Charlotte Cuts It Out (9 page)

As I slow to a walk, I see the manila envelope I threw away last week still sticking out of the garbage bin by the dryer.

It wouldn't hurt to take a peek.

Sitting cross-legged on the cool concrete floor, I look through Mom's college pamphlet collection. Wow, she put a lot of effort into this. There are brochures for nearby universities—some public, some private—and a few from schools in other parts of the country. Everyone in the pictures looks so posed and happy.

I pretend I'm the girl in the Ferris brochure wearing a white lab coat and looking into a microscope. “Yes, I'm looking at bacteria in cow spit, and I find it fascinating!” I check out her hair. What, don't science majors have time for root touch-ups? Geez! “You're in a brochure representing your future alma mater, honey,” I say to her. “Do it for them, if not for yourself.”

“Who are you talking to?” Mom startles me. I didn't hear her come home, let alone down the stairs.

“Oh my lanta! Don't sneak up on people!” I put my hand across my chest. “You about gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry.” She pops out my earbuds and lets them drop into my lap. “Feeling better?”

I'm not sure if it's the Advil or the essential oils or the
run or just the break, but my head isn't pounding anymore. “Yeah.”

“Glad to see you're finally looking at those.” She scoops up the clothes I'd draped over the washer. “They're not too messed up from Buffy's pee?”

“Huh?” Then I remember my snide remark at dinner last week and half laugh. “No.”

“Lydia called the store looking for you,” she says. “She said you weren't picking up your phone. Is something going on that I should know about?”

Maybe it's because we're among laundry soap and college brochures, and the moment weirdly reminds me of a mother/daughter heart-to-heart from a TV commercial—Hallmark or Folgers or possibly Tampax—but I open up about my meeting with Mr. Finn and Lydia's switching programs.

“Culinary arts, huh?” she says. I nod. “That's a much better fit for her. She's got a knack for working with food, and there's always a need for that somewhere. I'm glad to see that
she's
looking at the future realistically.”

I'm not sure what I was expecting—a hug, an understanding shoulder squeeze, or comforting words that somehow hint that she's on my side—but Mom's reaction won't make it into a commercial anytime soon.

So the situation still stands. With or without Lydia, I have to prove to Mom that cosmetology
is
a realistic career. So what if the Grand Plan fell apart? My resolve strengthens.

Step one: create a new and improved Grand Plan—the Grander Plan.

Dad can't get away from the store, and Mom has some wine-tasting thing tonight, so I take my dinner, a bowl of chili from the simmering Crock-Pot, to my room. I grab a spiral notebook from my backpack and start making a to-do list.

Charlotte's
and Lydia's
Grander Plan

1.  Win Winter Style Showcase. —> Earn stellar reps, bragging rights, and accolades.

Bonus: Win the bet and
tell Mom where she can shove those brochures
prove that I'm capable of choosing my own path.

2.  Graduate high school with honors, college credits, and cosmetology license
s
.

3.  Get an apartment
together with Lydia
and a job
s
in a top salon to pay for college.

4.  Get an associate's degree
s
in business at Jackson College.

5.  Build clientele —> Get enough money to open a salon
together
.

6.  Be the bos
ses
and live happily ever after.

 Bonus:
Marry best friends. (At the very least, they will become best friends.)
Have a hot, non-annoying boyfriend
s
.

After a long shower and thorough moisturizing, I see I have several missed calls from Lydia and a text.
Please call me. Please.

Might as well deal with it. I tap her picture in my contacts.

“Hey,” I say when she picks up. I doodle flowers and scrolly vines on a new page in my notebook.

“Hey.” She takes a deep breath and talks fast. “Listen, I'm
so
sorry that I didn't tell you before Finn did.”

“You said you wanted to talk this weekend, but you didn't try very hard.” I draw a version of Shea's pixie dress.

“You were working, and it was really busy at the bakery—there was never a good time—” She pauses. “Those are just excuses.”

“Yeah,” I say, letting the word hang in the air.

“I know. I'm sorry. I was wrong. So, so, so wrong not to tell you. I was just afraid how you'd react.”

“So waiting until it's a done deal and having Finn break it to me was supposed to ease the blow?”

“I didn't think about that. I'm a chickenshit coward and a rotten friend.”

“At least we agree on that.”

She laughs. I don't.

After a long, awkward silence, she asks, “Do you have to work tomorrow?”

“Yeah, but Dad finally hired someone for the deli-slash-bakery—whom I hate, BTW—so I plan to avoid that
whole area of the store.” I write REED in big block letters.

“You've never liked
anyone
your father's hired. That Kayden girl, who you claimed was the Antichrist. Geoffrey, that old guy with the fake British accent. And Daryl, who ended everything he said with
You know what I mean?
”

“Hey, Kayden was evil. Geoffrey was from Kalamazoo. And you agreed that Daryl was annoying. You know what I mean?”

She laughs. “I guess. So what did this new girl do?”

Even though I'm still pissed at her, Lydia is the only person I can really talk to. I tell her the whole story while I color in each letter of Reed's name with a different design.

“That bitch!” she says when I get to the part when I page Dad. And it's just the right thing to say to make me feel better—about that part of my life, anyway.

My phone beeps—low battery. After I plug it into the charger, Lydia says, “So how about I meet you at the store around four-thirty, pick up a few groceries, and make dinner at my house? As a peace offering.”

I agree, as long as there's cake.

31 days to the Winter Style Showcase

Cos without Lydia feels weird. It's like half of me is missing. There's no one to roll my eyes at when Toby says something idiotic; no one to sympathize with me about Shelby. Worst of all, I'm on my own for all the partner exercises. Ms. G assures me that Lydia's spot should be filled by the end of the week. She means well, but my PIC can't be replaced by some random person who didn't make the cut originally.

I sit in my usual seat in the front row and swear I feel everyone watching me, hear them whispering about me. I'm not cut out to be a loner. I'm a leader, and leaders need people. Lydia is my people.

It's BOGO taco day. I text Lydia:
Loco's calling.

She doesn't reply until the bell is about to ring.
Can't. Finishing a soufflé. Working through lunch. Sorry.

By now, I feel committed to Loco, since I've been thinking about his crunchy tacos all morning. I'll grab a couple for Lydia, too, and take them over to the ATC kitchens. It's better than eating alone.

I pull into Loco's, on my way to the drive-thru. A few digital dudes are getting out of a vintage black Camaro. Then I see the driver—Reed! No way am I driving through. I whirl into the space next to them, do a quick hair-and-gloss check in the mirror, get out of the car, and make my way to the restaurant.

Reed holds the door open for me. What a gentleman! “Thank you.” I smile.

“No problem.” He winks.

We all wait in line together—Reed, me, Trent, and another guy they call Birch. If Trent's a tall, skinny basset hound, Birch is more like a bulldog—burly, with wide shoulders and chest and a tiny waist and butt.

“Is that your car?” I ask Reed.

“Yup.” He inches closer to me as the line moves forward. “It was my brother's, but he sold it to me when he went into the Marines. You like it?”

“I do.” I look directly at him. “It's hot.” We hold eye contact for yet another flirtatious moment. Why couldn't Lydia be here to witness this?

Trent orders six tacos and a large Pepsi. Whoa! That's a lot of food. Up close, I realize that he smells like peppermint and clean laundry. He takes his drink cup, moves off to the side, and waits for his order.

I order two tacos for me and two for Lydia and a small Diet Mountain Dew for us to share—to go. When I pull out my wallet, Trent says, “That's a Dooney and Bourke.”

Wow! I've never known a guy to recognize designers,
especially not handbag designers, before. “Yeah, it is. I got it for Christmas.”

“My mom has a couple of them.” He moves to the fountain pop dispenser and fills his cup with Mountain Dew. I'd love to take a pair of scissors to his hair. The shaggy hound look does not suit him.

“Hey!” I drop a hint to Reed. “Have you seen that new James Bond movie yet?”

He says he hasn't. Then he orders two tacos and a side of chips and cheese.

I'm just about to ask him if he'd like to when Trent interrupts. “I've seen it. Daniel Craig is probably the best Bond ever.”

“Seriously? You think so?” I say. “Better than Roger Moore, Pierce Brosnan, and Sean Connery?”

“Heck, yeah. He's not pretty like those other guys. He's more believable.”

He's crazy. Pretty? Nothing about James Bond is
pretty.
“You have no idea what you're talking about.”

“I could kick all their asses,” proclaims Birch.

And within seconds, the conversation degenerates into all the tough-guy actors, old and young, whose asses Birch feels equipped to kick—Chuck Norris, the Rock, Clint Eastwood. I shake my head, fill my drink cup, and take a sip. Anybody can talk big in the Loco's Taco line.

By now Trent's food is up. He smirks at me and takes his tray to a table by the window. Ugh, that smirk. Rather than get caught in another argument with him, I turn to Reed, and turn on the charm.

“So, Reed,” I say, “what's going on this weekend?”
Take the hint, dude.
Movie + weekend + girl = date.

He smiles mischievously—so freaking adorable! “My brother's coming home on leave.” His food is ready, and so is mine. “We're probably going to MSU to party at his old frat house.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“It usually is.” He grabs his tray, and I take my paper bag. “What about you? What are you doing?” he asks.

Waiting for you to ask me out.
(No, that sounds too desperate.)
Same as you, going to a party.
(But that makes me look unavailable.) I need something more mysterious, as if I could have plans, but nothing definitive, in case he does ask me out. “Not sure yet.” I stand with one hand on the exit door.

“Bring over some hot sauce, will you?” Trent calls. Can't he see we're having a conversation? He can get his own hot sauce—or ask Birch to do it.

“Okay,” Reed calls back. Then, before he gets it, he gives me another wink. “See you around, Charlotte.”

“Later, Reed.” I bounce out the door.

He doesn't ask me out, but I can tell he's close. Guys don't want to make a move when their friends are right there and interrupting. My ex-boyfriend Matt and I flirted for the entire summer before he finally asked me on a date. He was shy, though. It shouldn't take nearly as long with Reed.

By the time I get back to the ATC kitchens, lunch is almost over. Lydia removes her soufflé from the oven, and I
ask her to free her curls from that hideous hairnet. She rolls her eyes, but she does it. I tell her about Reed while we scarf down our cold tacos. I expect her to tease me as usual about his not even being real, but instead she tells me about her crappy morning—burning her first soufflé and having to start over. Good friends listen, so I do, but it all feels so rushed.

We check our teeth for stray lettuce as the bell rings and then head to “icks” class.

Later, when I get to work, I do everything I can to avoid Hannah. First, I redo the Opening Day display—as usual. I know he thinks he's helping, but Ralph's idea of aesthetically pleasing and mine are clearly not the same. He just stacks and groups everything together. I prefer merchandise to be spread out so that when customers take items, it doesn't look as picked over. No matter how many times I show him how to do it—or Dad, or Pops—they never listen.

I spend the rest of the afternoon stocking the dairy case and removing anything past its expiration date. Few things are more exciting than old sour cream and yogurt, except maybe creating a pool predicting how many items need to be thrown out—or as Dad puts it, “written off.”

Some Pringle's Market bets are long-range, and involve buying squares on a calendar, such as the birth date of Oliver and Nina's baby. Some allow people time to buy in, but close on a certain day, like who will win
America's Got Talent,
the Stanley Cup, or Best Picture at the Oscars. (Or Mom's and my showcase bet.) One of my favorites, though, is a “quick
pick.” That's a one-dollar same-day bet. We have pre-printed lists with all the employees' names, and room for write-ins for quicker picking. Someone walks around the store, takes the bets, and collects the cash. The only stipulation is that you have to pay that day. Since gambling isn't exactly legal in Michigan, Dad won't let us do this in front of customers, but we have our workarounds.

Expired food is a pretty common quick pick. To keep it on the down low, we use code. Tammy is scanning a huge order and has a long line of customers. “Can I get a QP on dairy for today?” I ask her.

A piece of hair falls from her usual clip. She tucks it behind her ear and checks her smock pocket quickly—probably to make sure she's got a buck—and replies, “Fourteen?”

I check the list to see if anyone's chosen that yet. Nope. “Perfect. Thanks.” I'll put a check next to her name once I get her dollar. She's good for it. The other two cashiers buy in, too.

Tyler mumbles “eleven” while methodically bagging at the end of the checkout.

I smile at Mr. Skrocki, who's holding his debit card and waiting, and write down Tyler's guess. “Got it.”

I find Mom, Dad, and Oliver in the office. Mom's on the phone, but holds up a hand. “Five,” I say. “Got it.” She gives me a thumbs-up, never skipping a beat.

Dad, who's engrossed in balancing the books, guesses zero. He says it's “the power of positive thinking.” Oliver calls it “wishful thinking,” and guesses twenty-two. I leave
as Dad and Oliver debate whether or not attitude contributes to reality.

Pops sits on a stool in customer service and waits on an old guy he calls Bud. Once Bud pockets his lottery ticket and pack of smokes and walks away, I ask, “QP on dairy?”

“I didn't pee on anyone . . . today,” says Pops, straight-faced. “And who's Darry?”

“Pops!” I laugh and pray nobody heard him. Is he joking, or did he hear me wrong? With Pops, you never know, so I repeat, enunciating carefully, “Quick. Pick. On. The. Dairy. Case?”

He guesses two and then asks, “Did you forget Nina and the new girl?”

“No,” I say. I didn't forget, exactly. It's more like deliberate avoidance.

Pops knows exactly what I'm doing. As I walk toward produce, he calls, “Stop, drop, and roll, Charlotte.”

When I was in kindergarten, we had a Fire Safety Day at school. We had to color a picture of what we were supposed to do if—God forbid—we were ever on fire. There were giant bubble letters to color that said
Stop, Drop, and Roll.

Then the teacher, Ms. Rhodes, read a picture book supplied by the local fire department. It showed all these dangerous scenarios of a fictional kid named Ted doing stupid things and catching himself on fire. Then she'd ask, “What should Ted do?”

All the kids shouted, “Stop, drop, and roll!”

Not me. I raised my hand and questioned Ted's motives and family situation. Why was he lighting a barbecue grill?
Where were his parents? Why were they using candles—didn't they have lights? If he had fire safety at school, shouldn't he know better?

Ms. Rhodes told me that these were all
excellent
questions, and then asked, “What should Ted do if he makes a mistake and finds himself in a scary situation?”

“Call 9-1-1,” I answered.

“Before that.” She was relentless.

“Jump in the lake.”

She explained how running just fans the flames and creates a bigger problem, and that there's an important step before water and calling 9-1-1. She asked the rest of the class what that was and they screamed in unison, “Stop, drop, and roll!”

Then she asked me again what Ted should do.

By now, I was pissed. I said, “Ted should go to a different school, because his teacher didn't teach him to watch out for fire.”

That night, at the dinner table, Mom announced that Ms. Rhodes had called her. “Charlotte, you
knew
the right answer,” she said.

Pops stuck up for me. “She's a smart girl and a free thinker,” he said. “She'll figure things out for herself.”

Ever since then, when he thinks I'm being too stubborn for my own good, he reminds me to stop, drop, and roll.

I wave him off and head for the produce department.

Ralph hands me a dollar bill and says “seven” before I open my mouth. He's never missed a pool that I can
remember. Once, when I was about fourteen, I asked about the seemingly never-ending supply of singles in his front pocket. He explained that they were “for bets, for tips, and for the titty bar.” Nina was standing right there, and she had just started at the store, so I figured he was going for shock value. I played along and called him a skeevy old bastard. Ralph guffawed and said he might be offended if 1) It wasn't true, and 2) It wasn't coming from a “spoon-licker”—his term for a spoiled brat who has everything handed to her, but takes it for granted. I called him a few more choice words after that.

Nina relayed the whole story to Oliver, who told Mom, and I got in trouble, which is one reason I am not a fan of Nina's—another reason I walk by her and Hannah again as if they aren't even there.