Charlotte Cuts It Out (28 page)

1 day to the Winter Style Showcase!

Thursday morning, I wake up rested and refreshed. I pick out a fringy sweater and put it on over gray pants and a blue tank. I wear my hair down in beachy waves and put on my signature lashes. I feel like myself again for the first time in days.

That is, until I walk into class and Ms. G sends me to Mr. Finn. All the way down the hall, I repeat in my head, “Please, God, please, let everything be okay with Shea.”

“Let's start with the good news, shall we?” Mr. Finn begins, as soon as I sit down. Oh, no. When someone “starts with good news,” that means bad news is coming next.

“After our recent, uh, conversations, I've spoken to a few of your teachers. Since you've encountered so many setbacks, we've decided to reimburse you the ATC bucks that Lydia used to complete her project.” He gives me a big smile, then leans forward. “This is an exceptional case, Charlotte—not normal procedure here at ATC—so please don't share this with the other students.”

This is great, but it's weeks too late. I think of the props,
music, models, and PowerPoint design that would be better (or existed at all) if I had had that money sooner, and I feel robbed all over again. I thank him anyway, and ask if ATC bucks expire. He says they don't. At least I'll have a jump on the senior showcase.

So this is the good news. The bad news, I realize with a sinking feeling, must be about Shea.

“We have a bit of a situation,” Mr. Finn says seriously. “Shea Walsh is in the hospital and won't be back in school until after Christmas break.”

Hospital? That sounds serious. Oh, no. “How awful! What's wrong with her?”

“Normally, I'd prefer not to discuss one student with another, but given the situation, I'm sure Shea won't mind.” He folds his hands on his desk. “She needed an emergency appendectomy. At first, she thought she had a stomach bug, so her parents simply called in to let us know she was sick. I called and left a message after I spoke to you on Tuesday. Mrs. Walsh returned my call yesterday afternoon, after Shea was out of surgery. Her appendix burst.”

Poor Shea! How painful and scary! “Is she going to be okay?”

“Yes,” he assures me. “It's serious, but doctors expect a full recovery. However, she won't be released for several days and will need to rest for a while after that.”

“So what will she do about the showcase?” I ask, my calm voice the complete opposite of how I feel inside. “It's tomorrow. This has all been very challenging, Mr. Finn.”

“I understand, Charlotte.” Mr. Finn gets up and opens his closet door. “I hate to have to break this to you, especially given your string of obstacles . . .” So he's adding to the string? If only obstacles were pearls! “However, Shea has sent in the dresses.” He pulls a garment bag out of the closet and drapes it over the chair next to me. Yes! I'm not totally left in the lurch.

“She's also passed along her talking points for her part of the presentation.” Then he hands me an envelope with my name on it. Another lean-across-the-desk serious look: “I know this wasn't what you were expecting, but I'd like to ask one more favor: That you merge her speech with your own for the sake of the presentation. Obviously, Shea will have to work out a make-up presentation with her program director when she returns.”

I take the envelope. Actually, this is a good thing—Shea's info can give me ideas for my own speech. Plus, I'll only have to share the spotlight onstage with one other person, so it'll highlight how much my team has had to overcome. Maybe this won't be so bad.

“There's one little problem,” Mr. Finn adds, almost as an afterthought. “The dresses aren't exactly . . . finished. She was still working on them when she got sick.”

Not finished? What the hell?

He hurries on. “I've spoken to Ms. White”—the fashion design instructor—“and she says that if you bring them to the lab today, someone should be able to finish them.” He looks down at his notes. “Shea has, uh, basted the skirts, so
all that needs to be done are the final stitches.”

Basting? I remember Mom basting the turkey on Thanksgiving, but somehow I'm guessing that turkey basting and dress basting are not the same thing.

I thank Mr. Finn, tell him I'm on it, stuff the envelope into my purse, and drape the garment bag over my free arm. He thanks me for being such a great team player. If only he knew the half of it!

The fashion design lab is a total zoo. There's fabric and whirring sewing machines and designers scrambling all over the place. As soon as I walk in, they freak. “Get out!” one girl yells. “You can't see our designs yet!” How was I supposed to know I entered a super-secret workshop? Gabriella runs over and takes me out into the hall, closing the door behind us.

“Sorry about that,” she says. “We're just kind of protective about having a big reveal.”

“I wasn't snooping.” I unzip the bag. “Mr. Finn told me to come here and—”

“I know. Ms. White told me.” She takes the first dress from me. “That sucks about Shea.”

“Yeah, it does.” We both hold the dress and inspect it. Seems fine to me. I would've liked more beading and sequins, but overall, it's pretty much what I imagined. At least it's all intact.

“Shouldn't take too long to do this. I just have to sew it on the machine and rip out the basting.” She drapes the dress over her shoulder and looks at the others. “These are all pretty straightforward. I should have them to you by the show.”

“Should”? Not “will”? And what if something
else
happens? At least now I have the dresses in my possession. If I hand them over and Gabriella doesn't have time or doesn't care or
she
gets sick or something, I'm screwed.

“So all you're going to do is sew over where it's already sewed?” I take the dress from her.

“Pretty much.” She grabs the straps. “Basting is done by hand. The final stitching is done on the machine. It's stronger.”

I hold firm to the skirt and tug. It seems strong enough to me. Kaylee only needs to wear it onstage for about a minute. Who cares if the stitches are perfect? Nobody in the audience will be able to tell. “I think I'm just going to keep them as is. They look good enough to me.”

She tries to get the dress back. “Shea will have a cow if she finds out.”

I don't let go. “She's not here, so it's not her call.”

“Are you sure?” She pulls the dress toward her.

I gather as much of the fabric as I can into my arms. “Yes, I'm sure.”

“Whatever.” She finally lets go. “I have a lot to do. Doesn't break my heart to cross something off my list.”

And that's that.

Less than twenty-four hours to go. Where am I?

Hairstyles and makeup—check.

Dresses—check.

Candy accessories—check. Lydia will be over tonight to help me hot-glue them to combs.

Props—not yet, but maybe Lyd will help with that, too. I hope.

PowerPoint—Mental note:
Talk to Trent and finish tonight.

Music—Find out if Mackenzie already uploaded to the server.

Speech—Finish tonight and practice.

Rest and Relax—after the showcase. Looks as if I won't be sleeping again.

When I finally get back to the program, everyone is milling around, gathering supplies and setting up their stations for tomorrow. It reminds me of Pringle's just before a snowstorm—lots of frantic grabbing, and Byron and one of the Emilys almost get into a fight over what they call “the only good” wet brush. Luckily, Shelby lets Emily use hers.

I ask Mackenzie if she's uploaded the music or if I should do it. Ms. G overhears and says, “I have you down for live music.”

“No, you don't,” I argue. “Mackenzie changed it almost two weeks ago.” I turn to Mackenzie. “I told you to get Ms. Garrett a revised form. That day. The day we chose the music. You said you would. You did it, right?”

I glare at her.
You'd better say “Right!”

“I just thought you were being bossy, as usual.” She holds up her phone. “But I have it right here. Can't we change it now?”

“We have to buy a license!” I practically yell. Everyone stops what they're doing and stares.

“License?” Mackenzie acts as if this is the first time she's ever heard the word.

“Oh my lanta!” I throw my hands up and start pacing.

“Yes,” explains Ms. G. “It's not that expensive, but it has to be done to legally play a song in public.”

“Oh.”

Oh?
That's all she has to say? She was in charge of one thing! One thing! She didn't even have to
do
it—just give the song and artist's name to Ms. G. That's it! How are we supposed to have ballerinas dance to
no music
?

Ms. G must see that I'm about to explode because she has me sit down at my station. The others lose interest and go back to their own projects. “We can talk to Mr. Finn,” she says, “and see if you can use the music we plan on playing as the audience is seated.”

I take a few deep breaths. Maybe that'll work. At least it's music. Something is better than nothing, right? I ask to hear it.

“So we can't use the song
I
wanted?” Mackenzie seems disappointed. Like
I'm
the one nixing her song.

“No,” Ms. G and I echo each other.

When Ms. G plays the music, I think I'm going to cry. It's not woodsy or fantastical. It's not beautiful or melodic. It's upbeat and techno and loud. It's more like catwalk music for a fashion show. Which is what it should be! It's perfect to get
the crowd pumped up for the showcase. It totally sucks as a bubbly tune for ballerina fairies to frolic in an enchanted candy forest.

The bell rings, and Ms. G asks us, “So what do you want to do?”

“Ask Charlotte,” Mackenzie snarks. “She's the boss.”

“I don't know,” I say. And I don't.