Charlotte Cuts It Out (23 page)

Finally, something fun! I get to make Nina as uncomfortable as I feel.

Nina closes her eyes and slowly inhales and exhales. At the signal, I grab hold of her knee. This might be the first time I've ever touched her voluntarily. I begin gently. When she doesn't flinch, I increase the pressure, and soon I'm squeezing so hard that my knuckles are turning white. Nina doesn't react at all.

Whoa! She can't feel this? I apply even more pressure. Pain shoots up my arms. Then they start to go numb. She keeps breathing evenly and comfortably.

When Ms. Smooth-talker tells us to let go and for the moms to breathe normally, Nina says, “That was stupid. I hardly felt a thing.” Seriously? Nina's a lot tougher than I've ever given her credit for.

Then the instructor tells us to lean in and squeeze our partner's knees like we did while they were concentrating
on breathing—except now she tells the moms
not
to focus on breathing. As soon as I increase the pressure, Nina jumps and yelps. “Hey! Ow! Ow! Ow! Stop it! You didn't do it that hard before.”

“Yes, I did!” I tell her, letting go. “Harder, even.”

“Really?”

I nod. Similar conversations are going on around us. Apparently, this breathing crap really works. Who knew?

The instructor reminds the moms to practice their breathing whenever they can. “It'll be more effective if you're used to doing it. In the heat of contractions, you don't want to panic. Once you lose control, it's tough to regain it.”

One woman says she's getting an epidural as soon as they'll let her, and Ms. Smooth-talker looks at her as if she just kicked a puppy, which instantly transforms her from Ms. Smooth-talker to Ms. Judgy-hippie. But she recovers and says, “Everyone must find her own path.”

While the moms talk in groups about diaper services, breast pumps, and stretch marks, and the instructor and a couple of the dads collect the foam wedges and pile them in the corner, I talk about the squeezing exercise with a few more dads. We all agree that it was pretty impressive.

Afterward, Nina sits in the car but doesn't start it right away. I'm just about to say something when I see tears dripping down her cheek and her shoulders trembling. Then she's full-out, gulping-for-air sobbing. “I can't do this, Charlotte.”

“It's okay,” I say. “I can drive.”

“Not drive,” she cries. “Have a baby! I can't. I can't do this.”

This is not a typical Nina meltdown. This time I see her point. There is no easy way to give birth. Even I was freaked out during the class.

I try to keep things light. “I don't think you have much of a choice,” I say, indicating her belly. “You've kind of come too far to go back now.”

“I know.” Then she starts sobbing even harder.

“Hey, now.” I touch her arm, which has a death grip on the steering wheel. “You don't have to think about it today. You're not in labor, right?” She shakes her head. “Then just take it as it comes, one breath at a time. I know you don't believe me, but I was squeezing the hell out of your knee, and you took it like a champ. So you
can
breathe through a lot of it.”

“You think so?” she says as she catches her breath.

“I know so.” I put my seat belt on. “And there's always an epidural.”

She pulls a tissue out of the console, wipes her eyes, and starts the car.

“And Oliver will be with you.”

“Ollie's an idiot,” she says matter-of-factly.

“No argument here.”

Suddenly she's sobbing again. No, wait—those aren't sobs, they're giggles. She's laughing. “Oh, God. I can just see it,” she manages. “He'll pass out.” I can see it, too, and then we're both cracking up.

I hand her another tissue. She blows her nose, takes a deep “cleansing” breath, and collects herself. “I'd kill for some Rocky Road ice cream.”

“No need for violence,” I say. “We don't close for another two hours.”

She backs the car out of the lot, and soon we're in the break room digging into a pint of Rocky Road, mimicking Ms. Smooth-talker/Ms. Judgy-hippie. All in all, the evening hasn't been as bad as I imagined.

But I will never, ever admit that to Mom, or Oliver.

6 days to the Winter Style Showcase

Shelby picks me up around 4:30 on Saturday afternoon for the hospital event, wearing her signature peacock-print pumps. I usually prefer to be the driver, but she caught me off-guard yesterday.

We were practicing rolling perms, and even though I technically have a partner, I was stuck working on a leftover mannequin some senior had already used to cut asymmetrical layers because Mackenzie wasn't in class. The weatherman predicted a major blizzard—the Snowpocalypse!—so Mackenzie's mom made her stay home. They'd been predicting the storm all week. Pringle's Market sold out of bottled water, batteries, and Pop-Tarts, which is often a sure sign that bad weather is on its way. We haven't seen more than a few flurries, though.

ATC is so different than it was three months ago. I started the year with a PIC, determined to show everyone what I could do. Now, not only do I have an unreliable partner, but everyone seems to be avoiding me. I pissed off my entire showcase team, so I can understand that. And God
knows how many people witnessed my post-bathroom walk of shame. But does everyone else have to avoid me, too? Somehow, I have become social kryptonite.

I no longer linger in the halls. I eat lunch in my car. I spend a lot of time on the library computers trying to figure out a way to make the presentation work with reduced resources. So it's a surprise when Shelby stops me on the way out of cos on Friday and asks if I'd like her to pick me up. The word “sure” just pops out of my mouth, and the next thing I know I'm giving her my address and cell number.

Shelby's car is an older Ford Escort, but the inside is adorable. She has a tiny chandelier hanging from the rearview mirror, and the ceiling, visor, and part of the dashboard are one gigantic picture collage—silly selfies, childhood pics, and random school wallet photos of her friends at all different ages. I avoid the awkwardness of hanging out with Shelby Cox on a Saturday by looking at all of the pictures.

“Wow!” I stop at a selfie of Shelby and a woman with an adorable angled razor cut and bright pink and green peekaboo highlights in the front.

“That's my mom,” she says, turning the radio station to a song by Cage the Elephant.

“Her hair is cute,” I say, noticing the beveled salon mirror in the background. I wish my mom would let me do something more adventurous to her classic bob, other than cover grays with her natural color. “How did you get all those pics to stay up?”

Shelby stops at a light a few blocks from the hospital. “A combo of thumbtacks and tape. It hides the fact that my car is a piece of crap.”

“It works,” I say and immediately regret it. I mean that her car looks nice, but it sounds more as if I'm agreeing that it's a piece of crap. “I mean—”

“I know what you mean.” Shelby laughs, letting me off the hook.

We're quiet the rest of the way. If I were alone or with Lydia, I'd belt out the lyrics of the song on the radio. Instead, I sing along in my head as Shelby taps her fingers on the steering wheel.

After we sign in, a security guard shows us to our “salon.” It's a small room, clearly used for meetings; there's a long, empty table and a tall stack of chairs in one corner. No mirrors. No sinks. No problem; I've worked with less. After we unload our bags, Shelby says, “I'll be right back. I've got to get something out of the trunk.”

Okay,
I think, and start emptying my purple duffel bag. I lay out zippered makeup bags full of samples—some left over from winning the fund-raiser, some collected from Birchbox, and others bonus freebies from Industry Source orders. There are disposable mascara wands, Q-tips, rolls of ribbon, roll-on glitter, and false eyelashes and glue. I've also brought paper towels, my curling wand, combs, and several sprays with varying degrees of hold and shine.

Shelby returns with a giant box. It's full of hats and
boas and scarves, and even a few really fun wigs.

“Where did you get all this stuff?” I drape a bright blue boa around my neck.

“From under my bed.”

“No, seriously.”

“I
am
serious.” She sets the hats out on the table. “My sisters and I used to play dress-up and put on all these crazy shows at the salon. Do you have any idea how boring it is to spend your whole childhood waiting for hair to process?”

“More than you think.” I laugh. “I grew up in a grocery store.”

Something sparks in her eyes. “That's right! Then, yeah, you get it.”

Yeah, I do. In elementary school, kids used to think that because we owned a grocery store I could just grab anything I wanted any time and eat it—as if it was my own gigantic, personal pantry. Of course, it isn't like that. Even back then, I had to “buy” what I wanted from my employee food allowance, which isn't very much. It really pissed me off when other kids still didn't get it, so after a while I stopped trying to explain it.

I realize that I've been thinking about Shelby's life the same way—as if it's one giant makeover party, just because
her
family business is a salon.

Who knew I have so much in common with Shelby Cox?

Mrs. Worthington—who I can't call Ms. Pink Pants today, because she's wearing a black pencil skirt and a sequined Christmas sweater—shows up.

“Thank you so much for coming!” she cries. Before I can say, “It's our pleasure,” she barrels on, addressing not me, not Shelby, but Trent Rockwell, who's come into the room behind her. What's
he
doing here?

Judging by the camera around his neck, taking pictures. Seems he got a haircut, too. His hair isn't in his eyes anymore, so now I can actually see them. They
are
hazel, and his lashes go on for days.

He waves. “Hey, Charlotte. Hey, Shelby.”

“I see you know each other,” remarks Mrs. Worthington.

“Hey, Trent!” Shelby's trying to pull a chair from the top of the pile, but they're stacked too high. Trent goes over and easily takes it down. The two of them start unstacking the rest of the chairs and setting them around the table.

I set up a hair and makeup station by unzipping my bags and grouping like items together while I half listen to Mrs. Worthington explain every detail of the event—most of it a repeat of her e-mails. As Trent adjusts the settings on his camera, I notice the interesting pattern on his cable-knit sweater—it changes from black to gray to white. Then my eyes travel up past the red T-shirt peeking out around his neck and land on his face. He's watching me watch him. How embarrassing!

I look away, but then back over at him. What's he thinking? Is he thinking about me? I don't need to wonder for long. He mouths, “What?” As in,
What are you doing? What are you looking at? What do you want?

I quickly return to my station, rearranging products and
pretending to be listening carefully to Mrs. Worthington.

Her monologue is cut short by nearly a dozen patients and two nurse escorts. Suddenly the room feels very small. For some reason—maybe because I met her first—I imagined they'd all be like Sarah, but of course they're not. Some are young kids, while others are closer to my age. Some have hair. Three of them are boys.

Sarah lights up as soon as she sees me. She comes over with a few of her friends, girls about her own age. She's much paler than she was at the fund-raiser, and I wonder if she's not feeling well. Since we're here to help them focus on being kids rather than patients and I'm sure they get badgered enough, I don't ask her.

“Well, I'll leave you to your transformation while I check with the caterers,” says Mrs. Worthington. But no one is listening. The kids are all too busy picking through Shelby's accessories display. One guy replaces his knit hat with a Viking helmet, then exchanges it for a top hat.

“Look at this!” A girl puts a sparkly tiara on her head, but she doesn't have any hair for the combs to attach to, so it slides off. Instead of getting mad, though, she hands it to the girl next to her. “Here, Marley. You should have them put your hair up and wear this.”

Marley, who appears to be about ten, takes the tiara. “Yeah, okay,” she says, and brings it over to me. “Can you do it?” Even though her hair is in a medium-length bob, it's still more than most of the other kids have.

“Updos are my specialty,” I say, smiling and leading her
to the closest chair. Then I pull another chair over to act as my station, and dig through my bag for a comb, bobby pins, and hair spray. Shelby helps dole out the hats, boas, and other stuff. Kids try things on and pass them around, and she and the nurses attempt to keep some semblance of order. It doesn't help, though. Everyone is excited, so it gets really loud as the kids all talk at once, laughing while figuring out what they want.

I comb through Marley's bangs. “You have really pretty hair.”

“Thanks,” she says. “I hope it grows back curly.”

“Can it do that?” I ask, surprised.

“Some people say it can. I start chemo tomorrow, so it's probably going to fall out soon. That's why my mom wants to take a ton of pictures tonight.”

As if Trent has superhero hearing, he comes over and starts snapping pics. Marley makes funny faces and we all laugh. Then he holds the camera over his head, clicks, and turns around for a behind-the-back shot. Marley giggles all the way up from her toes.

Suddenly, a commotion grabs everyone's attention.

Sarah's doubled over, near the door, throwing up. It's clear that she was trying to get to the bathroom, but couldn't make it in time. When she straightens up and sees everyone watching, she bursts into tears and runs out. One of the nurses hurries after her. The other leaves to find a custodian.

The mood in the room immediately changes—from laughing and yelling to complete silence. Shelby and Trent
and I exchange quick glances. This isn't like school, where an embarrassing thing happening to someone else is funny. There's a disgusting, stinky reminder of cancer on the floor, and no way to avoid it.

So I don't. I say loud enough for everyone to hear, “Cancer sucks ass.”

One of the younger kids giggles nervously, probably because I said “ass.”

An older boy—about fourteen or fifteen—nods. “Cancer sucks ass.”

One by one they all proclaim it, louder and louder until their voices overpower the stench.

And each time, the rest of them cheer as if they're unleashing some ancient, forgotten power.

As if they're reclaiming control.

As if they're Mel Gibson's countrymen in
Braveheart.

They're not alone.

They're not weak.

They're decked in glittery wigs and feathers and floppy hats.

And they're fierce.

When the nurse returns with the custodian and his rolling mop bucket, the whole room is one uproarious
cancer-sucks-ass
chorus. Once she realizes what they're saying, she tries to quiet the kids down, to scold them—but then the energy of their defiance gets to her, and for a second she looks as if she might cry. But she doesn't. She just lets them chant.

Even though Shelby is busy reorganizing her disheveled
box of accessories and Trent continues to take pictures as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening, they both look as if they're on the verge of either smiling or crying. I feel the same way.

By the time the mess is cleaned up, the group has settled down, but their spirits are up again, which energizes Shelby and me to go all out on their hair and makeup. She finishes up with the hats, wigs, and scarves; I do false eyelashes, curls, braids, and glitter. We both do makeup. The guys get into it, too. They wear hats—one a fedora, one a top hat, and the third a newsboy cap—and let us brush on the tiniest hint of bronzer. Finally, we give the nurse a rainbow wig and a feather boa and add a few sparkles to her eyelids and cheeks.

We all pose for several pics, and everyone looks fabulous, if I do say so myself. Shelby and I grin at each other.