Charlotte Cuts It Out (15 page)

Trent follows me, his camera bouncing on his chest. “You sure you're okay?”

Sure. Okay. Sure. Okay.
Why are those the only words anyone can say? The only words that do not fit me or the situation right now.

“Why wouldn't I be?” I stop in the middle of the hall and glare up at him. I wish he'd stop talking to me and look away, but he doesn't. Instead, he seems to be looking at me even
more closely, searching my face—for what, I don't know. His eyes are kind of green, almost the exact color of his polo shirt. Now the staring is getting awkward. I'm waiting for an answer to my question, and it's like he's waiting for
me
to answer it. Or to break down. Or something.

I give up and walk away, my two-inch heels echoing with each step. Halfway down the hall, I turn back, and he's still there. I keep going. Before pushing through the double doors, I check again, and he's gone.

20 Days to the Winter Style Showcase

That night, no matter what I'm doing—fielding Mom's questions at dinner, searching Pinterest for showcase ideas, or working on spreadsheets—I can't stop thinking about what happened at the fair.

Fortunately, the week leading up to Thanksgiving is always super busy at the store, so all day Saturday I focus every brain cell on turkey and stuffing mix, canned pumpkin and mashed potato flakes, and displays and customers.

I'm doing pretty well, too, until my phone reminds me of the party tonight for the wellness fair programs. Lyd invited me the night she cooked dinner for us. I'd forgotten all about it. Is she still planning on going? And if she is, do I want to go, even though Carter Reed will probably be there?

“All available cashiers to the front,” Barb pages. “All available cashiers to the front.” I spend the next three hours running a register and vacillating about whether or not I should go. Should I reach out to Lydia? I hate how things are. What's going on with her and Carter Reed? Are they a thing? She wouldn't let a guy come between us, would she? No matter
how she's been acting lately, I'm sure she wouldn't do that. By the time the crowd thins, I've pretty much convinced myself to call her after work, make amends, and go to that party.

My stomach grumbles, and I have a slight headache—I was too busy to each lunch—so I decide to grab something from the deli before I head home.

Box-dye Hannah and Katie have their own huge lines of customers, and are too busy to say anything as I slip past them and go into the back.

So are Nina and Oliver. “Don't be mad,” Oliver says, as Nina boxes up a pumpkin spice cake. “I didn't even know we were having a baby when I bought the tickets!”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Nina whips green-and-white bakery string around the box and ties it off. “I don't want to miss it, and I can't go alone. You have to bring a partner to every class.
Every
class. Not just the ones that are convenient for
them.
”

Usually I don't want Oliver and Nina to see me, but this time I wait, hoping they notice and shut up. They don't. So I wash my hands, grab a giant croissant from the bread bin, and head to the fridge for turkey, cheese, mayo, and lettuce.

“I'll be at the first one,” he says. “And the last two.” His face is red and he looks like hell. His green Pringle's apron is smeared with some red jelly-looking stuff—probably cranberry salad.

“The first one is just an introductory class—what to expect the final weeks of pregnancy, complications, communicating with your doctor, and how to know when to go to the
hospital. The
next
class is the most important—when they cover labor! That's when I'll need you.”

“I'll be there for
actual
labor.” He cups both of her shoulders in his hands. “Isn't that more important? Come on, Neen, these tickets were really expensive, and the guys had to buy them a year in advance, and—it's just one class!”

“Is this how it's going to be, Oliver?” She pulls away from him and starts crying. “Are you always going to put Red Wings games and other shit ahead of your daughter?”

I do
not
need to hear this. I slap my sandwich together and put everything away as fast as I can.

“Can't someone else do it this once? Please!”

Before I wrap the sandwich in a paper towel, I take a quick, gigantic bite. I'm starving.

“Who am I going to get? You know I can't ask Allie. Asking her to go to a childbirth class after everything she's been through is just mean.” Nina's practically hysterical now. “And my mom is too far away. So who else is there? Huh?”

“What about my mom?” And now Oliver finally notices me. “Or Charlotte?”

I stop chewing.

“Charlotte?” Nina says this as if we are being introduced for the first time.

“Why are you looking at me?” I say with my mouth full.

Oliver grins like a cartoon dog with a bone. “Yeah. Charlotte.”

I finish chewing and swallow, hard. “I'm, uh, busy that day.”

“We haven't said which day yet,” he points out.

“Well, I'm pretty busy every day.” I run my tongue over my teeth, feeling a gummy croissant and mayo film all over them.

“See, Oliver?” snaps Nina. “She doesn't want to.” Then she flips from hysterical and whiny to pissed-off. “It's fine!
Go
to your damn Red Wings game. I don't need either of you.” She grabs the pastry box so hard that the corners crumple. Then she stomps out to the counter like some pregnant Godzilla.

“Nice, Charlotte,” Oliver says dryly. “Would it kill you to think of someone besides yourself for one minute?”

“Said the guy who's leaving his pregnant wife to go to a hockey game,” I counter. “Not my commitment. Not my responsibility.”

I finish my sandwich in the break room, away from both of them.

Before I'm even done, Mom storms in. “Oh my lanta! Where's the fire?”

“‘Oh my lanta' is right.” She gives me a look. “I know Nina's not your favorite person, but would it kill you to help her out? It's only a few hours of your time.”

I can't believe this. Oliver is an
expectant father,
and he ran to Mom as if he were ten. “If it's so easy, why don't
you
do it?”

Mom's baby blues cloud over and her jaw tightens. “It looks like I'll have to,” she says coldly. “Because that's what
families
do—help each other out.” If she's trying to guilt me into it, it's not working. She turns to leave, then stops. “Oh,
and you're grounded for the rest of the weekend.”

“Grounded? Because I can't cover for Oliver? You can't be serious! I have plans with Lydia.” Maybe. But I don't tell her that.

“Not anymore, you don't.” She shakes her head. “And it's not because of the class, it's because of your snippy attitude. I'm your
mother.
You don't have to like me, but—”

“Good.” The word slips out before my mind can stop it. Why did she come in here and hassle me to begin with? I do
not
have an attitude. None of this was my fault.

Her eyes are like lasers. “Want another week?”

I don't say anything, but I don't back down, either.

She pushes open the door, then turns around for a parting shot. “I'd do it, too, but that would be more like a punishment for the rest of us.” And, with that, she's out.

Funny, Mom. You're so clever. Not!

She might have grounded me, but she didn't say that Lydia couldn't come over. Maybe we can mend fences with a makeover/movie sleepover. I really need to vent about Mom. As soon as I pull into our driveway, I call her.

“Hello?” I hear Lydia's laughing voice, loud music in the background.

“Lyd?” I open the door and Buffy rushes out past me. I brace myself to keep from toppling.

“Hey, Charlotte. What's up?” She sounds distracted, like I caught her at a bad time. Who's with her?

“Where are you?”

“Steak 'N Shake,” she says. Then to someone else, “Just a sec. I'm on the phone.”

“You sound busy.” I drop my bag, slip off my shoes and coat, and flop onto the couch.

“What? Sorry, it's loud in here.” There's a long pause and then it gets super quiet. “Okay. This is better. What did you say?”

“Mom's being stupid. She freaked out because I won't go to some childbirth class with Nina.” Buffy batters at the door. I get up to let her in.

“Really? That sucks,” she says, as if she's thinking about something else.

“I know!” I open the back door. “So do you want to—?”

It's loud again on her end; people are laughing. “Sorry, Charlotte, I've got to go.”

Go? Go where? To that party? Without me?

Cold air rushes in with Buffy.

“Okay, well . . .”

She hung up
.

“. . . bye,” I say to no one.

The old Lydia would never have gone to a party without me. The old Lydia would have said,
I'll be right there
—like we've both done lots of times. The old Lydia cared about how I felt.

“Guess it's just you and me tonight.” I toss my phone onto the end table. Buffy hops up on the couch and settles in. “Romantic comedy or action thriller?” I ask her. Movie night
with Buffy is more fun than some lame party, anyway.

About nine o'clock, Mom and Dad bring home a pizza. I'm still pissed off—and full of turkey croissant—so I'm not really hungry. One little crispy pepperoni is too irresistible, though, so I pick it off. When I go back for another, Mom yells at me. “Don't just pick at it. Take a piece.” I leave instead.

Grounded or not, there is no way I am going to bed before ten on a Saturday night. I turn on QVC and open my Grander Plan notebook and the ATC catalog. Time to find someone who isn't Carter Reed. But before I begin, I scroll through Facebook.

My aunt Kathy and uncle Scott—Dad's sister and her husband—have posted several check-ins and pics. They live in Traverse City, but they travel a lot. They're in Florida through the holidays.

There are pics of the wellness fair, statuses about weekend plans—by the sounds of it, everyone is having fun, except for me and my cousin Jonah, who lives in Texas and is sick with a cold—memes about the holidays, and pics of Katie's cat in a Pilgrim costume.

Wait! What's this?
Lydia Harris is now friends with Carter Reed.
As of twelve minutes ago. I check all of her social sites, and sure enough, she's now following him on every one. So much for not dating him. So much for never letting a guy come between us! In the time it takes for my blood pressure to rise, my browser refreshes, and the pictures start. Lydia doesn't post them, but she's tagged in them.

There's one with her laughing with a lot of people I don't know.

Another one of feet—Lydia's orange shoe next to some guy's boot.

Next, a selfie. Lydia is making duck lips, and the guy she's with looks like a goon.
It can't be,
I think, zooming in. But yes it can. It's Reed.
Dammit—when will I learn?
Carter. It's
Carter.

Lydia's with Carter, right now. At the party. They're laughing together and bonding.

Apparently, she's made her choice, and it isn't me.

18 days to the Winter Style Showcase

I'm so busy at the store on Sunday that I barely have time to think about Lydia and Carter and their goofy pics and all their bonding and inside jokes that probably make me look like a fool—well, maybe I think about it a little. Okay, maybe a lot.

By the time I get to cos the next morning, I'm a bit pissy. First thing, I ask Ms. G if I can change graphic designers. “The one we have just isn't going to work,” I say. She asks why and I tell her I'd rather not go into it. She says that unless there's a really good reason, the assignments are already set. I say I do have a good reason, but it's personal. She tells me that working with people with whom you have personal differences is called professionalism.

Before I can object further, she hands me a piece of paper—a quote from performing arts for the snow machine—tells me to discuss it with my team, and to contact Mr. Rollins, the PA director, for a subcontracting agreement by the end of the day. The quote includes a mandatory PA stage
helper to operate it. It's pricey, but worth it. Then she tells me to sit down so she can start class.

Ms. G announces that since the wellness fair is over, all our focus should now be on the style showcase. She wants to hear our project ideas—probably so she can steer the worst ones away from disaster, and make sure that we're all actually working on something—so we go around the room. Even though I always sit in the front, she weaves up and down the rows, so it takes a while to get to me. Mackenzie isn't here yet, so again, I'm on my own.

Joelle and Tasha are planning an ambitious mythology theme—with Medusa's snakes done in braids, Hera's hair fanned out in peacock feathers, and Nisus's hair dyed purple. Their skills are fierce, especially with braids and color. I'll have to keep my eye on them.

Byron and Toby are doing something with robots—gray body paint, metallic silver suits, futuristic hair—which has a lot of potential, but no doubt Toby will squander it by doing everything at the last minute. The Emilys have a country theme, which I expected—complete with side braids and cowboy boots, no doubt.

Someone else is doing badass bikers, with funky hair and black leather. There's a Celtic fantasy with long velvet capes and magic rings; that could either be pretty, or cos-play gone horribly wrong. There's a 1960s flower power idea that seems way too simple—what skills does straight hair with daisy headbands show off? A woodland fantasy
theme that sounds like a
Snow White
rip-off.

Then it's Shelby and Taylor's turn. “Well,” says Shelby, “we got a new fashion designer because our first one moved away. Our new designer, Gabriella, had this really great idea—our dress is going to look like frosting, we're going to accessorize with fondant, and top it off with a massive bouffant, so she looks like a cupcake.”

Wait a second—that's
my
idea! Gabriella stole my idea and gave it to Shelby and Taylor! I stand up to protest, but Ms. G makes me sit down until they're finished. I can feel the steam coming out of my ears.

Taylor continues, “Everything will be pink—retro fifties, with a pink Cadillac prop, lollipops, and that old song ‘Sugar Pie Honey Bunch.'” All pink? They took my idea and turned it into Pepto-Bismol. I guess that's apropos, since it's nauseating.

I raise my hand. Ms. G nods.
Finally.
“First of all, my—
our
—theme is Sugar Plum Fairy, and that was
my
idea for a frosting-like dress and candy accessories. Gabriella was my and Lydia's designer and—”

“There
have
been some unusual circumstances,” Ms. G interrupts, “but I think your ideas are different enough that they can exist in the same show and not seem redundant.”
Different enough?
That's not exactly fresh and original. “You're not doing bouffant, right?”

I'm reluctant to give too much info; Shelby and Taylor might steal those ideas, too. “We're doing several styles, and yes, at least one will be an updo—not bouffant
exactly,
but—”

“I'm sure it'll be fine,” says Ms. G. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” I say. “That song is from the sixties, not the fifties, and it's called ‘I Can't Help Myself.'” Pops plays a lot of classic Motown at the store.

Taylor asks if she should change the song. I tell her she might want to consider it—and her theme as well. Shelby rolls her eyes and says nobody will know and that I'm just being anal. I mutter that I'd rather be anal than an asshole, and
bam,
I get sent to Mr. Finn's office. Who knew Ms. Garrett has robo-hearing?

I relate the whole story in detail to Mr. Finn. Not only does he listen with his fingertips pressed together, but he also bites his lower lip so that it squeaks when he breathes, like a deflating balloon. It's really distracting.

When I'm done, he simply tells me to refrain from
any
name-calling, even under my breath. I tell him I will and ask him if I can switch graphic designers.

“Is there a problem with the one you have?”

“Yes.”

He waits expectantly. I don't elaborate. “Does it involve bullying, harassment, or anything else that would require my intervention?”

I mull that over for a second. As much as I'd love to get my way, I can't lie. “No.”

“Have you discussed this with Ms. Garrett?”

“Sort of.” He waits for more explanation. “She said no.”

He stands. “Then that's my answer as well. Thanks for
stopping by,” he says as if I came over for tea and crumpets, instead of being booted from class for calling Shelby an asshole. I shoot him a half smile and head to my locker. Team meetings will be starting soon, and I want to mentally prepare, especially since I'm stuck with Carter Reed.

Determined to make the best of it, I settle myself at a table in the multipurpose room with my binder, the detailed timeline, and checklists, and wait for the rest of my team, including the subcontractors, to show up.

I'll put the showcase first and not let anything with Lydia or Shelby bother me—just like a good leader should. If everything goes as outlined, I'll win, be able to go to the Chicago hair show, get Mom off my back, and prove to everyone that I know what I'm doing. Cos isn't just a superficial hobby; it's a viable career choice, and I excel at it. Just thinking about it makes me feel as if I drank a whole pot of coffee.

Shea shows up first with both arms full of some kind of stiff, glittery fabric and what looks like a half-sewn dress. No matter what I think of her, I'm impressed. This girl is ready to get down to business. She drops the pile onto the table, sits down, and takes a deep breath. “Okay, so here are our designs. Four dresses, each different, but each complementary.”

Just then, Mackenzie barrels in like a pint-sized, khaki-wearing tornado. “What's up, guys?” But before anyone can answer, she tells us about her morning, starting with
sleeping through her alarm, continuing with every mundane thing her sister said at breakfast, and ending with some story about
almost
hitting a deer on her way here.

“Okay.” Shea opens her notepad and shows me a drawing. Again, I'm impressed despite myself. It's really good. She smooths out the pile of glittery fabric. “We're using this. It's metallic, so it'll look like sugar, like you wanted.”

Another design, which complements the first one, is shorter, asymmetrical, and has cap sleeves instead of straps. It's really pretty. Mackenzie claims it as hers, and starts talking about doing either an elaborate French braid or that Sailor Moon style she mentioned last week.

Ignoring her, Shea flips the page. Another terrific drawing. “And this is my pride and joy. It's a ball gown with hand-sewn sequins and beads. The skirt is supposed to look like a multi-tiered cake. I know you don't sew, but let me tell you, these stitches are a bitch. It's about half finished now, but it's too heavy to drag around.”

Finally, she shakes out the dress she brought. It's a raggedy-looking tulle and taffeta thing. “This one has that jagged hemline I told you about. It's really complicated, and will actually take longer than the others, so I—I mean
we
—should get extra points for it. The skirt looks like petals, too. Isn't it adorable?”

The designs are mostly good, and Shea seems really excited, but I can already see the problems. I take a closer look at the last dress, drape the tulle across my fingers, and choose my words carefully. “So are these petals finished?”

“Yes,” she says. “They're supposed to be rough.”

“How is rough complicated?” I wonder aloud. “Isn't it just cutting?”

Shea rakes her hands through her hair and sighs. “Seriously?”

“There's no need to be snippy,” I say. “I'm just being honest. This project means a lot to me.”

“It means a lot to me, too,” she snaps.

“You know ballet dancers are wearing the dresses, right?”

“Of course. So?” She closes her notebook and folds the dress in half, then drapes it over a chair.

“Well, one of the metallic dresses is too fitted to move in, and with all of the beading and sequins, the floor-length gown's going to be heavy and cumbersome.” I don't add that the metallic fabric looks better suited to Byron and Toby's robot theme than my sugar plum fairy. Still, I have to ask, “Where are the ribbon flowers? Didn't we talk about ribbon flowers?”

“Uh, Gabriella took that idea, remember?”

Shelby and Gabriella may have the best design idea—mine—but that doesn't mean we can't come up with a better version. I try to explain this to Shea, but she's too pissed off.

And then, as if this meeting weren't going downhill fast enough, Lydia and Carter come in, laughing like their lives are just one big party. Once the majority of the team arrives, we begin introductions. I pass out instructions outlining where to be when and what to do to prepare.

First are the ballet dancers, who are wearing black
leotards and yoga pants. Two of the girls, Kayla and Kaylee, have tight, slicked-back buns; the third has short hair and a black fabric headband.

“Aren't there supposed to be four?” I ask Shea, then turn to the girl in the headband. “Uh, where's your hair? You had long hair in your catalog photo.”

“Yes,” says Shea. “Where's Lindsay?”

Headband girl answers Shea first. “She backed out. She's Clara in
The
Nutcracker,
and rehearsals are brutal.” Then to me, “I cut it. So?”

Isn't it obvious? “So, this is a hair show. I can't braid it, curl it, or put it up.”

“I wish someone would've told me!” Shea fumes. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“It's fine by me if I only have one model,” Mackenzie says.
Way to settle for the minimum requirement, partner! Especially when the rest of the class is going above and beyond.

“What about a wig?” suggests one of the other ballerinas. (Is it Kayla or Kaylee? I'm not sure which is which. And they've both got those slicked-back buns.) “Or extensions?”