Charlotte Cuts It Out (6 page)

“You have insurance, right?” I whisper back. “That should cover most of it. Besides, what do your parents' bills have to
do with you? You have a job. Your mom's paying you, right? It's not like they'd have to pay for the showcase or anything.”

“Yeah, yeah. You're right.” She stands and grabs her coat. “I have to get home. You sure you got this?”

“I said I would. PIC, remember?” I pick up the check. “Sure everything's okay?” She nods, but doesn't entirely meet my eyes. “Then get out of here.” I pluck my debit card from my wallet. “Say hi to your parents. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” She smiles and leaves.

After I get home, I spend the rest of the evening creating a detailed plan for our presentations, complete with a timeline and checklists. To win the showcase, we need to get a jump on things. And Lydia is so distracted by bakery crap, she's going to need all the direction and support I can give.

Charlotte's Vision for the Winter Showcase

Our team wears coordinating outfits.

Props: giant candy “forest” added to fairy-tale background, sugary accents.

Wow-factor prop: Snow machine.

Music: whimsical flute music for the PowerPoint and speech/model presentation.

PowerPoint first: behind-the-scenes pictures of our work throughout the semester.

Speech/Model Presentation next: Required—ONE model each. However, to fully showcase our skills, we—our fashion designers, Lydia, and I—will go above and beyond and style TWO each. On stage, we discuss the techniques we used as the models walk and turn.

Thunderous applause!

We win first place!

I win the bet!

We are so legendary that we become the standard by which first place is judged in upcoming years.

37 days to the Winter Style Showcase

Wednesday morning Ms. Garrett tells us that we've been matched with our fashion design teams, and the lists are posted in the multipurpose room. We'll have our first meeting there. I'm so excited that I don't even check my hair and makeup first. Everyone races down the hall.

I find Lydia's and my name and look across the list to . . . Runway Divas!

“Woo-hoo!” I yell. Then I jump up and down and high-five Lydia. “We got our first choice!”

Within minutes, we've tracked them down—Gabriella, who is not “Gabby,” she tells us right away, and Shea. “Which rhymes with ‘hey,'” she says with a singsong voice and a wave.

Gabriella is dark-skinned, with big brown eyes and the longest, curliest eyelashes I've ever seen. They're real, too; I know my falsies, and these are legit. Her hair is cropped short, which really accentuates her eyes. The girl is straight-up gorgeous.

Shea, on the other hand, has long, straight reddish hair,
and her skin's so white she's practically translucent. The contrast between the two Runway Divas is almost comical. It's not like Shea's ugly—she's got kind of an ice princess thing going on—but even with all the makeup she's wearing, she pales in comparison to Gabriella, both literally and figuratively.

I begin by introducing Lydia and myself.

“So,” Gabriella says before I get a chance to even open my binder, “Shea and I have the costumes all planned out. We're thinking short dresses with jagged hemlines.”

“And wings and Chuck Taylors.” Shea squeals. “Like punk pixies!” She waves her hands in the air. I wish she would fly away and get off my nerves.

“Pixies?” I snap. “What are we supposed to do with their hair?”

“Pixie cuts,” Shea snaps back. “Duh!”

“We can't cut hair yet. We're only juniors,” explains Lydia, the voice of reason. Didn't anyone go over the rules with them? “We're doing hairstyles, accessories, and semipermanent color only.”

“Let me show you what we have in mind,” I say, pulling out my notes. After the two of them and Lydia have a copy of the plan—which I made at home last night—I begin. “We were thinking a sweets theme, using candy flowers and shimmer to make the models look sugary.” I show them the picture on the third page, a cream-colored dress that looks as if it's made of frosting that I found online. “Wouldn't it be cool to do the skirt like this, with some
of the flowers made from ribbon and others out of actual sugar?”

Lydia looks at the picture. “Ooh! The top looks like it was frosted with a serrated spatula. Love it!”

Shea wrinkles her tiny, pointy nose, as if my idea stinks.

“Why couldn't we combine all of our ideas?” Gabriella inspects the picture. “We have three or four models to present. One could look like a shimmery, sugary pixie—with an updo—and another could wear a frosting dress. These ribbon flowers are easy.”

“I can do sugar flowers in my sleep,” Lydia says.

The next thing I know, she and Gabriella are brainstorming how
they
can pull off
my
idea! Shea and I are left glaring at each other while they babble about frosting and ribbon and “pops of color.” I thought this was going to be two teams working together, and anyway, if it's my idea, I should be in charge. I'm fuming. And Shea? Talk about a Runway Diva. I don't even want to talk to her. She must feel the same way about me, because she pulls out her phone and starts texting.

“So what are you guys going to do?” Gabriella asks.
You guys?
What?

Shea doesn't even look up from her phone. “I've already designed my dresses. I'm sure Charlotte can figure out some hair to go with them.”

Gabriella and Lydia exchange glances. What, are they
friends
now who can read each other's minds?

“You know, Shea,” suggests Gabriella, “you already planned on using sheer fabric. There's no reason the two
ideas can't be merged and coordinated beautifully.”

“Whatever.”

Knowing that a big part of our grade is teamwork, I decide to make the best of this disaster. “Hey!” I say. “How about we subcontract little kids from child development and ballet dancers to be our models? One could wear your pixie dress”—I look at Shea—“and they'd all dance and twirl across the stage en pointe, like they're flying.” Gabriella nods as if she agrees. My “propensity for adaptation” will certainly be highlighted in my report.

“Perfect! Like Sugar Plum fairies!” Lydia exclaims. “Not to mention
synergistic.
” I grin. About time she rejoined Team Charlotte.

Shea thinks about this for a second, slips her phone into her pocket, and almost smiles. “It might just work.”

We decide to stockpile as many ATC bucks as we can before our next meeting, to get an idea how much we'll have to spend on subcontracting. PIC has met the Runway Divas and prevailed.

Friday is the second day of the cos fund-raiser. Lydia's and my marketing efforts paid off—Thursday was nonstop, client after client, and there was even a line at one point. Several teachers and administrators, including Mr. Finn, came in for services. The salon was buzzing. The first hour or so, I kept track of how many clients each team had—we were neck and neck with Shelby and Taylor, and Joelle Sims and
Tasha Green, and the Emilys were right on our tails—but then I got focused on my work and lost count. I expect today to be just as busy.

I haven't seen Reed for days, but I do see the guy who pulled him away the other day. The basset hound guy. He's taller than I remember—like seven feet—and thin. His hair is dark and curly, and he still needs a cut. What was his name? Oh, yeah, Trent. “Hey,” I say, joining him as he walks down the hall.

“Hey, yourself,” he says.

Then I realize that I'm not sure how to ask about Reed without looking like a creepy stalker. “So, have any of you digital dudes been subcontracted for the winter style showcase yet?”

“Digital dudes?” He laughs. “Yeah, some of us have, even though we're not all dudes. Why?” He stops and looks at me as if he's trying to figure out whether I'm hitting on him. He gives me a crooked smile, and a lock of dark, curly hair flops into his eyes. They're hazel. He's not bad looking, but he's no Reed. Maybe I can introduce him to Lydia.

“Just taking a survey,” I say, looking away. “And . . . I noticed you're not all listed in the catalog.”

Something in his face changes, and he stops smiling. He knows why I asked. “Oh, you mean Reed?” I don't say anything, but my look must give me away because he adds, “He started the program late—a week or two after the bios were turned in, I think.”

“Oh, okay,” I say. “That makes sense.”

The crowd flows around us. “So you want to know if he's already taken?” he says, with a bit of an edge.

Is he talking about the showcase or romantically? I want to know the answers to both, of course, but I don't appreciate his attitude. “You don't know me or what I want,” I sass. Then, a second later, “But now that you mention it, is he?”

“You're going to have to ask
him.
And, by the way, you have a couple of tarantulas on your eyelids.” And he strides away, not even looking back once. Forget him. He's too arrogant for Lydia.

When I get to the cos salon, things are in full swing. Ms. Garrett is on the other side of the reception area unlocking the door to the parking lot. Shelby and Taylor are folding towels at Shelby's hair station, and Joelle and Tasha are tossing out dried up nail polishes. Byron grabs his nail kit and cuticle oil from the supply closet. Even Toby is working, setting up his manicure station. Lydia is already there, too, wearing her smock and sitting in a pedi chair along the far wall with her feet on each side of the foot spa in front of her. “Hey, can we talk?” she asks.

“Sure. I'm sorry. Things have been crazy this week.” I sit down on a rolling stool and let my purse slide down my arm to the floor. I spin to look in the mirrored wall, batting my lashes. “Do these look like tarantulas?”

She half laughs. “Uh, no! Why?”

I don't think so, either. “No reason.” Trent's an idiot.

Lydia peels nail polish off her thumb again. “I haven't known how to—”

“Charlotte. Lydia,” Ms. G pages from the reception desk. She's only a few feet away, but she says paging is more professional. Personally, I think it's obnoxious, but nobody asked me. “Your first appointment has arrived.”

“Talk later?” Lydia must really want to tell me something.

“Sure. Of course.” I turn on the hot water for my foot bath, and go introduce myself to my client. I've already met her, though—it's Ann, from the Twisted Pretzel. Her friend Raynee introduces herself to Lydia.

“Hey!” I say. “Thanks for requesting us.”

“No problem.” Ann's already hung up her coat, and follows me back. “I usually do my own pedicures, but since neither of us has class until later this afternoon, Raynee thought it'd be fun to have a spa day.”

“Great idea!” I show Ann to my station.

“We might even splurge for manicures,” Raynee says, lowering her feet into Lydia's foot bath, “if you have time.”

“We'll make time,” I say.
Cha-ching!

“Cute shirt,” Lydia says to Ann. “Snapz!, right?”

“Actually, it's part Snapz! and part Raynee Gilbert.” Ann holds her arms out like she's presenting a fabulous prize on a game show. “Raynee alters most of our clothes.”

“You? Wow! That's amazing!” As usual, Lydia is instantly comfortable and making conversation with Raynee as if they're old friends. They talk about sewing and how it's a lost art and clothing sizes and how they don't fit anyone, really.

It's not as easy for me, but I try. “What school do you guys go to?”

“Officially, Northwest,” says Ann, “but we're taking dual enrollment courses three days a week at Jackson College.”

I set up my scrub, lotion, and tools on the tiled area around the foot spa. “That's cool. My brother did that, too.”

Lydia pulls out her pedi note card and sets it next to her. Raynee notices, but doesn't say anything. I'm super embarrassed. “We're students, so we're still learning,” I say quickly. “We want to make sure we don't skip anything.” I leave out the fact that we should know how to do a simple pedi blindfolded by now, and that
I
do.

“No problem.” Raynee scrolls through her phone.

Lydia and I set up the rest of the tools and lotions on a towel while Raynee and Ann relax, soaking their feet in the warm, sudsy, lavender-scented water. Music plays in the background, like in a regular salon. Around us, several others—even some guys—are getting the salon treatment.

When I start buffing the rough spots on Ann's feet, she pulls away and giggles. “Sorry,” she says. “I'm really ticklish. That's why I've always done my own pedis.”