Charlotte Cuts It Out (11 page)

When she starts talking about her dad and how glad he is that she's working with her mom, and how her family and the school have been so supportive, I become completely engrossed in the woman on TV modeling denim blazers that are perfect for travel. They're covered with pockets on the outside
and
the inside. One woman slips her makeup case, wallet, and smartphone in them to show how convenient it is.

“Who would buy that?” I think out loud.

“Are you listening to me?” Lydia asks.

“Of course,” I say, still glued to the TV. “You're happier cooking, your dad is better, and your parents are proud of you.”

“Uh-huh, and . . . ?” As if there's more.

“And I'm glad everyone's happy.” I don't look at her. I can't.

Without a word, Lydia picks up our dessert dishes and goes into the kitchen. She has no right to be mad at me—I'm not the one who left, she is. I'm not the one who has unconditional family support. She is. I'm not the one who lied and pretended to be all in on a
frivolous
career plan. But before I say anything I'll regret, I decide to change the subject. After all, as hurt and betrayed as I feel, Lydia and
I have to do the showcases together. And she's still my best friend . . . isn't she?

The QVC models are now modeling flowy, stretchy pants. Since the volume is muted, I can't hear what the hostess is saying, but by her overexaggerated expressions, she's clearly amazed at how stretchy and flowy the fabric is. So stretchy. So flowy. So amazing! Everyone should want them—now!

“You know what we need to do,” I call out, desperate to change the mood.

“What?” Lydia calls back.

“We need to go shopping for matching outfits for Friday.” I turn around on the couch, toward the kitchen. “They can be in the same colors as the booth, which will pull everything together. Plus, it'll be fun. Snapz! has some really cute stuff right now.”

She stands in the doorway. “I thought we'd just wear black dress pants and our black cos smocks. That would look professional, and we'd still match.”

“Except it wouldn't be fun. I think we need some fun, don't you?”

“It just seems pointless to buy a new outfit for one afternoon.” She drops into her dad's recliner. And then I remember what happened at Applebee's.

“First of all.” I shake a mock-scolding finger. “There is no such thing as a pointless new outfit. Especially one you can wear again. Which we will. Second of all, I'll cover you. What's the problem?”

“Thanks, but there's no problem,” Lydia says. “I just don't think it's necessary.”

“Okay, whatever!” Now I'm mad again. And not just because of the clothes. She acts like my suggestion is ridiculous. Like
I'm
ridiculous. I want to scream, but I go with snide instead. “I'm sure that attitude will save your dad a fortune when you get married. Why buy a dress that you'll only wear once?”

She sighs. “It's not exactly the same thing.”

“You're right.” I jump up and walk into the kitchen, grab my coat and purse from the table. “It's not the same thing. Your wedding is hypothetical and in the unknown future. This is real and important
now.
”

“You're not going to bully me into getting new clothes just because you want them.” Lydia's voice is ice-cold. I am
not
bullying her. I'm trying to salvage our friendship and make the showcase—
her
showcase—the best it can be.

“Whatever. Go naked, then!” That's all I can think to say before storming out.

I calm down on the drive home. So what if she doesn't want a new outfit? I realize that I reacted to more than just what we're going to wear at the showcase. I text her an olive branch:
Thanks for dinner. It was delicious.

She texts back:
You're welcome.
No smiley. Sarcasm?

I reply:
See you tomorrow.

No reply. Whatever. At least I tried.

25 days to the Winter Style Showcase

Since Lydia's dinner made more tension than amends, the rest of the week was super boring. She claimed she wasn't ignoring me and that she was just busy with the wellness fair, but if that were true, she'd have asked for my help. And she didn't.

On Friday, while the rest of the class practiced their updos on one another, I had to use a leftover mannequin head that someone had already rolled into a perm. Combing out a Sasquatch would have been easier. But I did it. The complex braiding, sweeping, pinning, and curling really impressed Ms. G.

After she marked my grade in her book, she casually said, “Your new partner—Mackenzie Moore—will be starting on Monday. Isn't that great?”

I topped my do off with a heavy mist of hair spray. “Really? Yeah, great.”

My new partner. As if a PIC can simply be plucked from a list and instantly replace my best friend since elementary
school. Still, if I'm going to continue in cos without Lydia—and I am—and if Lydia isn't coming back—and it doesn't look like she is—having a partner in class has to be better than this Sasquatch mannequin. Maybe Mackenzie Moore won't be so bad. Maybe she'll be great, like Ms. G says. Maybe I should make an effort.

I spent the whole weekend planning my first impression—that is, when I wasn't working. I foiled a few highlights around my face and redid my nails. Then I went shopping for a new outfit. I considered inviting Lydia, but I didn't want to be accused of bullying her into getting new clothes again, so I went alone. But just like being in cos, primping and shopping just isn't the same without her.

But today is bursting with possibility. I'll meet my new partner, so my full showcase team can finally get rolling. We're a little behind, but we should be up to speed soon. Lydia's final meeting before the wellness fair—which is Friday—is at the same time as our showcase meeting. Even though we're technically still supposed to help each other, we can't be both places at once, so we text and decide to stick with our own events and recap for each other afterward.

Mackenzie Moore shows up just before the team meetings. At first I think she's a teacher, because she's dressed in khakis and a blue turtleneck sweater. Her hair looks clean and brushed, but it has absolutely no style—it just hangs there—one length, mousy brown, a few inches past her shoulders. She's also wearing zero makeup. None. Is
this girl really interested in a cos career?

Ms. G introduces Mackenzie to the class and asks her to tell us a little about herself.

“Well,” she starts, and then giggles nervously. “My name is Mackenzie Miranda Moore, and I'm in eleventh grade. Just like all of you. Except Mrs. Garrett, of course.”

This
is my new partner? I think I'll stick with the Sasquatch head.

“Ms.,” Ms. G corrects.

“What?”

“Ms. I'm not Mrs. I'm Ms. Garrett.”

“Miss?”

“Ms.” By the look on Ms. G's face, she's feeling the same way I am. She moves on. “So what made you choose cos?”

“Nails,” she says simply. Ms. G prompts her for more. “I like to do nails, and I'm really good at it. I'm also good at styling. And cutting, too. I cut all my Barbies' hair when I was a kid.”

If she's so good at nails, why aren't
her
nails done? And when she says that she's good at cutting and styling, does she mean just on her dolls?
Everyone
here cut Barbie hair as kids—probably even Byron and Toby! Mackenzie's hair has clearly never been styled or cut, other than a trim. What exactly does she know how to do?

Ms. G has her take a seat—Lydia's—while she goes over a few announcements. “The style department”—which is cos and fashion design—“will cover the fairy-tale backdrop.
However, if your team is using music, I need your forms with the song title and artist no later than next Monday, so we can purchase the permissions. If you're using props beyond what we provide, you'll need to pay the stage helpers, who will be from custodial arts.”

“How much will that be?” I ask as I raise my hand. “And do we still need to turn in music choices if we're subcontracting a live musician?”

“Nominal,” answers Ms. G. “Five ATC bucks each. We want to encourage you to go all-out. And yes, but note that on the form. We need to double-check copyrights and permissions for the sheet music.”

“Where's the form?” Toby asks.

“All forms are on MyATC. Click the showcase tab and then forms,” says Ms. G.

“What about a snow machine?” I ask. “Will that cost extra?”

“Yes,” she says, “and I'm sure that will be substantially more. It belongs to the performing arts department. I'll check with them and get back to you.”

I thank her and smile. She wants all-out? We're going all-out and then some.

Ms. G dismisses us for our team meetings. “Go to the cafeteria, because the wellness fair folks are in the multipurpose room.” Everyone leaves, but Ms. G calls me over to meet Mackenzie.

“You're in good hands,” Ms. G tells her after she introduces me. “Charlotte will show you the ropes and help you
get caught up.” She flashes me a
please-be-nice
smile that looks remarkably like my mother's.

The only thing I say to Mackenzie is hi before she launches into a play-by-play of Finn calling to tell her she got into cos. I walk as fast as I can to the cafeteria. She practically has to run to keep up, because she's several inches shorter than me and her mouth is using up all her energy.

When we get there, Shea is seated at a table by the far doors. We make our way around the perimeter and I introduce them.

Shea and I recap our theme and preliminary plan for Mackenzie. This is our team, sans Lydia.

“Because of the setbacks, we need to get moving on subcontracting, pronto.” I fan through the ATC catalog. “We need ballerinas, kids, a flute player, artists, builders, and a graphic designer.” I make a list as I talk, borrowing from my Grander Plan.

“I used to make candy with my grandma every Christmas when I was little,” Mackenzie announces. While I'm wondering what that has to do with anything, she launches into a long random story.

When she pauses to ponder whether she was eight or nine that particular year, I interject. “We don't have a lot of time, and we need to cover a lot.” In other words,
wrap it up.

Mackenzie looks at me as if
I'm
the one being rude. “I'm just trying to help,” she snaps. “Jeez! Anyway, I can make the candy flowers, I think. Or at least my grandma can. I don't know. Do we have to do everything ourselves?”

“Yes, we do,” I say. “And we have the flowers covered. Lydia is doing them.”

“Who's Lydia?” She looks around the table.

I keep my explanation brief, but it sparks a litany of questions: Why isn't she here? Why is she on our team if she's not in cos or fashion? Why did she leave cos? I answer the first couple, but by the last question, I'm annoyed. First, we're wasting time. Second, I don't know the answer. Third, even if I did, I'm not going to divulge Lyd's personal deets to someone I just met. “Start thinking of ideas for your models, okay? We'll probably each do two styles. We should coordinate, but not copy, don't you think?”

“I can do pretty much any hairstyle,” Mackenzie says, sweeping her hair behind her ears. “Braids . . . twists . . . pin curls . . . waves . . . ringlets . . .”

“Good,” I say. “That'll give us plenty of options.”

Shea moves on. “Back to subcontractors. I know most of the ballerinas, so I can handle that part.” She has a notebook and is taking notes. This is good. She's on top of things.

“Buns . . . bouffant . . .” says Mackenzie.

“Also,” Shea says through Mackenzie's rambling, “Ms. White said the graphic designers will be here as soon as they're finished with the wellness fair groups.”

“Cornrows . . . dreadlocks . . .” Mackenzie continues to no one in particular.

Reed's coming here? How did I not know that?

“That's good.” I run my hands across my head, smoothing any stray frizzies. “I have a graphic designer I'd like to use.”

“Mohawk, odango . . .”

I turn to Mackenzie with my list and the catalog. “Would you like to help—wait, odang
-what
?”

“Odango,” Mackenzie corrects me. “You know, the way Sailor Moon has her hair. It's big in anime. I might do that as one of my styles.”

“Good to know. And we can talk about
that
later.” I open the catalog and slide it across the table. “Can you help us with
this,
please?”

Mackenzie flips through the pages and names everyone she knows, but none of it seems relevant to our project. Shea and I look at each other—we're on our own here.

A woman with a clipboard—a secretary from the main office, I think—comes around and asks for our list of subcontractors. She has runners on deck to fetch them from their programs to join our meeting. We don't have a list; we didn't know we needed one. The woman reiterates what Shea said—graphic design, along with building trades and multimedia art, will be here soon. But for less common subcontractors, we need to specify.

I look around. Other teams have their lists ready. “When was this assigned?” I ask.

“Last Monday. You've had a week.” She looks at me as if I'm a slacker! I'm mortified. Monday? That was the day I met with Finn and Lydia. The day I left. I totally forgot to check what I missed! Shea met with Finn, too, and she had a dentist appointment that day, too, so she didn't know, either.

Then clipboard woman says, “All subcontractors need to be finalized by the end of program today.”

Today?
Crapola!
I thought we had more time. Full-blown panic sets in. We ask for a few more minutes. She agrees, but seems perturbed as she moves to the next table.

I take the catalog from Mackenzie, and Shea and I pore over it, scrambling to make a list. We were able to make informed choices on ballerinas—thank God Shea knows them. The flutists and child development people were pretty much random. We chose two of each, hoping to do a quick interview before making our final choices. To expedite the process, I deliver the list to the woman and smile in an attempt to redeem myself.

While waiting for the subcontractors, we discuss hair and dress ideas, which launches Mackenzie back into her random list of styles. Shea pulls out her portfolio, but before I can see her sketches, my phone flashes a text from Lyd.

I need you. Come to the multipurpose room ASAP. Please.

Oh, no!
Something must be wrong. I try calling her, but she doesn't answer. As much as I hate to bail on our team, I can't ditch Lydia, even after everything that's happened.

I relay the situation to Shea. She encourages me to go and assures me she can handle the subcontracting. I hesitate. Will she make the best choices without me? I quickly discuss interview questions, ideal answers, and basic criteria for the people we need. She doesn't take notes, but says she's
got it. I insist that she get Reed as a graphic designer. She says she'll do her best. I give her my cell number and ask her to keep me updated.

Clipboard woman is suspicious, but lets me go with a handwritten hall pass. I know she's even more convinced of my slacker attitude now, but I don't have time to prove otherwise. I throw open the door. The hall is swarming with building trades, graphic design, and multimedia arts students, armed with folders, notebooks, laptops, and large messenger bags, all headed into the cafeteria.

“Charlotte? Where are you going?” Reed holds the door open as people stream past us.

“My friend needs me,” I say. “I should be back soon. Find a redhead named Shea back by the far doors. Tell her I sent you. She'll get you signed up on our team.”

“Sounds good to me.” He winks and smiles.