Charlotte Cuts It Out (8 page)

I stare at Mr. Finn's praying ax hands. “For Lydia to make a smooth transition to culinary arts . . .” he begins.

Lydia. Transition. Culinary arts.
His words echo along with my throbbing pulse while his hands chop away at my world.

“She'll need to focus on the wellness fair, which is their showcase, of course, and it's coming up in less than two weeks.”

Wellness fair. Showcase. Two weeks
.

“We've decided that the two of you can continue as a team, even though you're officially in different programs.”

Continue. Team. Different. Programs.

“You'll assist her at the fair, and she'll assist you in your showcase. Of course, once the empty spot in cos is filled from the waiting list, that student will also be on your team. Unfortunately, because the fashion design program is so new and doesn't offer a state certificate, there is no waiting list. So
your team, as well as Shelby and Taylor's, will need to function with only one fashion designer.”

Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah.

“We realize this is unusual, but the program directors both speak highly of your ability to lead and to adapt. Look at the bright side—while it may feel as if you've lost a team member today, by the time of your showcase, you'll still have four people dedicating their time and talents to your team.” Mr. Finn forces a grin that makes me wince.

Blah. Blah. Blah.
Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Bright side?

I've got to get out of here before I get sick.

“Do either of you have any questions?” he asks. I can't speak. Lydia is dead silent. Mr. Finn clears his throat. “Well, then. Please talk to your program directors should any questions or problems arise. My door is always open as well.” Then he chuckles, and stands up. “Well, usually, anyway. Sometimes, it's just cracked.”

Chuckle. Cracked. Chuckle. Cracked.

Cracked.

That's when I realize that's exactly how I feel. Cracked.

I stand, too. I think Lydia does as well, but I'm not looking at her.

Mr. Finn walks around the desk and escorts us to the door. My ankles wobble as I concentrate on moving across the cushy geometric shapes.

I'm not sure what Mr. Finn says next, but I'm pretty sure it's some sort of
see-you-later
pleasantry, because the next thing I know I've hoisted my backpack and purse onto my
shoulder and my heels are
tap, tap, tapping
down the hall as fast as possible.

Without even pausing at my locker for my coat, I burst through the heavy double doors that lead to the parking lot. The last time I was out here alone during school, I was helping Lydia avoid a fashion disaster. Back when Lydia dressing like everyone else at ATC was unthinkable. Back when I thought Lydia and I were PICs with a Grand Plan. Back when things made sense.

The damp, cold November wind slaps my face. It feels good after being in that suffocating office. As I hurry to my car, icy, smoky puffs billow from my mouth like cartoon thought bubbles. If I were in a comic strip, they would be filled with expletive symbols.

I sit in the driver's seat. My pounding head falls forward and rests on the steering wheel. Then a rap on my window makes me jump. It's Lydia.

“Can we talk?” she mouths.

I roll down my window about halfway, but don't unlock the door. “What?”

“I know you're mad—”

“Mad? I wouldn't call it mad.” Although maybe I would—in the Mad Hatter sense of the word. What happened in Finn's office resembled a tea party in Wonderland. Then I laugh a strange little half-laugh. Maybe I am mad. In the anger sense of the word.

“I've wanted to tell you for a long time, but I didn't know where to start. And then you agreed to that bet. I was scared
of how you'd react.” She rubs her hands up and down her bare arms. Even though it's less than forty degrees and feels like it could rain—or snow—any second, I don't invite her inside the car and I don't offer her any of the sweaters, hoodies, or jackets from my backseat, either. If I'm cold—and I am—then she should be colder.

A long time?
Lydia's known about this for
a long time
? How long is “a long time”?

I take a deep breath and glare at her. “How about ‘Charlotte, I'm switching programs. Charlotte, I'm throwing away our Grand Plan—our dreams for our future. Charlotte, I'm ditching you.'” With the last “Charlotte,” my voice cracks.

Cracks
. I need to get out of here. I start my car.

“Where are you going?” Lydia steps back as I shift into gear.

“I don't know.” What I do know: I'm keeping her prize bags.

I pull away and leave her standing in the parking lot as the first few raindrops dot my windshield.

Although all I really want to do is take some Advil, climb into bed, and pull the covers over my head, I decide that I'm not Nina. I'm going to go to the store and work. At least at Pringle's Market, I know what to expect.

Except as soon as I walk through the sliding doors, I don't see Katie or Nina or Dad or Pops in the deli/bakery. Instead, behind the counter is a raggedy stranger with the crappiest black dye job I've ever seen. It's obviously boxed color—and wrong for her skin tone, too. She's on her cell phone. I knew Dad was interviewing this morning, but I didn't realize he'd hire someone so quickly.

I start to say hello and tell her that I'm just going to drop my stuff in the break room and I'll be back to help her, but I don't get the chance. As soon as I say, “Hey . . .” she holds up her index finger in a terse
wait-a-minute
gesture.

I resist the overwhelming urge to go back there, rip the phone out of her hand, bury it in coleslaw, and have Dad fire her immediately. Considering the day I've had, I'm in no mood for this. She clearly thinks I'm a customer, so I
don't tell her otherwise. Testing: how long will she be on the phone while a “customer” waits?

My phone pings. I wrestle it out of my purse. It's a text from Mom:
Where are you? Just got robocall from school.
I'll deal with that later.

A couple of regular customers in the produce section keep glancing over, clearly perplexed as to why I'm on this side of the counter. I simply smile and continue to wait. Mr. Cho smiles back and hands his toddler a grapefruit, but Mrs. Lambert pretends as if she isn't looking.

“He still won't stop?” Raggedy-hair girl leans against the stool by the chicken rotisserie. “Please!” She laughs. “I know. It's not funny. I don't know what to say. At least he's cute. Right?”

I clear my throat to remind her that I'm still here, and she turns her back. She flipping
turns her back
on me!

What's going on today? First, my best friend blindsides me, and while my head is still spinning, everything is haywire at the store, too. Is there any place where things are as they should be?

That's it. I'm done.

Juggling my purse and backpack, I go behind the counter, pick up the store phone, and press the intercom button.
Now
the girl decides to pay attention to me. “Hey, what are you doing? You can't—”

“Moose Pringle to the deli, please. Moose to the deli,” I page. Then I slam the phone onto the receiver and glare at her.

Before either of us can say anything, Nina rushes out of the break room. As soon as she sees me, she stops dead. Her eyes dart back and forth between me and the girl. The girl notices Nina and
her
eyes dart between Nina and me, trying to read what's going on. If this were a western, Nina would be pulling innocent children—like the littlest Cho—out of harm's way. She knows I'm about to blast this girl, even if she doesn't know why. Damn! Why didn't I wear my red cowboy boots today?

“First of all,” I say, forcing myself to be calm. “I realize you don't know who I am, but that is not the point.”

“Who
are
you?” Her lip curls on one side.

I ignore her attitude. “Around here we do not ignore customers. Ever! And you shouldn't be taking personal calls, but if by some chance you are, if someone comes up to the counter, you hang up.
Immediately!
”

Mom and Dad weave through the people around the deli/bakery/produce area pretending to be engrossed in romaine and citrus and day-old strudel.

“Charlotte?” Mom translation:
What are you doing here? Why are you holding your gigantic purse behind the deli counter? And, most of all, why are you making a scene in front of customers?

I follow Mom's head-jerk summons to the break room. Nina rushes to Raggedy Rude Girl. Before I get out of earshot, I hear the girl say, “You said she wouldn't be here until three.” So Nina
did
tell her about me. Then why did she neglect to tell her how to behave around customers, especially
if she was going to leave her alone behind the counter?

Not giving Mom a chance to start in, I say, “That girl needs to go. She's a total liability. She was on the phone and ignored me for almost two minutes!”

“Give her a chance,” says Mom.

“I did,” I protest. “And she blew it.”

“It's her first day, puddin' pop.” Dad tries to be soothing, but it's condescending and pissing me off.

“Why aren't you at school?” Mom asks accusingly.

“So you're not going to fire her?” I ask Dad.

“You've said yourself that we really need someone back there. Take her under your wing. Train her. The Pringle way.”

I growl.

“That's my girl.” Dad pats my head as he opens the door to leave. “Her name's Hannah, by the way.” His work here is done.

Ralph slithers past Dad without saying a word. He pulls a sheet of paper and a pen out of the drawer and sits down at the table.

“So?” Mom presses. “Why aren't you in school?”

“I have a headache.” It's the truth, even if it's not the
whole
truth. There's no way I'm going to tell my mother, who doesn't want me to be in the cos program in the first place, that my PIC just threw me under the bus.

“Take some Advil.” Mom translation:
That's not an excuse.

“I did,” I lie. “It didn't help. Nothing can help. I have the
biggest headache in the history of all headaches.”

“Maybe you should go home and go to bed, then.” Translation:
Pull yourself together.

I scowl. I
am
together. As far as she knows, anyway. “I have to set up the Opening Day display,” I say.

“Did it already,” says Ralph, still writing.

“Did you find the mossy oak wrapping in the—?”

“Yup.”

“The hunting-themed beer cases?”

“Stacked by aisle twelve.”

“Did you arrange the—?”

“Beef jerky, disposable hand warmers, and bright orange knit caps, all asymmetrical and aesthetically pleasing.” He doesn't look up. “Of course.”

I start to protest, but Mom interrupts me. “Go home, feed and let out Buffy, and check the Crock-Pot. If it's bubbling, turn it to low. If it's not, leave it alone. Put a drop of lavender and a drop of peppermint oil behind your ears and lie down. I don't know what's going on with you, but you're wound way too tightly. Even more so than usual.” She kisses my head and returns to work.

What's going on with me? Oh, nothing much. It's just that my whole future rests on a Grand Plan that my best friend flushed down the toilet on a whim. That's all.

Ralph slides his paper over to me. “Want in?”

It's a new pool.
Hannah's Last Day.
“RWL” already takes up five squares. He pulls a five-dollar bill out of his wallet
and puts it in a “Hannah's Last Day” envelope. This is Ralph's way of saying that his money's on me. I smile, pull out a five, and match him.

Buffy must sense my mood because she doesn't mess with me today. She eats, goes out, and returns promptly, probably because it's all-out raining now. Once I take some ibuprofen, remove my makeup, and change into my yoga pants and hoodie, I curl up to watch TV in my bedroom, flipping the channels between HSN and QVC. Buffy climbs up beside me. Even though she's not supposed to be here, when she rests her humongous head on my thigh, I pet her. Sometimes I think she's the only one who truly gets me.

I never actually watch the shopping shows. They're just background noise and visuals while I do other things. Watching for more than five minutes is mind-numbing. I try to find something else, but there's nothing on that's even barely decent.

I've never missed school unless I was really sick, so I'm not sure what to do. I try putting the essential oils behind my ears like Mom suggested.

My head is still pounding and the rain is really coming down. I hear it pelting my window—perfect napping weather, or so I hear.

I slide under the covers and close my eyes. Buffy jumps off the bed and flops onto my shaggy magenta rug, which
makes me think of that crazy geometric rug and Mr. Finn, and then Lydia. I roll over and cover my head with my pillow, willing my brain to come up with something else.

Hannah is a sweet girl's name, not a bitchy slacker girl's name. I can't believe Dad hired her.

Not that, either!

I turn on some music. Maybe that'll clear my mind. A song by Cake comes on. Cake reminds me of the cake fiasco last week, and how Lydia saved my ass.

“Lydia! Ugh!” No matter how hard I try to distract myself and clear my head, I keep going back to Lydia. And, now, I also want cake.

Buffy lifts her head and looks at me like,
Do you mind? I'm trying to sleep here.

I flip off my phone dock and yank the covers back. It's no use. There is nothing relaxing about doing nothing! I grab my phone and earbuds and stomp down the stairs, through the living room, and into the kitchen. Once I start rummaging through the cupboards, Buffy barrels down the stairs and sits by the treat jar. There's no cake anywhere, not even a Little Debbie snack cake. I growl and give the dog a peanut butter nugget. There's no point in both of us suffering. Then I throw on my running shoes and tromp down to the basement.

Mom has clothes drying on hangers all over the workout equipment. I move some of them, draping them over the washer before I step onto the treadmill and push the
power button. I start off at a walk as I sync the music.

Even with it streaming directly into my head, I can't stop thinking. I ramp up the speed.

What am I going to do without Lydia in cos? The Grand Plan was designed around getting our cosmetology licenses together.
Together.
We were supposed to win the showcase and go to the Chicago hair show
together
. She would be by my side as I won the bet and stepped into our future. We were supposed to do all of it together.

And she made the decision to leave cos without me. What kind of friend does that? Even if my life weren't tied to what she does, who makes that kind of major decision without running it by her best friend? She never gets bangs or layers or even highlights without talking to me first. How could she alter the course of both of our futures without a single word?

The more I think about it, the angrier I get and the faster I run.

How could I have been so stupid? I thought I had my whole life planned and under control—but how under control could it be if so much depends on other people? On one other person. PICs, my ass. No more Partners in Cos. I'm flying solo now. And I can do whatever I want.

What
do
I want?

First, I want to slow down and stop sweating so much before I keel over. I turn down the speed and catch my breath.

Do I still want to continue cosmetology without Lydia? I'm not sure I can do it alone. The days she's not there are hard enough—putting up with Toby the slacker and Shelby
and her groupies. How can I sit through class after class without her? How can I win the showcase alone? If I have to follow Mom's plan . . . I shudder just thinking about it. I haven't even thought of any other career choices since Lydia and I created the Grand Plan.