Charlotte Cuts It Out (32 page)

Dad and Pops burst through the band room doors. “Did you hear?” asks Dad.

“Yes!” Mom says. “What happened?”

“When the show was over, Nina asked Oliver to take her home. She didn't feel very well,” says Dad. “So they left before the awards.”

“By the way, kiddo”—Pops puts his arm around me—“that was quite a show!”

“Yeah . . .” What else can I say?

“What about Nina?” Mom looks as if she's about to jump out of her skin.

“Well, I guess they got home okay, but as soon as Nina got out of the car,
splash!
” Dad gestures as if he's talking about a bomb or fireworks, not amniotic fluid. “So they jumped back in the car and went to the hospital.”

“Okay,” says Mom, taking command. “Let's get Charlotte packed up so we can get out of here and up to Allegiance.”

“I haven't set foot in a hospital since Caroline died,” says Pops, “and I'm not about to start now.”

Dad picks up a couple of my lollipop props. “Fine. I'll drop you off first.”

While we're scraping off and loading the car, Mom gets a frantic call from Oliver. Nina doesn't have her glasses, and even though her contacts are killing her, she refuses to take them out. “How am I supposed to
see
, Oliver?” I hear her through Mom's phone.

Oh my lanta! Here we go!

When Mom hangs up, she says, “I'll run to Ollie and Nina's, grab Nina's glasses and some sweats for Oliver. Then I'll go home, change my clothes, and pick up a phone charger, my e-reader, and whatever anyone else needs in the meantime. Looks like it's going to be a long night.” She fishes her keys from her purse and heads to her car.

Dad slams my trunk. “Want me to follow you home before taking Pops home? It's pretty icy.”

“No, it's fine.” The sooner I can get out of the freezing wind the better. “We're all anxious to get to the hospital. It'll be faster if we split up.”

“Okay.” He hugs me. “Good job tonight. I'm proud of you.”

Good job
is a stretch, but I'll take it. “Thanks, Dad.”

When I get in the car, Dad adds, “Wait for Mom and ride with her.”

I say I will. Then I start my car and crank the heat.

The roads are slicker than I thought. I grip the steering wheel tightly and slow down. I repeat the Michigan winter slogan from driver's ed.:
Take it slow in ice and snow.

I laugh when I think about how sure I was that I was going to win tonight. The only first I got was the first booby prize. I know Mr. Finn and Ms. G probably thought they were doing something nice, but to me, it's a reminder that my project was a disaster. If I'd really overcome obstacles, I'd have won. Winning despite challenges is the definition of overcoming, not falling on your face. I set a new goal: to win the senior showcase. Except this time I won't micromanage our team, and I'll stop, drop, and roll as much as humanly possible. Or at least as much as Charlotte-ly possible.

After a week of late-night work sessions, all I want to do is watch mindless TV in the hospital waiting room with the rest of the family, and wait for the newest Pringle girl to make her debut. None of that has anything to do with me. It's a relief not being “on,” not having a Grand Plan. All we can do is wait. My niece has her own Grand Plan.

At the first intersection past the school, Dad and Pops go left, and I drive straight ahead. In the middle of the intersection the back of my car fishtails a bit, but I get through okay.

About a half mile away there's a snowdrift across the road. It looks pretty minor—about an inch, two tops, but when I hit it, I lose control of my car.

Oh, shit! Oh, shit! Oh, shit!

I slide sideways. No matter how I turn the wheel, I can't regain traction.

I hit a speed limit sign and land solidly in the ditch.

I'm shaking. My heart is racing.

The car behind me stops, and the driver rolls down her
passenger window. I roll down mine, too. “You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “I'm going to call my dad. He's just ahead of me.”

“Okay, hon. Take it easy.” She rolls her window back up and continues on. I roll mine up, too—it's freezing.

Several minutes and a few more cars pass as I frantically search for my purse and my phone. My wipers are still on, back and forth, back and forth, swishing away the melting snow. My heat is on full blast, but my car hasn't warmed up enough yet. It's still blowing cold air.

I find my purse and dig for my phone. Where is it? I can't find it. My hand reaches from pocket to pocket, zips and searches and re-zips like it has a mind of its own. Why didn't I just let Dad follow me?

There's a knock on the window, and my heart starts racing again.

“Charlotte? Are you all right?” It's Trent. He's wearing a black ski jacket and thick gloves. There's a giant 4 x 4 truck in front of me, belching exhaust in my headlights.

I roll down my window and nod. “Uh-huh. Not sure about my car, though.”

“It looks okay from here,” he says, “but we won't know for sure until I pull you out of there. You should be back on the road and on your way in a little while.”

The snow is still coming down hard. I don't want to
be on my way.
Alone. Just to wind up in another ditch. Besides,
Trent's already done enough. I owe him so much already. The last thing I need is for him to rescue me—again.

“You don't have to do that,” I say. “I'll just call my dad.” As soon as I find my phone.

“Does he have four-wheel drive?” he asks.

“He has Triple-A.” Then I blurt, “My sister-in-law is having a baby right now. Our whole family's trying to get to the hospital.”

“Whoa,” he says. “Let's not waste time, then. It'll be hours before a tow truck will get here in this weather. I'm sure they're swamped. I'll just take you there. You can deal with your car later.”

That's the best idea I've ever heard. After all the embarrassing things that have happened lately, I'm tired of trying to save face and be brave. I want out of this ditch and into some warm clothes ASAP.

I unbuckle my seat belt, and he opens the door. When the dome light pops on, I see my phone, right in the console where I usually put it.

Phone, purse, and keys in hand, I start to step from the car—until I remember that I'm in three-inch heels in the middle of a snowbank. Trent notices, too, and says, “Want some help?”

“How, as in you'll
carry me
?” Um, no, thanks!

“It's either that or trudge through this.” He stares at me. “And with what you're wearing, I wouldn't suggest it.”

I ignore him and get out of the car as gracefully as I can.

Bare legs, three-inch heels, and over a foot of snow are not a great combination. I yelp. He tries to take my arm, but I pull away.

“I can do it.” I take a step and lose my shoe in the snow. Because my skirt is too short to allow me to bend over, I crouch down to dig it out, yelp again, and drop my phone. By the time I've collected everything I'm soaking wet, and I'm not just shivering, I'm shaking.

“What, is this a new workout? Snow squats?” he teases.

“Shut up.” I wade out of the snowbank onto the slippery road, then take tiny baby steps to keep from falling.

He holds my arm to steady me. This time I don't pull away. I do not want to fall on my butt. Not on an icy road. Not in front of him. Not in this skirt.

Even though I'm about to die of hypothermia, the dim light from a decorative lamppost in the next yard and the snow silently falling all around us are beautiful, as if we're inside a snow globe. Maybe even a little romantic. Then a gust of wind blows snow up my skirt and I brush away the thought.

When we get to his 4 x 4, I realize that it's practically a monster truck. In pants, I could just make it up—but this skirt is way too tight and short. There's no step, no running board, no anything. “How do you get up there?” I ask, teeth beginning to chatter.

“In a skirt? No clue. I've never worn one.” He laughs. “Need a boost?”

There is no modest way to get into this truck without
revealing everything, and tonight's been embarrassing enough already.

Next thing I know, his arms are around my lower back in a warm, gentle hug. His eyelashes catch a few stray snowflakes. He's so close that I see a spray of freckles across his pink nose and cheeks, and his breath smells like peppermint.

He's going to kiss me. I'm sure of it this time. He's caught up in the snow globe, too. I close my eyes, tilt my head, and wait. Ready. He holds me even tighter. I must be really numb because it feels like I'm floating.

Trent grunts. “Can you help a little bit, please?”

I open my eyes. Oh, God! He's not kissing me. He's lifting me into the truck! I reach in, grab the steering wheel, step onto the floorboard, and slide onto the seat. “Thanks.” I scoot over to make room for him.

Please, please, please don't have noticed my premature kiss pose—again.

He says nothing, just turns the blasting heat vent toward me.
Thank you!

I call my dad. “Charlotte? Where are you?” He sounds panicked. “You're not on ninety-four, are you?”

“I'm fine,” I say. “But my car's in a ditch. Not on ninety-four. Why?”

“There was an accident,” he says. “Your mother”—
Oh, God!
Mom. Accident. I-94
.
No!
—“is stuck in traffic. She says it's a skating rink out there. It's closed for miles. Where are you?”

I tell him what happened and that Trent's taking me directly to Allegiance.

“You're lucky he was right there,” Dad sounds relieved. “We'll call Triple-A later. Just as long as you're all right.”

“I am.”

“So who's this
Trent
?” Dad asks. “You know him, right? He's not just some random guy in a four-by-four?”

“Yes, I know him,” I say. “He did the PowerPoint for my showcase presentation.”

“Oh, wow,” Dad sounds impressed. “Someone special, then?”

“Dad!”

“Sorry.”

I change the subject. “So Mom's fine?”

“Yes. She's just going to be a while.”

“How's Nina?” I ask.

“Haven't heard,” he says. “Oliver's with her. I'm on my way to the fourth-floor waiting room now. It's just off the elevator. Can't miss it. See you when you get here. Take your time and avoid ninety-four.”

When I hang up the phone, I text Mom, briefly explaining what happened and asking her to bring me a change of clothes.

I set my phone on the seat and turn to Trent. “Thank you for doing this. And for the PowerPoint. I owe you big-time.”

“Don't worry.” He keeps his eyes on the road, but smiles. “I'll add it to my invoice.”

Great! This will probably cancel out all my ATC bucks—and then some. It's fitting, I decide, that the biggest loser will have the biggest deficit.

“Where did you get all those pictures?” I ask after a moment.

“I took most of them, but I also got a few from classmates.” He turns on his blinker to turn left. “We all stockpile pics on the server because we never know what we'll need.”

“That's cool.” Digital design sounds less competitive than cos. Or is that just me? For the senior showcase, maybe I could work
with
Shelby, instead of
against
her.

“I'm glad I took a ton at the wellness fair and around school,” he continues. “I was able to do some trading.” The truck slides a little on the turn, and I steady myself against the armrest. “Don't worry—we're fine. I love driving in this stuff.”

“I'm glad
someone
does.” He laughs. I've only been driving for two years. Last year, I just had my learner's permit, and I refused to drive when it snowed. Now that I've slid off the road, I hate it even more.