Charlotte Cuts It Out (10 page)

I spend the next hour and a half behind the dairy case reading tiny stamped dates and putting them in chronological order. Little detailed jobs like this always put me in a better mood; they're my specialty around the store. Oliver, of course, says it's a control thing.

Lydia arrives just as I'm finishing up and figuring out the winner. I give her a chance to get in the pool before I go around and collect, but she passes. While I do that, she grabs the things on her shopping list. She's checking out when I pay Tyler, the winner of ten smackers.

Tammy's hair is in her face again. “Here,” I say, handing her a pack of little barrettes I had in my purse from when Dad put half of my hair care section in the health and beauty aisle on clearance. He claimed the items weren't selling well
enough to take up so much space, but I'd argued that he didn't give the display enough of a chance. He didn't listen, so I bought up most of the stock I'd painstakingly ordered and arranged.

“Wow! Thanks!” She smiles and immediately swipes her stray hair back, clipping in a barrette. “My bangs have been driving me crazy all day.”

“No problem.” I shoulder my purse. “Growing them out takes patience. But they're looking good.”

Tammy winks at me, thanks me again, and hands Lydia her receipt.

In the parking lot, before we head to our cars, I ask Lydia if she saw Hannah. She says, “Yup. I went right up to her and said, ‘Bitch, you mess with my friend and you mess with me!'”

“You did not!” I jingle my keys.

“I know.” Then she laughs at her own joke. I laugh, too.

Walking into Lydia's kitchen feels like putting on yoga pants and slippers after a long day of skirts and heels. Lydia unloads the groceries and chops a bunch of veggies, then starts whipping up something with cucumbers and avocados. I turn on QVC, mute it, and get the music going. We sing along to some old Christina Aguilera song while I clear off the papers, mail, and miscellaneous debris from the kitchen table, piling it into a neat stack on the sideboard. No matter how uncomfortable things have been
lately, the pull of decade-long habits is too strong.

“So I have this idea,” Lydia says. She hands me a bowl of what looks like guacamole. I dip my finger in it, but before I can lick it, she pushes my finger into my face, smearing the goo on my cheek. I instantly stick my hand into the bowl to fling a huge wad at her, but before I can, she yells, “Don't! It's a face mask!”

I freeze mid-fling. “Wait! What?”

“It's a face mask,” she repeats. “Since I need to do a booth at the wellness fair next Friday
and
since I'm coming from cos
and
since you're my partner, I thought my project could be skin food.”

“Skin food.” I look at the mixture in my hand. It smells yummy—fresh and light.

“Yeah.” She gives me a smile. “What else would a foodie and a cosmetologist present at a health fair?”

“Kool-Aid hair dye?” Then we both crack up.

In middle school, we both wanted colored streaks in our hair. We were talking about it at the store, and Tammy told us that her daughter used unsweetened Kool-Aid and vinegar to color hers. “It's easy,” she said dryly, “if you want to look and smell like an Easter egg.”

Neither of us could think of anything we wanted more than Easter-egg hair, so we grabbed a handful of raspberry and grape Kool-Aid packets right before Lydia's mom picked us up. We were smart enough to realize that the stuff would stain, so we changed into swimsuits and decided to put it on in the shower.

By the time Patti realized what we were doing, their bathroom looked like a crime scene at Willy Wonka's. Deep pink and purple splashes and streaks were everywhere, including our arms, legs, necks, and torsos.

We had no skills, so instead of highlights or streaks, we had chunks and sections of variegated pinks and purples. Since we both have light hair, those bright colors grabbed hold and hung on tight. It was horrible, and we loved it.

“Then we discovered hair chalk . . .” Lydia reminisces.

“Easter-egg hair 2.0,” I say. “I loved that stuff. Still do. But then we learned to foil . . .”

“. . . and we used Mom's food coloring and pastry brushes.”

“That was the biggest mess ever.”

“It wasn't
that
bad.” She covers the guacamole-facial bowl with plastic wrap.

“Not like when I got that curling thing from TV—”

“—and got my hair so tangled in the bristles that we had to cut it loose.”

“At least bangs were in style,” I say.

“We tried so many crazy things. What were we thinking?”

“PICs,” I say, laughing, then instantly regret it. We're not PICs anymore. There's this weird awkward moment. Is she thinking the same thing I am? What are we now?

Lydia breaks the tension. “So we can't really do full facials. People aren't going to want to mess up their makeup.” She returns to her pile of chopped veggies and deftly adds them to some oil in a pan.

“True.” I pull out a stool at the kitchen island and sit.

“So I was thinking that we'd have a batch mixed up to show the consistency and how great it smells.” She stirs the veggies. The garlicky aroma makes my stomach grumble. “People can try it on their hands, like at the cosmetics counter. And we can give out recipe pamphlets.”

“Perfect for subcontracting to a graphic designer,” I suggest with a sly grin. If we hire Reed, I could work with him for both Lydia's and my projects, for lots of quality bonding time.

“Exactly. But . . .” She stops stirring and removes the pan from the heat. “Don't be mad. . . .”

“What?” I brace myself for
another
bomb.

“I already hired a graphic designer.” Then she starts talking really fast, spewing explanation. “I started so late, and the wellness fair is only two weeks away. I had to move quickly.” She gets out another pan and pours cream into it. “We had a big meeting with some of the other programs to finish up the subcontracting details, and since I'm working on my own right now—everyone else is in teams—I feel so weird, you know?”

Yes, I
do
know—thanks to you.

Is she trying to say that she made a mistake? That she really belongs in cos, with me? I don't ask, though. I just listen to the rest of her story. She's my best friend, PIC or not.

Lydia puts water on for the pasta and stirs the sauce. “Well, at the meeting, Mrs. Barbara, my CA teacher, introduced me to a graphic designer. Since he was available, I jumped on him.”

“You jumped on him? Go, Lyd!”

“Not like that. God, Charlotte. You know what I mean.”

“You haven't had a boyfriend since Cody. Maybe you need to get back out there.” Cody and Lydia dated from ninth grade into tenth and then off and on for a few months. He messed with her head a lot. He was super moody, so when we'd all go out, she never knew if he was going to be charming and fun or sullen and critical. Actually, taking sides when Cody and Lydia fought was one of the reasons why Matt and I broke up.

“I'm out there.” She whisks the sauce with fervor. “I talk to guys all the time. I just haven't found the right one.”

“What about this graphic design guy? What's his name? Does he know Reed? Is he cute?” I grab a piece of zucchini from the pan on the counter and pop it in my mouth.

“I don't know. I guess so, but let it go. I just met him, and the one convo we had was about the booklet he's creating for us. I'm supposed to bring him the finished recipes on a flash drive by the end of the week. So you're okay that I hired him?”

I finish chewing before I speak. “Looks like I have to be. It's already done.” Yes, I'm disappointed that I won't be bonding with Reed over cucumber and avocado clip art, but there's always the winter style showcase.
Take that, Pops. I can stop, drop, and roll sometimes.

Besides, in my mind I've already raced ahead to Lydia and her mystery man and Reed and me as potential
friend-couples. I don't mention any of that to her, though. She's clearly not ready to go there—yet. And until Reed asks me out, we're not, either.

The next thing I know Lydia and I are sitting in her dining room wearing guacamole facials and eating “penne à la Lydia,” featuring, in Lydia's words, “a garlic cream sauce and a sautéed vegetable medley.”

“You sauté? Look at you being all Iron Chef,” I tease, but I'm genuinely impressed, given my recent rice casserole debacle.

Lydia laughs. “Of course.”

I really want to ask her why she changed programs, but I'm not sure I want to know. What if it was because of me? She doesn't want to work at the store with me; maybe she doesn't want to work in a salon with me, either. I don't want to think about it—just like Lydia doesn't want to think about boyfriends.

Instead, I rave over her food and we plan out the rest of our booth. Lydia says that since child development is also involved in the fair, there will be tons of kids there, so everyone has been encouraged to include something for them, too. We decide to do face painting and include an edible paint recipe in our brochure. Lydia already has the recipes figured out, which are amazing. She even included one for Kool-Aid hair dye!

“And then there's the party the night after the fair.” Lydia sprinkles more parmesan on her pasta. “Everyone from CA, CD, and the health programs, plus all the subcontractors will be there.”

“That sounds like so much fun!” I key the event into my phone calendar, devour another forkful of pasta, and imagine us whooping it up together with our digital design dudes.

“I know, right?” She puts her fork down, and we return to plans for the presentation.

We discuss how the booth should be decorated—in greens, with silk flowers. Lydia will borrow them from the bakery's window décor stash, since they won't be in use this time of year. We'll create posters with pictures and explanations of all sorts of skin-enriching foods. Lydia says we've already done more than a lot of the culinary arts teams. Maybe, I think, we'll have a shot at winning
both
of our showcases.

After we put the leftovers away for her parents, we dive into the richest, creamiest crème brûlée I've ever had—and I've eaten a lot of Patti Cakes desserts. “Wow!” I say, my mouth full. “This is awesome. Your mom really outdid herself.”

“This isn't from the bakery,” she says proudly. “I made it last night.”

“No way!”

“Way!” She beams. “I know it's not cake, but—”

“Who cares? This is delicious! You really
are
an Iron Chef!”

As I devour my dessert, I remember what Mom said about Lydia having a knack for working with food. And I have to admit that she does. But did she have to leave cos to do it?

We spend another hour or two watching QVC, criticizing the hosts' hair and reminiscing about our own hair disasters—like Lydia's sixth-grade perm and my first attempt using a razor to texturize. We also gossip about people from school—who's
dating whom and who's breaking up with whom—and talk about food. I tell her about my rice casserole, and she cringes. She tells me about these new cookies they started making at Patti Cakes, and how everyone seems to like them. I love how we can go from TV to hair to school to cookies so effortlessly. But there's something else there now—a ginormous elephant in the room with us.

In the way best friends have, Lyd seems to read my mind. She turns so she's facing me on the couch. “You're here, and things seem okay between us. Are you still mad about, you know . . . ?” She chews on her lip. She sometimes does that when she's nervous, especially when her nail polish is all peeled off, which it is.

“A little,” I say, sounding snippier than I intended. Maybe because I'm madder and more worried—about why she left and where that leaves me—than I'm admitting. “I just don't get it.”

“I know,” she says to the afghan on the back of the couch. “It's just that—well, I started baking to help Mom, I started cooking to help around here, and I started cos because of us. But lately I've been thinking about what
I
want. You know, what do I want to do every day—as a career—once school is over . . .”

I don't want to hear this. I don't want to believe that when Lydia imagines her options for the future, the better choice excludes me. Not once have I ever thought about working without her. I can't even fathom it.

I watch TV and try to tune her out as she goes on about
how rolling perms and filing feet and cutting hair don't excite her like rolling dough and filling pastries and chopping food. For her, cos skills are great for personal maintenance and style, but not something she wants to do all day, every day. All I hear are Mom's words in Lydia's voice:
A fun hobby, but not a real career. Blah, blah, blah.
It's bad enough that my mother feels this way, but Lydia, too? I can't take it.