Charlotte Cuts It Out (7 page)

“No problem.” I smile and apply more pressure. “Is this better?”

“Actually, it is!” She seems really impressed. “Thank you. I was worried I wouldn't be able to do this.” Then she turns to Raynee and says, “I'm going to have to send Mom, Jackie, and Chris in here. She's really good. And my feet really needed it.”

I smile as I move around each toenail with a curette. “That's my purpose in life. Ridding the world of calluses and
unsightly toe jam one foot at a time.” Ann and Raynee laugh, and Lydia just shakes her head.

Even though I joke, I really do feel as if I'm doing something important. People feel better about themselves when they're well-groomed, and when they feel better they're nicer, and when people are nicer, everyone around them is happier. So the way I see it, I'm promoting world peace. Well, maybe I wouldn't go
that
far. But who couldn't use a little self-esteem and mood boost?

I remind them about our upcoming fund-raisers—every other Friday, starting right after Christmas break—and tell them I'd really appreciate any referrals. They say they'll definitely let their friends and family know, and I get to work with a nail rasp. Lydia fumbles with her cards, then looks at her tools and shrugs. As nonchalantly as possible, I hand her the rasp and slowly demonstrate one-direction filing. She follows my lead.

“Guess who's coming for Thanksgiving?” Ann asks Raynee.

“Jon?” Raynee wiggles her eyebrows.

I pretend I'm not listening, but I am. Not only does cosmetology make the client feel good, it allows me to eavesdrop freely and without disdain. Today is the best day ever.

“No! You know he has his own family dinner.” Ann air-swats her. “Tony!”

“Really?”

“Really.” Ann beams. “Gram invited him, and he accepted.”

“That's so cool.”

I guess I'm not very good at pretending to not listen, because Ann explains that Tony's her older brother, and he's spent a couple of years away from their family.

I'm glad that someone at least is looking forward to Thanksgiving. While I love having the day off, Grandmother Vanderpool will be coming. She's so formal, which always makes us more tense than grateful. Even Mom is tense, and Grandmother Vanderpool's her mother.

They continue to talk about Ann's family as I lotion and massage and paint her toes. She chose Iridescent Iris, too. I knew I liked this girl.

When they're both done—and Lydia has, thankfully, done a decent job—Raynee decides that yes, they'll splurge on the manis, too. She loves the Harvest Pumpkin color I suggested.

While they talk about double-dating with their boyfriends, I look over at Lydia, who's concentrating on Raynee's right hand, and imagine spa days in our own salon with us gabbing about our boyfriends—or maybe even husbands, down the line when we're fully established.

We've never let guys come between us. It's kind of our rule—we don't date anyone unless the other approves, and we don't bail on plans with each other for a date or a boyfriend. And if we're both in a relationship at the same time, it's important that our guys like each other, too. The few times it's happened, we've all hung out and it's been awesome.

This gets me thinking about Reed, and how I want Lydia to meet him before he asks me out—
if
he asks me out, which I hope he does, soon.

After we finish the girls' nails, they ask for more flyers to pass out to people they know. We hand them a whole stack and thank them for supporting us. They thank us and tip us each five bucks, even after they pay the ten to the salon. I can't believe we're getting paid for doing something we love so much!

The rest of the morning flies by so fast that I'm shocked when Ms. Garrett tells us to clean up our stations because the bell is about to ring.

Once class is over, we head out to the hall together.

Lydia sighs and rubs her temples. “That was rough. We barely had enough time to finish one client before the next one showed up.”

“I know. Wasn't it great? I bet we set a record! Shall we sneak out for lunch to celebrate?”

“Can't,” she says. “I have a meeting with Mr. Finn.”

“Finn? Why?” I stop walking and some kid from auto tech runs into me.

“Hey, watch it!” he snaps. “Hey, Lydia, did you say you're meeting with Finn?”

I growl at him, as if he were my dog Buffy not wanting to go outside.

“Easy, killer.” Lydia laughs. Then to the guy, she says, “Don't worry. Her growl's worse than her bite. Yeah, I am. Why?”

He gives me a sideways look as he says to her, “Can you
tell him his car is ready? We changed the oil and fixed the broken windshield wiper.”

“Sure. No problem, Jake.”

Jake
walks off toward the cafeteria.

“You know that guy?” I ask. “And why are you meeting with Finn?”

“Sort of. We've talked a few times. He's nice. I can't explain about Finn now, but it has to do with the stuff I need to talk to you about.” She takes a few steps down the hall, turns around, and walking backward, says, “Let's hang out this weekend.”

Now I'm super curious. She's tried to talk to me a few times, and nobody meets with Mr. Finn on purpose. Maybe this has to do with being late on Monday? “For sure. Text me.”

Except that doesn't happen. First of all, Lydia isn't in any of our afternoon classes. And when she texts, I'm working and can't get back to her. By the time I remember, it's late, so she doesn't reply. Sunday is pretty much the same. If something were really wrong, I'd know, right? When her dad was sick, we talked (or texted) practically nonstop. We'll catch up on Monday. After all, if whatever she needs to talk about were really important, she'd come to the store.

I am the queen of the deli/bakery, a dubious honor. Dad still can't find anyone reliable to supervise, and Katie—whose cat is better—isn't great on the counter by herself. By her own admission, she's more of an assistant.

Nina didn't really quit, of course. (She's fake-quit at least four times this year. And yes, there's a pool for that, too.)
She's there sometimes, but we really need someone full-time; two people at the counter is best. I can only work after school and on weekends. If need be, Dad or Pops will fill in for me, but it's not their thing. Needless to say, instead of hanging out with Lydia and getting the low-down on her meeting, I spend my weekend elbow-deep in deli meats, cold salads, doughnut batter, frosting, and sprinkles—not to mention Katie's repetitive stories and pictures of her cat's “hilarious” antics, which all look the same except for the various outfits (yes, she dresses up her cat), and Nina's whining about being kicked in the ribs.

My life's a constant party.

32 days to the Winter Style Showcase

On Monday, I get to school early, hoping to grab some time with Lydia. After tossing in my coat, grabbing my books, and doing a quick lip gloss check, I slam my locker, turn around, and come face to face with Reed. Clearly, early arrival has unexpected benefits. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He leans into the lockers. “I hear you want me.”

I laugh out loud. I can't help it. What a cliché! Even if it is sort of true, I'm not about to fall for that line. “Get over yourself.” I
tap, tap, tap
away in my turquoise sling-backs, hoping he follows.

He does.
Yes!

“I meant as a graphic designer for your showcase.” He acts offended. “What did you think I meant?”

I give him a
don't-play-with-me
look, and he smiles. He is so freaking adorable!

“Okay, seriously.” He starts fast-talking. “I need the subcontracting. We don't have our own showcase. Our grades are based on what we do for everyone else's show.”

“Well, we do need a graphic designer.” I'm in professional mode now. “How are your skills?”

“The best.”

“You're in.”

“Don't you need to check with the rest of your team?”

“Officially, yes, but I'm not worried.”

“Cool,” he says. “I'll put your name on my schedule. How do you spell it?”

Good one. I haven't told him my name. I decide to play his little game. “The standard way.” He smirks. He knows I've caught him, but I decide to let him off the hook. “Charlotte. Charlotte Pringle.”

“I'll do it right now, Charlotte Pringle,” he assures me.

“Perfect.” I get the last word because we're at the cos classroom door. I leave him standing in the hall.
Score
. I don't care what the rest of the team thinks—as far as I'm concerned, Reed's our graphic designer.

Lydia's not in class yet. I take out my phone to text her and see she beat me to it, an hour ago.

I NEED to talk to you. Call me ASAP.

Oh, no! We never hung out—or even talked—this weekend like we'd planned. Maybe something really is wrong. I press her pic in my favorites and wait for her to answer. Voice mail!
Ugh!
I hang up and call again. Again, voice mail. I text:
Where are you? What's wrong? I'm at school.

The first bell rings. No Lydia. I turn around every few seconds, but only non-Lydia people are coming into class. I walk to the door and scan the hall. She's not there. I go to
the window. I don't see her Volkswagen, but since I can only see half of the parking lot, that's not definitive. I return to my seat.

I overhear one of the Emilys say to Taylor, “Did you hear about the fashion design girl who got booted for turning in a dress from Younkers as her own design?”

“I heard that Younkers' CEO called from New York and threatened to sue the school,” says the other Emily.

“That's not true,” says know-it-all Shelby. “Nobody got booted. She's just
moving
to
Yonkers, New York,
with her parents. It's no big deal.”

The first Emily is skeptical. “How do you know?”

“Because she was our designer,” says Shelby. Taylor nods.

The other Emily asks something else and Shelby answers, but I can't hear because the second bell rings and she's whispering. Shelby and Taylor lost their designer? What does that mean? There weren't enough fashion designers to match up with all of us, so one team only has one—Shelby and Taylor's. I'm just about to turn around and ask some questions of my own, but right then Ms. Garrett rushes into class, muttering something about being late because of a meeting.

“I have the results of the fund-raiser!” she exclaims as soon as we're settled. She even waves spirit fingers—once a cheerleader, always a cheerleader. My heartbeat flutters like Ms. G's twinkling acrylics, and I'm not sure if it's from anticipation about the results, or because I'm worried about Lydia.

Where is she? Why does she
NEED
to talk to me? If she was just running late because of bakery stuff or something,
she probably wouldn't even text, let alone use all caps. Something is going on.

“Your first ATC bucks deposits have been made into your team accounts. You'll use them to pay your subcontractors. Negotiate with your team about how you'll distribute your funds.”

Taylor raises her hand to ask about accessing the accounts. She wasn't listening last week, when we went over all of this? Great. Now Ms. G needs to explain it again, and it takes forever.

Finally,
finally,
she's done going over the online forms and “banking.” “Now for our winners . . .” Desk drum rolls. I'm nervous, even though I know we're going to win.
Just say our names, already.
Ms. G pulls out a piece of paper like she's reading the Oscar nominees. “In third place . . .” The drum rolls stop. “The Emilys!” Both Emilys stand and bow and we all cheer. Ms. G hands them little prize bags.

“In second place, Shelby and Taylor!” They both walk to the front, but instead of taking a bow, Shelby just stands there in her cute peacock-print pumps looking pissed. She grabs her prize without even looking at it. She didn't win, and she obviously wanted it as badly as I do.

This must mean that we've won!
Where is Lydia?

“And our winners for the big fund-raiser event are . . . Charlotte and Lydia!” We each get two bags—one full of hair care samples and another full of makeup and nail polish. Ms. G gives all four bags to me as everyone claps and cheers.
Shelby gives a half-assed clap. I curtsy twice, once for me and once for Lydia.

As happy as I am to win—and I have to admit that our marketing at the mall was brilliant—I can't fully embrace it until I know Lydia is okay and she celebrates with me. This is the first step toward our shared future. I console myself by imagining the two of us winning the showcase—together.

Next, Ms. G hands back our pedi tests. As she gives Shelby hers, she winks at her. Teacher's pet! How obvious! At least I got an A. As much as I'd like to know Lyd's grade, since she was so worried, I'm even more concerned about where she is.

The whole time Ms. G is lecturing about chemical hair treatments and what they do to the integrity of the hair shaft, I glance between my phone and Lydia's seat, willing her to appear. The clock above Ms. G's desk is excruciatingly slow.

At the sound of the classroom phone, I jump in my seat. It rarely rings and it's so freaking loud. “Excuse me,” Ms. G steps away from her PowerPoint to answer it.

Everyone is quiet, trying to figure out what's going on.

“Yes . . . It's fine . . . So it's finalized, then? . . . I'm sorry to hear that. . . . Yes, I understand. . . . As we discussed? . . . Yes . . . Right . . . I'll tell her.” I can't figure out anything from that and based on my classmates' confused faces, they can't, either.

Ms. G hangs up the phone and says, “Charlotte, Mr. Finn would like to see you.”

The whole class erupts with, “Oooooh!”

Me? Mr. Finn wants to see
me
? Never in my life have I been called to the principal's—or vice-principal's, or anyone's— office. Ever.

I stand up and smooth my skirt, looking at Ms. G expectantly. “Should I take all of my stuff with me?” I ask. She nods, so I pick up my purse and backpack. Everyone's eyes follow me as I walk out. I can almost feel them.

As I close the classroom door behind me, I hear Ms. G return to her lecture. My first thought is, How am I going to get the notes I'll miss since Lydia's not there? My next thought: Does this meeting with Mr. Finn have anything to do with
why
she's not there?

In ninth grade, Jordy McCann was called to the office in the middle of pre-algebra because his mom was in a bad car accident on I-94. I didn't know him that well, and I'd never met his mom, but still I felt so bad for him.

What if something happened to Lydia?

Tap, tap, tap.
My heels are so loud and echo in the empty hallway.

Or did something happen to her parents? Wasn't she trying to tell me something about her dad the other day? She said he was doing great, didn't she?

Tap, tap, tap.

Was she hiding something? Or is this completely new?

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Then I think of Jordy McCann again. Maybe it has
nothing to do with Lydia. What if something's happened to
my
parents? Or to Pops?

I pick up my speed.
Tap—tap—tap—tap.

Why does the office need to be a million miles away? I can't walk fast enough.

By the time I get there, I'm out of breath and practically in tears. I rush in so fast that the heavy wooden door slams behind me. A bit more of a dramatic entrance than I'd meant, but I can't help it.

“Mr. Finn called for me,” I manage to blurt out to the secretary, who looks as if she's never seen a freaked-out girl before. “I'm Charlotte Pringle.”

“Charlotte. Yes.” She holds open the gate that separates the waiting area from the inner workings of the Arts and Trades Center's main office and points to a door that's slightly ajar. “He's waiting for you in there.”

The office staff's and administrative students' eyes follow me. I know they hear my heels tapping, but I wonder if they also hear my heart pounding through my eardrums, and if they know what's going on, and do they feel bad for me, like I did for Jordy McCann?

I knock lightly and open the door. Mr. Finn, who's sitting behind a gigantic, imposing desk, indicates an empty chair and says, “Charlotte, come in. Have a seat.”

As I walk across the geometric-patterned rug, I brace myself for whatever horrible news he has for me. Then I see Lydia. Lydia! She's in one piece, every golden spiral curl in
place. I resist the urge to hug her and tell her that we won the fund-raiser. I sit and give her a huge smile of relief.

She presses her lips together and looks away. Uh-oh. Something
is
wrong! My heart speeds up, and I feel sick to my stomach.

“Charlotte, I'm not sure how much you already know.” Mr. Finn laces his fingers together like he's praying or something.
Nothing. I know nothing.
“We've had a few, uh, changes within some of the programs.” He moves his prayer hands back and forth in a chopping motion as he talks.

“Okay.”

“One of our fashion design students has left the program,” he says. So at least part of what I heard this morning is true. “Which means we've had to do some juggling to accommodate everyone in cosmetology.”

Still not picking up what you're putting down, Mr. Finn.
Why doesn't he get to the point?

“Since your team obviously needs to be adjusted, too, we—the fashion design instructor, Ms. Garrett, and I—have decided to move Gabriella to Shelby and Taylor's team. I've talked to each of them this morning, and they're good—”

“Wait! What?” I look back and forth between Mr. Finn and Lydia. “Why does
our
team need to be adjusted?”

“Because Lydia has switched to the culinary arts program,” Mr. Finn says slowly, as if I should already know this, which I don't. I most certainly do not. My face must give me away, because he turns to Lydia and says, “I thought you told her.”

Lydia? Culinary arts?
Switched?
What?
When?
The geometric shapes on the rug seem to vibrate. I stare at them, trying to steady them. And myself.

“I was going to tell you,” Lydia chokes out, barely audible. “I mean, I tried. Kind of.” Her voice is more normal now. “I don't know.” From the corner of my eye, it looks as if she's searching her lap for a cheat sheet that's not there.

I should say something—ask questions, try to figure this out—but I don't know where to start. All the way down the hall, I imagined all sorts of bad things that could have happened. I tried to prepare myself for anything. But not this. Lydia, my BFF—my PIC—has blindsided me.