Charlotte Cuts It Out (13 page)

21 days to the Winter Style Showcase

The next few days are weird. I've hardly heard from Lydia. I texted a few times to check in and offer help, but each time she said she had everything under control. I asked if she even wanted me at the fair, and all she said was
Of course. Don't be so melodramatic.

Mackenzie is getting on my very last nerve. Not only does she say random things, but the girl wears khakis every day. She must have a closetful of them. Nobody should have
boring
as a signature style. And her skills are even worse than her wardrobe! First she criticizes Ms. G's braiding technique, as if she knows more than the teacher. When we practiced on each other, I did it Ms. G's way and it looked great. She did it her way on me, and it fell apart by lunch!

Then Ms. G tells us to partner up to practice foiling. Except I can't practice on Mackenzie, because her parents refused to sign the permission slip that allows other students to cut or chemically process their kid's hair. She has virgin hair—never been treated in any way, except trimmed. After the braiding mess, I said that if I had to work on a mannequin, so did she.
Ms. G couldn't argue with that. When I saw Mackenzie's shoddy highlights, I thanked my lucky stars.

There's nothing happening with Reed. No new conversations, or flirting by the lockers; just a quick “hey” as he rushes to class. Gauging from how busy the halls are, more than half of the ATC is involved with the wellness fair.

Finally, on Friday, Fair Day arrives. We're excused from afternoon classes in order to set up. Everything needs to be perfect before the doors open to the public at five.

The multipurpose room is a madhouse. I wade in, cos smock over my arm. Before I plunge in to help Lyd, I take a look around. Booths—colorfully decorated L-shaped table configurations, with banners hanging on the wall behind them—line the perimeter of the room. Many have wooden stands on which we can hang informational posters, signs, and more decorations. I see why Lydia felt pressure to compete. Building trades and graphic design did a great job.

One side of the room is devoted to the medical programs. There are a blood pressure exam station, booths about different disease screenings and awareness, scales and information about BMI and a healthy diet, and, of course, the sign-up for the blood drive. The vampires—what we call the phlebotomy students—are in their element, working side by side with the Red Cross.

Giant tumbling mats are set up side-by-side, covering the middle of the room. There are plastic climbing structures, a slide, and a games area marked with signs: bean bag relay, musical chairs, and hopscotch. They even have
folding chairs along the edges for parents to watch from. It's so bright and colorful. The best part is the bounce house in the corner.

The other side is for culinary arts. Some of the stations look almost like kitchens—there are hot plates, Crock-Pots, toaster ovens, microwaves, and a popcorn machine. The apple booth has cider, caramel apples, and mini applesauce cups and smells so sweet and cinnamon-y.

Our booth is decorated with green tablecloths and flowers. The arbor is already in our “doorway.” It looks much better than I thought it would, even before we add the floral garland. Lydia freaked over nothing, and she says
I'm
melodramatic. On the wall behind us, the banner reads
NATURE'S FACIALS—FOR DELICIOUSLY SMOOTH SKIN.

“When did you come up with that?” I ask.

Lydia looks up from organizing the bowls and grins proudly. “Last week. Sounds tempting, huh?”

Instead of answering, I put on my smock.

“What?” she snaps. “My project uses food for skin care. Mrs. Barbara liked it a lot.”

“Her and Hannibal Lecter.” I try not to crack up, and fail.

“Jeez and crackers!” She spreads a black drop cloth across the floor to catch any face paint spills. “Is
anything
ever good enough for you?”

“Yes, lots of things,” I say, taking the other side of the drop cloth and tugging it so it'll be even with the booth beside ours. “Our ‘Franken-arbor' looks fantastic. Your crème brûlée. Iridescent Iris nail polish. Pretty much anything
from QVC's Dooney & Bourke show. See? I'm not picky.” Lydia tugs back, tucking her end under the booth's side wall. “Cute digital dudes named Reed.”

I feel Lydia start to pull again, so I lean backward and bend my knees. All of a sudden, the cloth goes slack and I lose my balance, landing on my butt.
Bam!
A wooden brace from the booth next to ours digs into my butt cheek and my eyes smart with pain.

“Sorry,” says Lydia flatly. “I thought you had it. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” I squinch my eyes to hold back the tears. Everything hurts when I stand up. At least I'm not wearing a skirt today.

Then I notice everyone watching. Trying to hide my embarrassment, I throw my arms up like a gymnast at dismount and yell, “Ta-da!” I get a few smiles, and a moment later the chaos starts up again.

“So how many folding chairs do you think we'll need?” Lydia asks, moving on so quickly that I'm wondering if she let go on purpose.

“Two or three,” I say, resisting the urge to rub my sore backside. It hurts like hell.

She grabs two chairs from the cart manned by a couple of custodial services guys a few booths down from ours and sets them up. The whole time she's scanning the room.

“What are you looking for?” I pull out the color bowls I borrowed from cos and arrange them on the inside of the booth.

“Carter was supposed to be here by now,” she says. “He has the recipe guides.”

“Carter?”

“He's the digital design guy I hired.” The way she smiles leads me to believe there's more going on than recipe booklets. She opens a canvas bag and pulls out a long string of floral garland.

“Lydia . . .” I mock-scold, already imagining the four of us hanging out.

“What?” She tries to pretend she doesn't know what I'm asking, but she sucks at it. I stare at her, waiting for her to come clean. “There's not much to say . . . yet. We've only been talking for a week.” She drapes the garland along the top of the arbor and hides her face behind the cascading orange and yellow blooms.

“But you've been talking?” I grab the strand and shake it playfully. She smiles. “Cool! Go for it, Lyd!” I say, but really, I can't believe she hasn't told me before now. That's not like her—well, not like the old her. That's not like
us.
I've shared every detail about Reed, even when he was simply QT. Why hasn't she gotten excited about our double-dating prospects, too? What's happened to us?

I wait for more details about Carter, but she moves on to the face creams and paints.

Just as we're finished decorating the booth, putting up the posters, and stirring the paints and creams, Trent shows up. He's got a camera dangling from his neck, and he hands Lydia a box—her brochures.

“Where's Carter?” she asks, clearly disappointed.

“He's finishing up another job in the lab,” he says, “but he'll be here eventually.” He nods to me, and I give him a brusque nod back. “Hello” would have been nice.

Then he explains to Lydia that he's taking pictures of the fair, and asks if she needs any for her PowerPoint, which won't be presented until the week of the winter showcase. Ours play
during
our show. I pretend not to listen to their small talk. He's telling her how much he likes photography, how it's kind of his hobby, and how he's getting extra credit for it because ATC will use his work on their website.

“He's nice,” Lydia says when he finally leaves. “Not too hard on the eyes, either.”

“What about Carter?”

She shakes her head. “What about him? I'm just stating the obvious.”

“Uh-huh.”
For someone who seems pretty into himself,
I think.

My last boyfriend, Logan, acted like he was into me, but when it came right down to it, he cared more about his friends and football and his stupid classic car. Our relationship only lasted a month. And Matt was
too
into me. Whenever we weren't together or hanging out with Lydia and Cody, he called and texted constantly and stalked my Facebook and Instagram. Maybe Reed will be different, a happy medium.

Lydia starts to wonder where Carter is again, but thankfully the doors open and within minutes, the place is
swarming. Our customer service experience helps, as our friendly smiles and hospitality kick in.

The girl in the booth next to us, where they're making antioxidant smoothies, looks as if she's close to tears. Some little kid spilled his smoothie all over the floor, so she's trying to clean it up while her partner is asking where she put the bananas. People are walking right through the mess and tracking it all over.

We get decent traffic, and people are taking the recipe guide—freebies always draw traffic. A woman with two small boys walks past. Her hair is perfect. That's no small thing; I usually think everyone's hair could use a little something. Her color is clearly professional—multi-tone highlights with all-over level eight or nine, without any evidence of damage. Nice!

The older boy pulls on her and asks to get his face painted. She asks what's in the paint. I tell her, “Corn starch, coconut oil, and natural food coloring.” She agrees and asks the younger boy—Alex—if he wants to get his face painted just like Cameron. He hides behind her leg.

While I paint a spaceship on Cameron's cheek, the woman asks, “Are those fake eyelashes?”

I smile and nod. “They add a little pizzazz to pretty much any style.” I dab a little orange into the star on the spaceship to give it dimension.

“They look so natural,” she says.

Natural? There are tons of sparkles on them. Last I checked, people don't naturally have sparkly eyelashes, but I
don't argue. She's probably talking about my stellar application skills, not to be confused with my application of stellar objects on foreheads. Ha! I chuckle under my breath.

“What's so funny?” asks the boy.

“Nothing,” I say, finishing up. “You're just so dang cute.” He smiles. Then I ask his mom, “Where do you get your hair done?”

“At my salon,” she says. “Catch-a-Ray, near Vandercook. We all trade hair services.”

“You own a salon?” She nods and introduces herself as Kristina. Then I tell her that I'm in the cos program, and she tells me that she went to ATC ten years ago and asks me to give Ms. G a hug for her. We talk for a while about my future plans and how she built her clientele and bought her salon. She's living my dream. Before they leave, she hands me her card and tells me to come by after I graduate.

I thank her and put the card in my purse where I won't lose it. Just talking to Kristina brings my Grander Plan into clearer focus.

I spend the next few hours painting kids' faces while Lydia slathers green goo on people's hands and talks about how nourishing it is for the skin. These women (and men, too) are eating it up. Figuratively, of course. Nobody actually tastes it, even though Lydia assures them that it's safe to eat.

Rachel, the girl from custodial services, lingers at our booth for a while, too. Eventually, I realize that she wants her face painted, but she doesn't actually ask outright—she just watches me work on the kids. Then, when I clue in, I
ask if she'd like something, and, after some discussion, end up painting a tiny pink heart just under her right temple. I accent it with a stick-on sparkle.

After she leaves, I watch her move from booth to booth, smiling and touching the heart every so often. It's nice to see her happy. Simple changes to your appearance really can give you a boost. Mom might think it's superficial, but she's not here, witnessing it.

Other people from the store are here, though. Barb and her husband bring their nieces, and Tyler, the bagger, is here with his grandma. He's carrying a bunch of brochures—I see one on colon health and another about breast self-exams. Several regular customers file past, too.