Charlotte Cuts It Out (19 page)

11 days to the Winter Style Showcase

When I get to school Monday morning, I'm determined to clear the air with Lydia. Are we friends or not? How can she go from being my PIC to blowing me off at the mall in just three weeks? What am I missing here?

The Allegiance fund-raiser is this weekend, and Lyd and I need to fill out the paperwork for the background check ASAP. Maybe that's the best—and least confrontational—way to start the conversation. But she doesn't stop at her locker before the bell rings, and I have to get to our team meeting. At least I'll see her there.

I commandeer a table in the multipurpose room and spread out my things. Again, Shea is the first to arrive. She walks in carrying a binder and a sketchbook, but no actual dresses.

“We might have a problem,” I say as soon as she's seated.

She gives me a look. “What now?”

“Remember at the first meeting when we agreed to stockpile our ATC bucks?” She nods. “Well, how much do you have?”

“Not that much,” she admits. “Our tailoring fund-raiser
didn't go that well. I guess nobody wants to pay five dollars to get a zipper replaced on their pants when they can just pick up a new pair on the clearance rack at Keehn's for twenty. I thought we'd get more hemming, but we didn't.” She fiddles with her hair. “I don't know. Maybe we didn't advertise enough, or something.”

I grab a pen from my purse and click it open. “What's the bottom line?”

She opens her binder to her budget and shows me. Her balance is measly, even less than mine. We're doomed. This is what I get for counting on other people to pull their weight. I feel sick.

Within minutes, the room fills with people, and the rest of the team joins us at the table. I notice that Carter and Lydia come in together, and sit practically on top of each other. Melody, the child development girl, has three little girls with her, just as I'd asked at the last meeting. She has all of them scrunch together in one chair. They appear to be well-behaved, so at least one thing seems to go our way.

I tell the team about our financial situation—or lack thereof. Mackenzie asks a ton of questions, most of which are annoying and a waste of time.

Finally, the guy from construction trades says, “I already started the props you ordered. Are you saying you're not going to be able to pay me?”

“Uh, I, uh . . .” I stammer. “How much have you done so far?”

“I have most of the materials, and I've cut the wooden lollipops. The PVC should be here later today or tomorrow, and then all of it needs to be assembled, primed, and painted. That'll be more labor costs.”

He shows me his report and points to an entry about halfway down the page. “This is where I am today.” Then he points to the bottom of the page. “Here's where we'll be by the showcase—exactly where I said in my quote.”

“We don't have that much.” Shea looks at the number, too, and shakes her head.

“What
do
you have?” He is not pleased, and I can't blame him. I agreed to the contract when I still had all of our ATC bucks from the cos fundraiser—or thought I did, anyway.

I open my binder and show him today's total. “We have a little more than that,” I add, indicating Shea, “but not much. I'm sorry. Plus, I need to pay all of these people”—I sweep my hand around the group—“and our music permissions and stage helpers.”

“I can't believe this!” He slaps the table. The other teams turn from their discussions to stare. “You just cost me a butt-load of ATC bucks. Finn is going to hear about this. I'm outta here.”

“Me too,” say the flutist and the artist at the same time, and follow him out. When the little girls see all this, they get up, too, and run toward the door, with Melody giving chase. This must be what she meant by “corralling.”

“They're dropping like flies.” Shea shakes her head. “What are we going to do?”

“I don't know,” I admit.

“What about the rest of us?” asks Kayla (I think). It's suddenly really hot and stuffy. If I'd worn leggings, the way Mom wanted me to—because it's late November, and freezing—I'd probably pass out.

Everyone's eyes are on me. Well, not
everyone's
eyes. Carter's and Lydia's are on their phones. They're texting. Probably each other. Probably about me. I want to take their cells and chuck them across the room, but I have too many other people to deal with first.

“Without models, we have no showcase,” Shea points out. “As it is, we only have two.” So she didn't find any replacements, like she'd promised. I let it slide; we can't afford more models now, anyway.

I write down my balance, add Shea's, and subtract what I owe the building trades guy, the cost of stage helpers, our music license, and two ballerinas. What's left can either cover the kids or Carter, but not both, and the PowerPoint is required. Damn it. Carter's already gotten so much of our ATC bucks stash—not to mention my best friend—that I resent having to give him anything more.

And what are we going to do about music? Our form was for flute sheet music. We can't afford to pay the musician now, so that's out. “Does anybody have any ideas of what we can do for music?”

“I do!” Mackenzie starts scrolling through her phone.

Melody returns with the little girls in tow. None of them has melted down yet, thank God. “I can't do this by myself,”
she announces. “And if we add another person to help, it's going to cost more.” We don't have more, and she knows it. “How about this?” she continues. “If it's just me and only one of them, you'll still have the effect you want, and it'll reduce your cost by two-thirds.”

“Deal!” I really like this child development chick, even if she does dress like my mom on Black Friday. She and Hannah have that in common. What is it about kids that is so damaging to personal style? If that happens to Nina, I'll stage an intervention.

“So this is our team.” I gesture as if I'm unveiling a brand new sports car on a game show. Even though our team—Shea, Mackenzie, Lydia, Carter, Kayla, Kaylee, Melody, one kid, and me—more accurately resembles Ralph's rusted-out 1995 Ford Taurus. “We may be small, but we're mighty,” I say, possibly trying to convince myself more than them.

“Here it is!” Mackenzie says so loudly that she startles one of the little girls. “It's by a band from Ireland that my brother is into.” She plays it so we can all hear. It's lively and it fits our theme. The Kays—Kayla and Kaylee—both agree that it's the right tempo for what they'd like to do.

“Perfect! Can you get a revised form to Ms. G today?” I ask her, hoping it's not too late to change.

Mackenzie nods, as she tells the Kays the story of when she first heard the song coming from her brother's room and how she ran in and demanded that he download it for her.

The kids are getting antsy, so Melody excuses herself. Apparently, it's snack time.

“Shea? Do you have new sketches?”

“I do.” She opens her book. “I haven't started sewing yet, because that didn't turn out so hot last time.” There's an edge to her voice.

We all huddle together to see them—except for Lydia and Carter, of course. Shea shortened the floor-length gown to knee-length and made the metallic skirt shorter and more angled. The dancers agree that they'll be able to move easily now. “And I'll serge the petals' edges so they're not so rough,” she says.

I have no idea what she means, but it sounds good. “These are much better,” I tell her. “Although I have a few suggestions.” She gives me a look. “Can you use a more iridescent fabric, instead of the metallic? I don't want anyone to get us confused with the robot theme.”

“I already have the silver fabric, but I can put a layer of iridescent taffeta over it.”

“That should work.”

“You think so?” She clasps her hands under her chin and bats her eyes. “You really think so?”

I ignore the sarcasm. “Yes, I really do. I think they'll look great. Nice job.”

As they say, a little praise goes a long way. Her expression softens, and I swear she smiles.

After some brainstorming, we all decide that one of the dancers will do a quick-change backstage—“We do it all the time during our shows,” one of them says—so Shea can still present three dresses.

Mackenzie says she's only doing one style. “My style is so spectacular, it'll be more than enough to wow the judges.” I hope she's right, but so far, other than some pretty cool nail designs, none of her skills have impressed me.

I still need to figure out how to do four hairstyles on two heads.
Think about that later,
I tell myself.
Just keep going.

Shea takes the ballerinas to the fashion design lab for measurements. As they leave, I can hear her say, “We have less than two weeks, so we'll have to work as fast as we can.”

And then there were four.

I take a breath and force a smile. “Carter, what do you have to show us?”

“What do you mean?” He looks confused, and I notice he doesn't have his laptop with him.

“She means—” Mackenzie starts.

“The only thing I've seen is that sample PowerPoint from the last meeting,” I finish. “What do you have in mind for this project?”

He sighs. “Probably something pretty similar, but with different pictures.” He doesn't say “duh,” but it's certainly implied.

Mackenzie opens her mouth as if she's about to say something, but I beat her to it.

“If we're going to pay you more than we already have,” I glare at him, “we're going to need something a little less generic.”

“You haven't paid me anything yet.” He scowls. That little
dent on his nose is butt-ugly. How did I ever think of him as QT?

“Lydia paid you a ton for that box of brochures,” I point out as nicely as I can. “Some of that money was mine.” Mac-kenzie nods as if she knows what I'm talking about.

“Charlotte!” Lydia snaps. As in:
Don't tell him that. It makes me look bad.

“We already agreed,” he says. “I thought this was a done deal.”

“I think we need to renegotiate.” I keep my voice cool, yet authoritative. “We agreed”—I put verbal quotes around it—“before I saw your work. I thought I was paying for something more professional.”

He straightens up. “More professional? That was for a friend of mine, and she got an A. So it couldn't be that bad.”

“I get As all the time,” Mackenzie adds. “It's not that big a deal.” Random, but at least she's trying to be on Team Charlotte.

Lydia looks mortified. I don't care.

“I disagree,” I counter, and point out all the errors I can remember. Then I add casually, “Was that for Brianna or some other girl?”

Mackenzie asks Lydia, “Who's Brianna? Is she on our team, too?” Lydia shakes her head.

Carter's eyes widen and his jaw tightens. “You are such a bitch!”

I gasp as if I'm offended. “I am? I had no idea. Thanks for enlightening me.”

He stands up. “Find another digital designer. I'm done.”

I pretend I'm unfazed. “Like I'd pay you for something I can do better myself.” He stomps out and slams the door. The teacher in the back goes after him.

“That didn't go well,” Mackenzie says, stating the obvious.

“What was
that
all about?” Lydia looks pissed. “Who's Brianna?”

“Carter's girlfriend,” I answer. “I would have told you, but it's hard when you don't talk to me.” So much for being nonconfrontational.

“Oh, like you'd know if Carter has a girlfriend!” She leans in and glowers. “You didn't even know his name a week ago. You think
I'm
bad? You can't have him, so nobody else can, either?” She shoulders her purse.

“Oh, okay, Lydia.” I throw up my hands. “At least
I'm
honest with
you.
I talked to Nutmeg on Friday, and she said—”