Charlotte Cuts It Out (30 page)

Right, right, of course. “Thank you,” I say. “I hope it's good.”

“You couldn't just stop at
thank you,
could you?” He shakes his head.

“Well . . .”

“You're welcome,” he says and walks away.

Around 5:00 p.m., a guy from Subway delivers a ten-foot sandwich. Snow falls off his boots in chunks as he stomps through the backstage door. “It's really coming down out there. The weather guys got it wrong last week.
This
is the Snowpocalypse!”

“How much snow is there?” Ms. Garrett asks, as she pays for the food.

“Only a few inches right now, but it's just getting started,” he says.

Ms. G tells him to be careful, and I text Mom and Dad to tell them the same thing. Mom texts that she's on her way back from Kalamazoo, while Dad and Pops will head over from the store. Oliver and Nina are coming to the showcase, too. Dad texts me the same thing five minutes later.

Even though my stomach is doing flip-flops, Ms. Garrett insists that everyone eat something. “We don't want anyone passing out onstage, now do we?” she says.
Of course we don't.
And after a sandwich and a bag of chips, I do feel much less jittery.

Five minutes to curtain time, Kaylee runs into the band room to tell me something—but I never get to hear it, because she slips in a puddle of melted snow before she can get to me. In what feels like slow motion, her arms flail and her face contorts. Her legs go out from under her, and suddenly she's splayed like a newborn giraffe on the floor, surrounded by mangled and broken sugar flowers.

I rush over. “Are you okay?”

When I try to pull her up, she yells out in pain.

“My foot.” She reaches for it and winces. “I hurt my foot.” Then she breaks down.

There's only a week before
Nutcracker.
She can't afford an injury. Kayla tries to comfort her. “Maybe it's not that bad. It could feel better by tomorrow. You could be back dancing by Monday.” The braids Mackenzie did are still loose and uneven. Now pieces of hair have fallen into her face.

When Kaylee tries to stand and can't, Kayla insists that she go to the hospital and get it checked out. By then, Ms. Garrett is there and agrees. “I'll get the car,” says Kayla.

“No!” I can't lose both my models minutes before the showcase!

But when everyone looks at me as if I'm totally heartless—as if I'm going to force Kaylee to hobble across the stage—Lydia steps in. “Without any models, Charlotte and Mackenzie don't have a presentation at all. I'll take her.”

“Thank you, Lydia,” says Ms. G. The rest of us thank her, too.

“No problem.” Lydia grabs her purse. “Everything is under
control here. Well, except for this.” She tells Kaylee she'll pull the car around and pick her up at the back door. In the meantime, Kayla and Mackenzie help her slip out of her dress and into her regular clothes.

And I thought things couldn't get any worse.

Then, out of nowhere, Melody says she'll stand in. “It'll be easier to corral little peanut here”—she gestures to Lily, who we just realize is picking sugar petals off the floor and eating them—“if I'm onstage anyway.”

“Really? You'd do that?” I'm impressed that she's willing to step up, and we're lucky that she can fit into Kayla's dress, but to me, that isn't the point. The makeup and hair are what's important—and there goes my perfect updo, limping out the door. I did Melody's hair for fun, not for the competition.

I start to hyperventilate.

Ms. Judgy-hippie said that once you lose control it's hard to regain it.
Breathe, Charlotte,
I tell myself. One breath, two . . .

Kayla assures me that she has the quick dress-change covered, and gets into the first outfit.

If only I felt confident about her hair. The flower combs are slipping down and her braids are falling out. Did Mackenzie even spray it at all? I smooth the fly-away pieces over the braid with the sugar-flower combs, slip them back in place, and cover her head in hairspray. Mackenzie gives me a dirty look, but I don't care. She should've fixed it this afternoon.

Ms. G reminds me that the judges have already seen my final hairstyles, that the presentation is the icing on the cake.

“It's only one-fifth of your showcase grade,” she says. Which is kind of her, but it's not about the grade. It's about placing. It's about winning. It's about being able to call the shots in my own life.

Ms. G hurries out to tell the other teams that I'll be going last. Mackenzie and Kayla take our place in the lineup behind the stage.

Melody puts on her dress and washes the pink gum paste off Lily's mouth. “It'll be okay. We've got this.” She's so nice. I wonder if she has any idea how much I want to believe her.

In the suddenly quiet dressing room, I sit Melody down and take a look at her hair. Then I get what tools I have out of my purse and amp up her glam. I brighten a few sections of her hair with chalk. (Lily wants a couple streaks, too.) Then with a comb and some hair spray, I give her more height in her crown, and redo a few curls. I'm able to salvage one of the flowers from the floor—she says she's okay with it—and add it to the other two. My appliqué is gone, but I have an extra pair of lashes. A little more shadow, blush and shimmer, and she's good to go.

Then the three of us make our way backstage. Kayla is already there. I look at each of them, and then crouch down to meet Lily's eyes. “You look pretty,” I tell her. “You're going to be terrific.” Then I straighten up. “And so are you,” I tell Melody and Kayla. “Thanks again, both of you. I couldn't have done any of this without you.” Which is so true!

The sound of applause drifts toward us.

And then: “Charlotte and Mackenzie, you're up next,” whispers the stage manager.

I'm trembling so much my speech paper flaps. Making sure nothing embarrassing could possibly happen tonight, I sweep my hands down the back of my black dress and check my shoes for toilet paper—just in case. Then I ask Melody if I have any stray lettuce in my teeth. She shakes her head.

I take a deep breath and stand as tall as I can.

“And now, for our final presentation,” I hear Mr. Finn say. “Shea Walsh, this team's fashion designer, is currently on medical leave, so she won't be here this evening. Charlotte Pringle and Mackenzie Moore, the stylists responsible for hair, makeup, and overall concept, will be doing the work of three. Let's give them a hand!”

As the applause subsides, I hear some instrumental Irish-sounding flute music. It's subtle and melodic and mysterious and beautiful. What is this? Then I realize that it's the intro for the PowerPoint playing on the giant screen. Our PowerPoint. Trent found the perfect music and figured a way to license it. I feel a smile spread across my face.

I
tap, tap, tap
my way across the stage with Mackenzie and wait behind the podium as the slides begin. It starts with Shea. There are pictures and captions of Shea measuring models, sewing at a machine, sewing by hand, holding pins in her mouth, and on her phone in one of our meetings. The last two get good laughs.

To segue to cos, there's a pic of Shea and me with that
awful first round of dresses. We're both frowning. Another picture comes in from the right and bumps that picture over. It's of me the day I had horrible bed head. The caption:
Good projects take lots of trial and error.
The next caption:
And even more hard work.
That stays through several pictures of Mackenzie (always in khakis) and me doing hair, manis and pedis, and tweaking the models' hair on Wednesday. There's even one of the mannequin hand poking out of my backpack.

The next picture is from Monday's run-through. I'm in jeans, doing a really bad leap across the stage. The caption reads:
Charlotte jumps in 110%.
When did Trent take all these pictures? No wonder it felt as if he was always around. He was.

The grand finale is from the hospital event. It begins with the benefit's name and date. There's a slide of me applying Sarah's lashes in her hospital bed.
Charlotte displays a passion and a heart for what she does.
There are a few long shots of Shelby and me getting the group ready. There's a group shot, then a few pics of us dancing. And finally, there's the posed picture of Sarah and me. There is an audible “awww” from the audience.

The final slide is a quote:
“I love helping people feel good about themselves. Everybody deserves that
.”
–Charlotte Pringle

As the music ends, I realize three things: First, Trent is just as good as he said he was. Second, he made me look amazing—much better than I am, I realize. (Is he in the sound booth? The audience? It's so dark, I can't see anyone.)
And third, I am speechless—which is tragic, because I'm standing on a stage in front of hundreds of people about to give
a speech.

Our team is waiting in the wings for a signal to start.

But our speeches aren't right anymore. Kaylee's gone. Kayla's wearing her dresses, and Melody's wearing Kayla's. In all the chaos of trying to get the models straight, Mackenzie and I never rearranged our talking points.

We're going to have to wing it.

Mackenzie waits. She clearly hasn't figured out that the order has changed. Now that Kayla is first, she should start. I signal for her to go. She looks at me like she doesn't get it. The music is playing on a soft loop in the background and nothing is happening!

Nothing!

Everyone waits. It's awkward.

Finally, I start, “Hello, everyone!” The audience chuckles. “I'm Charlotte Pringle, and this is Mackenzie Moore.” I point to her. “Our first model tonight is Kayla Wyatt. Isn't she lovely?”

The audience claps for Kayla as she dances onto the stage. Mackenzie realizes that she should be talking and looks at me expectantly. In order to make the transition seamless, though, I start with Shea's dress. “Shea Walsh, our fashion designer, created this dress from satin, sequins, and iridescent tulle.”

Kayla slowly turns. “She meticulously cut and surged each petal of the skirt. It's perfect for a pixie frolicking in the
enchanted forest.” Kayla leaps and does a pirouette.

Mackenzie must think I've taken her spotlight because she's visibly pissed. I try to hand her the microphone, but she pushes it back to me. I try again, and she does it again. Awkward! “I'll let Mackenzie tell you about the cosmetology portion of Kayla's style.” I shove the mic into her hand.

She takes it. Seething, she says, “First, I foiled pink and blue highlights into the sides and top of her hair. But Charlotte stepped in and redid them.”

Oh my lanta! No, she didn't!

“I did her makeup, though,” she says curtly. Instead of discussing technique and the fine points of Kayla's features, she rattles off a list of the products she used—brand and color—as if that matters. “Then I French braided her hairline and twisted the back up into an intricate updo.”
That
's what that mess was supposed to be? “But Charlotte had to ‘fix' that, too!” She even uses air quotes.

Mackenzie has moved beyond throwing me under the bus. She's hijacking it, backing it up, and hitting me again—in front of the whole school and all of our families!

“Charlotte did pretty much everything. The end. I'm out!” She literally drops the mic and walks offstage. Kayla glides offstage behind her.

Melody waits in the wings for a signal to keep going.

The stage is empty, except for me. The music continues playing.

Why doesn't this stage have a trapdoor? I could use one.

I want to run to the nearest bathroom stall and cry my
eyes out. Or crawl under the gigantic fake rock.

I deserve to fail. I've been a spoon-licking tyrant who's refused to listen or cut anyone some slack. Even my best friend couldn't confide in me because she knew I wouldn't understand. And I didn't.

I deserve to lose. Mom is out there in the audience probably devising unspeakable tortures like liberal arts colleges, advanced math classes, and sensible shoes. She's right. There are a lot of talented people at ATC, and I've never given them any credit.