own showcase. The wellness fair is coming up, which is the showcase for child development, culinary arts, and all the medical programs.

I wonder which program earns the most ATC bucks each year? My Pringle gambling gene makes me want to set up a pool.

I'm already scheming ways to be the school's highest earner and win the pool, even if it only exists in my head. First, we need to get a jump on “marketing,” as Mr. Comb-over calls it. I text Lydia, even though she's sitting right next to me.
Let's go to the mall tonight to hand out flyers.
A moment later, my phone flashes:
kk.

Just like Ms. Garrett, Mr. Comb-over pushes subcontracting for our showcases. We'll hire the construction program to build the set, musicians and artists to add personalization to our individual parts, and digital arts to help with our signs, brochures, and PowerPoint presentations. The programs will also hire culinary arts to provide refreshments after the showcase.

They must have had a teachers' meeting about the word “synergy.” “All the programs support each other, just as all businesses and consumers support the economy—it's the perfect micro example of the macro synergy in the country's industries,” he lectures. By the time he finally gets to the good stuff—spreadsheets, cost analysis, and how we'll get interest on ATC bucks—I'm tempted to write an analysis of the synergistic relationship between his comb-over and hairspray.

There is more synergy talk in civics/sociology with Mrs. Roberts, as well as an overview of everything we're being graded on related to the showcase. Not only does it include the actual makeup and hair and overall concept, creativity, and professional presentation, we're also being graded on our speech and the level and extent of subcontracting, teamwork, and leadership we present. We have to write a million reports, too, which, along with the visuals of our presentation, will make up a gigantic winter style showcase portfolio. It'll count for one-third of our overall semester grade in each class.