Charlotte Cuts It Out (5 page)

And then there's something else, not related to the
showcase: community service. According to Mrs. Roberts, even though it's required, we don't earn ATC bucks for it, only bonus points.

“Bonus points?” I ask, raising my hand.

“You need twenty hours of community service to graduate.” Mrs. Roberts's wrinkled beige sweater looks as if she pulled it out of last week's laundry basket. “This is a good time to do it, because the number of hours you put in could be the deciding factor in the event of a tie, and it's a big part of your civics grade, too.”

I can't imagine what kind of community service relates to cos. Raising my hand again, I think out loud. “So what do we do? Give random makeovers to people at the mall, or something?” Several kids laugh. “No, seriously. That would beautify the community, right?”

“I'm sure you'll come up with something a little more”—Mrs. Roberts thinks about her next word for a really long time—“impactful.” More laughter. But at least I'm asking about it, unlike anyone else.

Finally it's time to head to computer class and make the flyers for the “marketing” we're going to do at the mall. I know how to do this—I've done flyers for Pringle's a million times. This one has to have real style, though, so Lyd and I use clip art, word art, and colorful fonts.

“Girls.” Mr. Tim—and yes, we know that name sounds like a mega-star hairstylist, but he's our wannabe-hipster computers teacher—looks at our screen. “You've got a lot going on there. Sometimes simpler gets more attention.”

“I hear you.” I enlarge the cartoon balloon that says
MANI/PEDI ONLY $10!!!!

“We should make the font for the date and time bigger and bolder,” suggests Lydia. “And maybe make the balloon yellow?”

“Well, I'm glad you
heard
me, at least.” Mr. Tim walks on to the next computer station.

I change the font and balloon. Personally, I think the peach looked better, but I'm a team player, so I give in.

We use the color printer—and every piece of lavender copy paper in the cabinet. “The mall. Seven. Be there,” I say to Lyd with a grin.

I wait at a table by the Twisted Pretzel for fifteen minutes before I text her. After another five minutes with no reply, I call and get voice mail. I pull the ATC catalog out of my purse and look at the names and faces on every page. No Reed, but there's the guy who pulled him away from me—Trent Rockwell, Digital Design. With that mop of hair and his droopy brown—or hazel?—eyes, he reminds me of a basset hound.

I look closer at each digital dude, but Lydia's right: Reed's not there. She shows up as I'm trying to figure out why.

“Hey! Sorry I'm late.” Lydia collapses into a chair. She's out of breath, her hair is a disaster, and she has green frosting on her sleeve. “I have so much to tell you. I've been running nonstop since school let out. The bakery is freaking busy.”

I hand her a napkin and point to her sleeve. Food-smeared
clothes and messy hair aren't exactly our best advertisement. “Your mom hasn't found a replacement for Nutmeg yet?”

She grins. “Just call me Nutmeg 2.0.”

“You can't do it all.” I pull the flyers out of my purse, along with my wallet, a compact mirror, and a hair clip. “Has she placed any ads?”

“It's okay. I don't mind.”

I hand her the mirror and clip and get up. “I need a pop. Want anything?”

“No thanks. I'm good.” She peeks in the tiny mirror and tames her stray locks with her fingers and the clip.

When the girl at the Twisted Pretzel—her name tag says Ann—hands me my Diet Mountain Dew, I hand her a flyer. “We're doing a fund-raiser for the ATC cos program. If you know anyone who'd want a mani or pedi, come in on Thursday or Friday morning and ask for Charlotte or Lydia.” I point to the bottom of the page. “Only ten bucks!”

“Okay, thanks!” She smiles and takes it. Who knows if she means it, though.

“Don't forget to ask for us.” I swipe my card and smile. “We get credit.”

Back at the table, Lydia is talking to a couple of guys. When I walk up, they say good-bye and head toward the main entrance.

“Who was that?” I ask, taking a sip of my pop. “The guy in the Carhartt coat is cute.”

“I know, right? Just some guys from ATC. They're in the computer programs. One of them is talking to Emily.”

“Which one?”

“Which guy, or which Emily?”

“Both.”

She spills what she knows—Emily R. met the goatee guy at a party a few weeks ago—even though I really don't care. What I really want to know is how Lydia knows all of this when I don't. Yes, she's friendlier with people than I am, but she usually keeps me in the gossip loop.

We traipse through the mall, handing out flyers to everyone we see and to the clerks in every store that will take them. Some won't, especially if they sell their own nail care products.

When we're done, I'm famished. I suggest Applebee's, since it's right there, and they have the best mozzarella sticks.

“I don't know,” Lyd says. “I'm not really hungry.”

“Have you already had dinner?” I know perfectly well she hasn't, especially if she's been busy.

“It's just that . . .” She's acting all weird, not even looking at me.

“What?” I say a bit too loudly. I lower my voice. “You have something else going on?”

“No.”

“Then what?” We're standing in the middle of the mall right outside Snapz! People are starting to stare.

She whispers, “I don't have any money right now. I spent it at lunch.”

She spent it all? She got water with her tacos, and her total was less than two bucks.

“Is that it?” I grab her arm and start toward Applebee's. “I'll cover you.”

Right after the server brings us our drinks and disappears, Lydia says, “I'm pretty sure I failed my pedi test.”

“I doubt it.” We pull the papers off our straws. “It was super easy.”

“Maybe for you.” She takes a sip of her water. “I'm just not sure I'm cut out for this.”

“Of course you are!” I look at the menu, although I don't know why. We always order the same thing—chicken tenders from the 2 for $20 menu. “You've just been too busy at the bakery. I'll help you before the next test. No worries.” I look around for our server. “Where'd she go? I'm starving.”

She must have been right behind me, because suddenly she appears. “Sorry about that. What can I get ya?”

Lydia says, “A cup of the chicken tortilla soup.”

“We're not getting our usual?” I ask.

Lydia blushes, but I don't know why. Ordering food isn't embarrassing. “Come on. You don't want the
soup
!” Then I say to the server, “No offense.”

“None taken, hon.” Her messy ponytail wags as she shakes her head. “I wouldn't eat it, either.”

“See?” I don't wait for Lydia to answer. I order our tenders and our mozzarella sticks with two ranch dressings, no marinara. When the server leaves I ask Lydia, “What's the matter?”

“I told you I don't have any money,” she says, more into her water than to me.

“And I told you that I'd cover it. You can pay another time. No biggie.”

“That's just it. I'm not sure when . . .”

I wave her off. “Whenever. We're PICs, remember?” Lydia nods after a second, and I change the subject. “I looked through the whole catalog, and you're right. Reed isn't in it at all. I've figured it out. He's an undercover cop trying to bring down the weed dealers in automotive mech.”

Lydia laughs. “Oh, okay, Sherlock.”

“Yeah, and speaking of the catalog.” I pull it out of my bag. “I've marked everyone we're going to need to subcontract for our presentation.”

“Shouldn't we wait for our designers?”

“We can't wait for a second. We
need
to win this.” Then I tell her all about the bet. “So this is so much more than a school project to me. My whole future depends on it.”

“God, Charlotte!” says Lydia. “It's one thing to bet on melting snow and a bagger's hiccups. Are you sure you want to risk everything on a contest?”

“It's too late. I already signed. I can't go back now. We just have to make sure we win.”

Lydia shakes her head. I don't know why she's so worried. Even if by some strange twist of fate we don't win, we're sure to place.

The server brings our mozzarella sticks. I thank her and rip open a container of ranch. “So I was thinking of a fantasy Candy Land theme, since you're so good with sugar flowers. Wouldn't those look fantastic in a piecey updo?”

“Yeah, probably.” She dips a mozzarella stick.

“And then the dresses can be shimmery with crystals all over them to look like candy, too,” I continue. “Using glitter and shine spray, we could make the models look as if they're made of sugar.”

“As long as nobody throws water on them,” Lydia says while chewing. “We wouldn't want them melting, melting, melting.” She cackles like the wicked witch from
The Wizard of Oz.

“Very funny.” I peel off some breading and pop it in my mouth.

She pauses to wipe her hands. “This all sounds really great, but won't the fashion girls want to design their own dresses?”

“Oh, they can,” I say. “But our ideas are going to blow them away. They can use them as a starting point.”

“Uh-huh.” Lydia sounds apprehensive. “Um, but I wonder—you know, you just have this way of taking over sometimes . . .”

“I do not!” I polish off the last mozzarella stick, stack the plates, and gather all the debris from the straw and napkin wrappers. “But someone's got to be in charge of this thing. We only have thirty-eight days, and I don't want to go into the first meeting without a plan.”

Our food comes, and while we eat I tell Lydia about my plans for subcontracting. I have ideas that include quite a few of the programs. “To be
synergistic.
” We both roll our eyes.

“But we're going to have to cover some of the costs with actual cash, right?” she asks. “We can't subcontract everything. Remember last year? Some of those presentations were pretty extravagant.”

In eighth grade Lydia and I attended the ATC visitation and fell in love with the cos program. We've attended every winter style showcase since then—observing, critiquing, planning. Last year, when we heard we'd actually been accepted, we made our parents go, too. I can't believe it's finally our turn to shine.

“Maybe a little, but it'll be ninety-nine percent ATC bucks.” I count out the financial plan by holding up my fingers. “First, there's the fund-raiser, which we're going to own. Next, the fashion designers will add their own supplies and ATC bucks to the mix. Finally, don't forget about all the makeup and hair care tools we already own.”

“I don't know. It still sounds expensive.”

“It shouldn't be too bad.” A little ketchup drips between my fingers.

She takes a sip of water. “I, uh, need to talk to you about that. It's kind of about this dinner, too.”

“Okay.” I wipe the ketchup off my hand with my napkin.

“You know how my dad was sick?” She picks at her thumbnail, leaving little peelings from yesterday's mani on the table. It's a nervous habit, and she's tried to stop, but it's not great if you're going to be a professional stylist. At least she doesn't bite them anymore.

“Uh-huh.” My hand is still sticky, so I look through my
purse for a wet-nap. Lydia's dad suffers from serious depression. He was hospitalized for nearly three weeks last summer, and it was several more months before he was working again full-time. Wait! What is she saying? I stop what I'm doing and look at her. “Oh, no! He's not sick again, is he? Oh, Lyd.”

“No! No, it's nothing like that.” She fidgets with the salt and pepper shakers. “He's doing much better. Great, actually. It's just that . . .”

Then her phone rings. Lyd takes the call, and I take the salt and pepper shakers and put them back with the dessert menu. After listening for a few moments, she says, “I'll be right home,” then hangs up. “That was Mom. More bakery stuff.”

“So, quick, tell me about your dad,” I say. Is he still hassling her mom about working so many hours? Are they getting divorced? Is he really as
great
as she says?

When he was sick, it was so hard on them. Some days he didn't get out of bed, and then he'd be up all night. The meds made him look and act like a zombie. They couldn't get the combo and dosage right until he was hospitalized.

“It's no big deal, really.” She leans in and whispers. “It's just that things are a little tight right now until the hospital bills are paid off.”

What is she talking about? I told her I'd cover dinner. The project? It's not like it's going to be that expensive.