Charlotte Cuts It Out (27 page)

When she sees it, she loves it and actually thanks me. Then I explain where the flowers will be, how to remove them and pull out the bobby pins, and what to do to get the next style. (If there
are
flowers—but I don't say it out loud because I'm trying to stay positive.) She follows my directions, and it looks amazing, if I do say so myself.

Finally, I do her makeup, showing her where the appliqués will be. Because the makeup is so dramatic (and I don't want everyone to see), she removes the lashes and washes her face immediately afterward. I arrange for her to come back first thing Friday for the final style and makeup.

“What about the dresses?” she asks before she leaves. “I only had one fitting. Shouldn't we make sure they fit and practice the quick change?”

“I agree.” I gather my bobby pins and slip them into the container. “Until I hear from Shea, though, I don't know. She has them. Maybe tomorrow?”

Kaylee shrugs. “Let's hope.” And then she heads to class.

I text Shea again:
Haven't heard from you. Hope you're okay. Models are asking about dresses.

Mackenzie is just getting started on Kayla's hair. She's globbing the pink and blue highlights on too thick, especially by the scalp, and since her foils aren't wrapped well, the color is bleeding all over. What a mess!

Ms. G is talking to a couple of models at her desk, so she doesn't see what's happening.

I need to do something—fast! I call Mackenzie over to the pedi area to avoid freaking Kayla out, and choose my words carefully. “Do you need any help with your highlights?”

“No, I've got it,” she says.

“I think I should help,” I offer. “The colors are bleeding.”

“Seriously?” Mackenzie is offended. “You are so critical. Fine!” She hands me the comb she's holding. “You do it.”

Melody and Lily are standing in reception.

“I'll do Lily's hair, then,” says Mackenzie, “if that's okay with you.”

I nod. Then I hurry over and ask Kayla if she'd mind if we started over, and if I did it instead. She's not thrilled, but
she agrees. I'm hoping that I've caught it early enough, before the color grabs hold too much. I wash her hair thoroughly with clarifying shampoo, then dry it. There's a purplish tinge, but it actually looks fine with our theme. While I'm foiling the back, Ms. G comes over and asks why I'm working on Mackenzie's model.

“I'm just helping out,” I say.

“More like taking over,” Mackenzie corrects me from the next station. She's braiding Lily's hair, but the little girl is squirming so much that it's very uneven.

Thanks for throwing me under the bus, Mackenzie! Maybe I should tell Ms. G
why
I needed to step in.

Ms. G looks at me, but Tasha calls to her before either of us can say anything.

“I'm just about done with the foils,” I say to Mackenzie. “Then you can wash it out and do the style.”

She rolls her eyes. “So kind of you to let me finish
my
client.”

Kayla looks uncomfortable. So does Melody.

Lily is bouncing in her seat, oblivious to the tension.

God, I wish I were three.

While Kayla is processing, I overhear Taylor and Shelby say Lydia's name.

“I know!” says Shelby. “Somebody should talk to her . . . see if she's okay.”

“What about Charlotte?” asks Taylor.

“What about Charlotte what?” When someone mentions my name, that's as good as an invitation.

They don't seem to mind. “Brianna had a convo with Lydia on Twitter last night.” Taylor pulls it up on her phone so I can take a look. “It's pretty effed-up, if you ask me.”

The Tweetversation went like this:

@BriannaBanana: @LydiaHarris14 Didn't you notice his FB relationship status? Or did you just not care? #HesTakenBitch

@LydiaHarris14:
@BriannaBanana @CarterReed says he's never on FB and everything there is old news. #TakeItUpWithHim

@BriannaBanana: @LydiaHarris14 Old news? Check the date.

Then there's a screenshot of a text from Carter:
I'm not talking to Lydia. I swear. She's just some girl from school. She's not even cute.

I need to find Lydia. No matter what's happened between us lately, she's still my best friend, and what Carter Asshat Reed did is not okay.

As soon as the bell rings, I practically run to the cafeteria, but Lydia's not there. I check the parking lot. Her car's in its usual space, but she's not in it. She's not at her locker, either.

The only other place I can think of is the culinary arts kitchen.

She's alone, wearing a white apron and the ugliest blue hair net I've ever seen. Tears are streaming down her face as she kneads and pinches some pink Play-Doh-looking stuff. The kitchen smells like sugar and bleach.

“I've heard blue hair nets are the must-have accessory this season,” I say.

She looks up from her work and gives me a half-assed smile. “Have
you
checked a mirror today? You look raggedy.”

Harsh! I'd call her out, but I'm not here for that. Besides, she's right.

“I also heard about what happened.”

“Great.” She punches the dough. “I'm sure the whole school knows.”

“Probably. But at least maybe they'll stop talking about
my toilet paper streamers, so yeah, thanks for that.”

“You're welcome,” she says sarcastically. “It's the least I can do.” Then she stops mid-dough-punch and full-out sobs. “Oh, Charlotte! How did everything get so messed up?”

I walk around the counter, put my arm around her, and poke at the dough with my free hand. “How should I know? I don't even know what you're making.”

She half-laughs, half-sobs. “Not that! Us. You and me. And my life in general.”

I shrug, grab a tissue out of my purse, and hand it to her. “I know about as much about your life lately as this tissue does.”

I don't tell her that everything I
do
know I've heard from Nutmeg and Shelby. Stuff I'm not even supposed to know. Stuff that doesn't make sense.

“I've tried talking to you so many times,” she says, “but you just wouldn't understand.”

I lean against the stainless steel worktable that spans across the wall of ovens. “How do you know?”

“Because your family's never been broke.” Translation:
Because you're a spoon-licker.

I have no idea what to say.

After a moment, she goes on. “I told you we were having some money problems because of when Dad was sick.” I nod. “But it's worse than I let on. Mom's losing the bakery, and since the house is tied to the business, we might lose that, too. That's why we had to lay off Nutmeg. I've done everything I can to help, but it's just not enough.”

Losing the bakery?
“I'm so sorry, Lyd.” What can I do? How can I fix this? I could ask Dad to lend them some money. Or something. “Maybe my father could—”

“Stop it!” She shrugs off my arm and steps away. “This is why I can't talk to you! You just swoop in and take over!”

“Okay! Geez! I was just trying to help. I don't want you to lose . . .” I can't bring myself to finish the sentence—to say
lose your house.
I can't. Lydia and her family, homeless? That only happens to other people, doesn't it? They'd find
somewhere
to live—right? “Anything,” I finish lamely.

“I know.” She rests her elbows on the counter. Her voice is quiet, almost toneless. “You can't help it. It's just not as simple as a loan or a job working for someone else again. Mom built Patti Cakes and made it successful, and now her dream—
our
dream—could be gone, just like that. All because of one rough patch.”

I was mad because Lyd abandoned our Grand Plan. Maybe it was never
her
plan. “The
bakery
is your dream?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Mom's
and
mine. Ever since Patti Cakes started.” That was four years ago. Way before we even applied to ATC. How had I not seen this? “I tried to tell you that I'm not cut out for cos—that I didn't want to run a salon—but you never listened. You didn't want to hear it, I guess.”

Lydia was so excited when the bakery first opened. She ordered customized aprons for Patti, Nutmeg, and herself. I figured she was just happy for her mom. But now, I remember her talking for hours about the new
convection oven and that monstrous mixer thing.

I tuned her out then. And probably every other time she blabbered on about cooking.

“Why did you sign up for cos, then?” I pull up a stool and sit down. “And let me keep talking about the Grand Plan?”

“I thought it would be fun. And I still want to get an apartment together and take classes at JC.” Lydia abandons her pink dough, pulls up another stool. “But it wasn't all fun. It was hard. Really hard.”

I remember Lydia struggling with her skills test when we first signed up. She did it, but she worried that she'd bombed. And then, more recently, her pedi test. She never did get her mani and pedi steps mastered. It was all right there. But I was so focused on what I wanted, I never even saw her struggling, or heard her complaining for what it was—she was out of her element.

“I know I should have told you, but I didn't know how.” She traces lines in the flour sprinkled on the table. “I knew you'd be blindsided, whether I told you or Mr. Finn did. I just took the chickenshit way and let him do it.”

Watching Lydia draw in the flour reminds me of the geometric design in Mr. Finn's carpet and the day he told me that Lydia had changed programs. I
was
blindsided. But if I'd been paying attention, I wouldn't have been. “That's not chickenshit.” Would I have ever listened otherwise? I'm not sure.

As if she's reading my mind, Lydia says, “Even if I'd had
the guts to tell you, I'm not sure it would've sunk in. I tried telling you about Dad and the problems with our finances, but you didn't get it. And then, when I tried again before the wellness fair, all you said was that we needed new outfits.”

“God, Lyd.” My stomach knots, and not because it's lunchtime. “I didn't know.” I thought I hadn't done anything to her. That I was in the right. That
I
was the good friend.

“That's what you do.” She returns to the dough, pinches off a bit, and rolls it into tiny little balls. “You assume people should act or be a certain way, unless you see a reason to cut them slack.”

I sweep the flour into a pile with the side of my hand. What people? What way? “What do you mean?”

“Like Rachel from custodial arts. She's in special ed, so you're always nice to her. And that girl with cancer. You have patience with them, but with everyone else . . .”

“So now I'm wrong for being
nice
?”

“No!” She smashes a few of the dough pellets into tiny pancakes. “I mean that everyone has something—a reason to be kind to them. Some people's crap is just not as obvious, like some disability or disease. But it's still there.”

Like Hannah's. And Shelby's. I only saw what I wanted to see. “So that's why you said that ‘not everybody lives in the world according to Charlotte.'”

“Pretty much.” She gets up, walks over to the sink, and washes her hands. “And, like I said, that's why I did cos in the first place. The world according to Charlotte can be fun.
It's dress-up and makeup and playing and saying whatever and doing whatever without worrying about money or caring what anybody thinks.”

“Yeah.”
Saying whatever and doing whatever and not caring.

“Honestly, I liked hanging out with you and pretending I still lived there.” She sits down beside me again. “For a while, anyway.”

“And then Carter Reed came along . . .”

“Yeah, that was stupid.” She covers her face with her hands. “And
I
was stupid. And I'm sorry. It's just that he was nice and cute, and he chose me—at least I thought so—when I really needed something good to happen. I'll never let a dumbass guy come between us again.” Then, as if she suddenly remembers what she was doing before I came in, she perks up. “I have something to show you.” She jumps up, runs to the back cooler, and brings out a large sheet cake box . . .

. . . and through the window I see a bunch of beautiful candy flowers.

I take the box, set it on the counter, and open it. They're gorgeous! “Wow! Did you do these?” She nods. “For me? Are they made of gum paste?”

“Of course!” Then she stops short. “Wait, you know about gum paste? Whoa! I'm . . . surprised.” Then she grabs a wad of pink dough and says, “I have a few more to do. Maybe that'll help make up for Carter and ditching you and everything?”

“It's a start,” I say, and grin. Lydia may be the one apologizing, but she's not the only one at fault. “You could also forgive me. I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me.”

“Deal.” She pokes my arm with her finger and leaves a pink doughy dot.

The longer I look at the flowers, the more impressed I am. They're the first thing that's gone right with my presentation in a long time.
Watch out, Shelby Cox! Lydia's back on Team Charlotte, and we're coming up on your peacock-print heels.

Now that Lydia and I have cleared the air, I feel much better. Except for the fact that Shea still isn't in school. She hasn't texted me back, and nobody seems to know anything except that she's sick. I can't finish my speech without her input, so that's on hold until then. But I'm beginning to worry. I hope she's better soon. Time is running out.

When I get home from work, I take a look at the props. They look horrible—full of inconsistent lines, drips, and globs. Maybe the stage lights will be dim enough that no one will notice. That's what I tell myself, anyway.

I sit at the kitchen table with my laptop to work on my PowerPoint presentation. Trent sent the pictures before noon, just as he promised—but I can't seem to get them to format. Every time I move them in the layout, they do some catawampus weird thing. After an hour of trying to figure it
out, I have to admit, with a sinking feeling, that Trent was right. My idea
is
crappy.

I give up. I can't do it all.

Just then I see a Post-it note on the coffeemaker.

Charlotte,

You drank my coffee. Next time prep another pot!

XO, Mom

Then it hits me. Oh my lanta, I'm just like Mom. She doesn't know what it takes to be a cosmetologist, so she doesn't respect it. I'm guilty of the same thing. Painting and cooking and digital design—among other things—are best left to those who know what they're doing. They make it look so easy that I assumed those things were no big deal, that anyone could do them, that I could do them.

Even though it pains me to have to do it, I need to admit defeat and ask Trent for help.

I just hope it's not too late.