Charlotte Cuts It Out (25 page)

He takes my hand in one of his, and places his other at my waist. He's so tall that I could lean right into his chest. I could, but I don't.

“Now, is this so bad?” He smiles, and it's kind of sexy.

I shake my head. Then, finally, I make eye contact. “You know, I'm really sorry about the other day,” I tell him. “I just didn't know what you were doing.”

“I know.” We take small steps, and sway to the music. “I should have said something instead of swooping in on you. It all just happened so fast.”

“Thank you for trying.” And I don't look away.

The lights. The music. His warm, strong hand in mine, on me. His hazel eyes flecked in gold and rimmed with dark lashes. I'm caught up in the moment. He leans in a little closer as the music winds down. He's going to kiss me. He's
going to kiss me.
He's going to kiss me!
And I'm not only fine with it, I want him to. All fluttery again, I tilt my head back and close my eyes—ready.

The song ends. No kiss. Trent's still holding me, but he somehow seems to step back. “Charlotte? What are you doing?”

I open my eyes.

After a moment, a sly expression crosses his face. “You thought I was going to kiss you.”

“No!” I say a little too forcefully. Warmth spreads up my neck. I'm blushing. How could I be so stupid? “I was just into the music.”

He raises his eyebrows. “If you say so.”

“Aargh!” I start to pull away. “You're so—”

He keeps hold of my right hand. “I'm so what?” The amused expression on his face makes me want to slap him.

Instead, I swat at his chest with my free hand. “Annoying.”
Adorable.
“Cocky.”
Considerate.
I search for something else—something especially pointed—but his expectant, playful smile isn't helping. “Tall.”
Tall
.

“Tall?”
He laughs. “Is that all you've got?”

I yank my hand out of his and stomp away, leaving him in the middle of the dance floor grinning like a goon.

After it's all over and we're driving home, Shelby suggests stopping at Mondo Burger. Only the drive-thru is open, so we have to eat in the car. We don't care; we're starving.

“That was a blast!” Shelby says. She pulls into a parking spot and turns off her lights, but keeps the car running.

I nod with my mouth full of cheeseburger, and watch snowflakes hit the warm windshield and melt into tiny droplets.

“The kids looked really tired at the end, though.” She tears open a ketchup packet and squeezes it on her fries. “I hope it didn't wear them out too much.”

Another nod from me. I'm especially worried about Sarah—but she looked so happy when Felix wheeled her into the elevator. She deserves something good to counter all the crap.

They all do.

After a sip of pop I say, “It was nice of Mrs. Worthington to publicly thank us at the end.”

“I know, right?” Shelby wipes ketchup off her hand with
a napkin. “I'm glad you were able to thank them for the opportunity for all of us. When they all stood up and clapped, I got kind of choked up, and then I got embarrassed. But you kept it together. Like always.”

“No problem.” Wow! Shelby thinks
I
keep it together? Did she miss my outburst at the last team meetings and the walk of shame immediately afterward? “Telling people how I feel isn't really a problem for me. Not saying something is harder.”

Shelby laughs nervously. She could probably say something really snarky, but she doesn't. Instead she says, “Like when Ms. Garrett waits until two minutes before the bell rings to have us clean up. I so want to tell her that if she gave us more time, the supply room wouldn't be such a mess.”

“I know!” I pull the tomato off my burger, wrap it in a napkin, and reassemble. “I've said the same thing to Lydia no less than a million times.” Except Lyd always laughed off my comments, saying she was glad for the extra time and telling me to lighten up.

“I mean, do you know how many bottles of nail polish got gunky because people didn't make sure the tops were on tight enough?” Shelby seems genuinely angry. As if she agrees with me, unlike Lydia, who would only say that sarcastically, pointing out how unimportant nail polish is.

“Over a dozen.”

“Fourteen!” Shelby looks as if she's seeing me for the first time. “And we'd have more time to clean up if Ms. G didn't have to deal with Toby. How did he get into cos in the first
place? All he does is mess around.” It's like she's listing all of
my
biggest cos pet peeves.

“He's so obnoxious,” I add.

“Right!”

While we eat, we talk about the projects we've done so far and how Shelby thinks we should have had more time for finishing touches. I totally agree. Then she tells me about her ideas to make Posh Salon and Spa, her mom's business, better. Her mom won't listen, though—not about changing things, and especially not about letting Shelby go to college. Unlike me, she really
wants
to.

“She says it's pointless to spend all that money when I'm just going to end up back at the salon, working for her.” Shelby twists a straw wrapper between her fingers. “She loves it here. So does my little sister. But I just want . . . I don't know . . . more.” Then she talks about going to college in a big city. “I'd still use my cos license, to help pay for college and to get experience. Then I'd
really
like to do hair for movies or TV. Good luck telling my mother that.”

Pringle's is just as much a family business as Posh. The difference is that Mom, Dad, and Pops have never expected me to do what they do. They've never made me feel trapped there. I think of the college catalogs in the downstairs garbage, and feel like such a spoon-licker.

“The salon's not that bad, though. At least I get paid.” Shelby sips her pop. “Not like Lydia.”

Where did that come from? Ever since Lydia started helping out at Patti Cakes, she's always been on the payroll.

“Oh!” Shelby sees my face and backpedals. “I shouldn't have said anything. Shit. I just figured you knew, since you've been best friends forever. Please, please don't tell her I told you. Shit.”

Wait, what? How does
Shelby
know anything about Lydia's life? She goes on, clearly trying to make up for her misstep. “My dad is her mom's accountant. I overheard my parents one night—he's not supposed to talk about clients—I shouldn't have been listening. Shit.” Shelby winces. “Please don't say anything.”

I gather the wrappers and shove them into the bag. “I won't,” I assure her.

Shelby doesn't need to know that Lydia and I aren't really talking, anyway. But every time I turn around I'm learning about something
else
Lydia's been keeping from me. Why didn't she say anything? I've always been there for her.

Haven't I?

“Seriously.” Shelby is desperate. “I know we're not really friends—that you pretty much hate me—but—”

“I don't hate you.” Well, not all the time. Shelby looks skeptical. “Hey,
you're
the one who rolls your eyes and talks about me and laughs with Taylor and the Emilys. And you're the one who called me anal.”

“I don't talk about you or laugh.” No way am I going to bring up what I heard in the bathroom. First of all, I don't want her to know I was eavesdropping from a stall, and second, what she said wasn't mean or gossipy. “If I'm laughing, it's probably at either Comb-over or Toby.” She meets my
eyes. “I'm sorry I called you anal—but, honestly, sometimes you are. Like a know-it-all teacher's pet.”

I glare at her. “Me?
You're
the know-it-all teacher's pet! Ms. Garrett loves you because she knows your mom.”

“Pssht! More like she answers all of your questions, but brushes me off because she knows my mom. Why do you think my team was the only one shorted a designer right off the bat?”

I hadn't thought of that; she might have a point. Rather than surrendering, though, I throw another example her way. “She asked you to demo the perm rolling yesterday.” I adjust the heat vent away from me. It's getting warm in here.

“Because my mom told her that I'm weak at rolling perms.” Shelby turns the heat to low. “Did you notice how she picked apart my technique?”

“No,” I say. “But I did see her wink at you when she handed back the pedi tests.”

“You're right. She did wink at me,” she shoots back. “But she gave you first prize for the fund-raiser a minute before that!”

Just when I'm about to jump out of the car and call my dad to pick me up, she starts laughing.

“What's so funny?”

“This is just like me and my cousin Tiffany. Our moms say we argue because we're so much alike—both bossy firstborns.”

Shelby and I, so much alike? No way! As she's laughing, I consider. She thinks I'm a teacher's pet. I think she is.
She thinks I hate her and talk about her behind her back. I assumed the same about her. She's my biggest competition in the showcase. She told her friends I had “mad skills.” In other words, we have the exact same problems with each other. In addition to cos aspirations and family businesses, we're both apparently annoying as hell.

Oh my lanta, she's right. There's no way I'm admitting it, though.

She starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot. “So what's the deal with you and Trent?”

Great! My second or third least favorite topic. “No deal. He's the most irritating person on the planet.” Then I smile. “Besides you, of course.”

“Aww,” she coos. “You're in love.”

I huff and scowl, and she laughs like a demented hyena.

Could all of this possibly be the makings of a friendship? Me and Shelby Cox?

If someone had predicted it a month ago, I'd have called that person a liar. But so many unexpected things have happened lately that I guess anything's possible. A lot is going to depend on the outcome of the showcase, though.

4 days to the Winter Style Showcase

Monday is the last meeting before the showcase. In a perfect world—the one outlined on page one of my notebook—the only thing we'd have left to do is a practice run-through. Instead, I'm not even sure if anyone on my team will show up today, since we've already lost the building trades guy, the artist, the flutist, two ballerinas, and Carter, the digital design disaster and all-around asshat.

And I have a ton left to do. I sit at a table in the multi-purpose room and look over my list. I have to get photos from Trent and the rest of the team, write my speech, create the PowerPoint presentation, paint and assemble the rest of the props, finalize my plans for hair and makeup, gather everything needed to make that happen, keep up the records for all of my reports, and follow up to make sure everyone else is doing what they're supposed to do.

Melody from child development and the little three-year-old ballerina, Lily, show up first, which is weird because Shea is always early. Lily is wearing a tutu, a sweater, leg warmers, and pink light-up tennis shoes. The ballerinas,
Kayla and Kaylee, are next. They sit down and immediately tell Lily how cute her leg warmers are and ask her about her recital last year.

Shea still isn't here, and it's almost our turn to use the stage for the run-through. I go over to Shelby and Gabriella's table. “Hey, guys, sorry to interrupt, but can I talk to Gabriella for a sec?”

“Yeah, sure,” says Shelby. “Everything okay?”

I purse my lips and shrug. I'm not sure. Gabriella stands and looks at me expectantly. She's wearing gold shimmer on her eyes. Nice choice with her coloring.

“Do you know where Shea is?” I ask.

“She's sick.” She starts to sit back down.

“Oh, no!” I say. “Is it serious? Will she be back soon?”

“I don't know,” she says, standing again. “She was here on Friday.”

“Okay, thanks,” I say. Gabriella returns to her meeting, and I go back to my table.

What are we going to do? We're supposed to finalize all of our plans today and run through everything. The only person with a dress is Lily, and she provided it herself. I hope Shea just has a little bug and will be back tomorrow, dresses in hand. I text her:
I hear you're not feeling well. Get better soon.

I tell the others that Shea isn't here and then text Lydia:
Where are you?

The teacher supervisor tells us that we're next for run-through, so we head to the auditorium. Toby's team is just
leaving. There are at least a dozen people, it seems. His models are wearing silver robes and full futuristic makeup, including blue metallic lipstick. They're laughing and high-fiving, and Toby is wearing a tinfoil hat on his head. He shields his models from us by standing between us, flailing his arms and putting his hat on one of the models' heads. “Don't look! Don't look!”

I shake my head and walk past him. I get it. The closer we get to the competition, the more secretive everyone is getting about their project's details. But
me
steal from
Toby
? Never! Although his team is bigger and
actually here,
and his models already have their styles in place. Oh my lanta! Even Toby has his shit more together than I do. Looks like I'm in Opposite Land, for sure.

I talk to the stage team, which are a few guys from custodial services and a couple guys from building trades, and tell them about the props I'll be bringing on Friday.

One of the building trades guys says, “Yeah, I know about those.” Translation:
You're the girl who screwed over my classmate.

“
That
was not my fault,” I argue. He shrugs me off. Then I show him where I want the props positioned. They're supposed to put them in place while the stage is dark between presentations.

“Got it,” says the building trades guy who made Lydia's arbor.

“Lights check,” says a familiar voice from the speakers in the sound booth. Trent? “We've been using these . . .”
Soft, faint lights come up across the stage. “. . . for the other groups. With spotlights at the podium and on the models. Does that work for you, Charlotte?” Definitely Trent!

“Yes, that should be great,” I call. “Can you do two lights on the models when little Lily here is on stage, too?” I tap Lily's shoulder.

She smiles and says, “Are you talking to God?”

I hear Trent cracking up as he says, “No problem.” Great! As if he's not cocky enough already, now he's going to have a God complex. Everyone on stage laughs, too. Lily looks embarrassed.

I crouch down next to her, point to the sound booth in the back of the auditorium, and say as loudly as possible, “No, he's not God, just a goony high school guy. Say hi to Lily, Trent.”

Bright lights inside the booth come on, so we can see Trent on the other side of the window waving and making a goofy face. His friend Birch is there, too.

“See what I mean?” I say.

Lily laughs. “Uh-huh. He doesn't look anything like God.”

I agree, even though I have no idea what God looks like. Or how Lily does.

The lights in the sound booth go dim again. “Is your PowerPoint uploaded yet?”

“Not yet,” I call. “Still working on it.”

“Taking it down to the wire, I see,” he says. “Music?”

“I have it here,” Mackenzie calls, holding up her phone.

“So you don't need anything from me, then?”

“Nope, not a thing!” Then I remember that I
do
need something. Pictures! I flinch and smile sheepishly. “Well, maybe some pictures for my PowerPoint . . .”

“I'll send you the link to the thumbnails,” he says. “Make me a list of the numbers of the ones you want. Then I'll e-mail you the files without watermarking.”

“How much—”

“Just get me a list and we'll work it out later,” he says. “Now for the run-through.”

He's so bossy. But I don't say that because I'm grateful that he's willing to help.

Mackenzie plays the song from her phone. Melody tells Lily to follow the ballerinas and to do what they do. The Kays, one at a time, dance en pointe and leap across the stage. They're graceful and amazing. Lily does an adorable job imitating and following them.

“Can you repeat that, but stop about here,” I ask, standing near the middle of the stage, “and turn slowly while we discuss your hair, makeup, and costume?”

“Like this?” Kayla nails it.

“Yes! Perfect,” I say.

Kaylee suggests a move that circles around and exits from the same side she enters, so that it'll save time for the quick change. She shows us, and it's fantastic. It allows for more stage time for Lily, too, so I say go with it. Mackenzie agrees.

Finally, we simulate the quick changes and repeat the
process with the “new” styles. Everything goes beautifully, even though we're missing the snow machine, live flute music, the props, the models' actual dresses, makeup, hairstyles, and our final speeches.

After we're done, I notice I have a text from Shea:
Thanks! Hope to see you tomorrow.
Good! That shouldn't put us too far off track. I'm sure Shea has her part handled. (I hope so, anyway.)

Mackenzie and I thank everyone and set up salon appointments for Wednesday for the Kays and Lily. We need to make sure the hairstyles will work, and give them time to get used to them. I text Lydia again. Is she on Team Charlotte or not? Finally, I head to Building Trades to gather the partially done PVC and wooden candy props that I've already paid for.

If I have any hope of pulling this off, I don't have a moment to spare. I have a ton to do and less than four days to do it.

The store is pretty slow after school, so I start writing my speech in the break room. Or I try to. Considering how things are going, it's par for the course when I run out of blank paper halfway through. I rummage through the drawers under the microwave but find nothing usable.

I stop by the service desk, but Pops doesn't have anything but a tiny notepad. The song “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond comes on overhead—for the third time in the past hour. “What gives?” I ask Pops. “Are you playing that song
on a loop?” It's one of his favorites. He used to sing it to Grandma—Caroline Pringle.

“Not me.” He shakes his head. “Must be Oliver. He's been singing it the past few days. Probably stuck in his head from the Wings game the other night.”

I laugh. “Singing it? The only words Oliver knows are the chorus echoes.”

Then Pops starts singing along as I walk away, “Sweet Caroline . . .”

“Ba ba ba!” I sing back at him from an aisle away.

He smiles and sings the next line.

Next stop: the office. Which, happily, is empty, so I can riffle through Dad's desk. No blank paper, but I find a couple of files . . . including a bright green one with my name on it.

Bizarre,
I think, and open it.

It is full of betting pools about me.

I wonder why they aren't in the break room with the rest of the pools. Then I realize: I am not supposed to be looking at these. They are secret.

The first is a QP:
How many times Charlotte says, “Oh my lanta!” in a shift.
This one is dated three weeks ago. The winner was—no surprise—Ralph, who guessed eleven. Ha! I didn't realize I said it that much, but I guess it is kind of funny.

Next:
When Charlotte redoes the displays.
There's a sheet for every display from Opening Day through New Year's. So
that's
why Dad and Ralph always get to them first! Do they do the displays wrong on purpose just to watch me change
them? Are they laughing and high-fiving each other behind my back every time?

Then:
Number of times Charlotte makes an employee melt down
. It's from last year. I count one, two, three . . . twelve, thirteen . . . There are fourteen entries, each with the person's name and the date. Shit. There are a lot of repeats—and a couple of them don't even work here anymore. Am I the reason why?