Charlotte Cuts It Out (26 page)

It's like picking at nail polish. I have to sift through the pages to see if there's one for this year, and there is. The most recent entry is
Katie, November 23.

I feel sick.

I knew Katie was in the bathroom crying. I knew there was a pool. Worst of all, I even thought it was funny—thinking everyone else was on my side.

The entry before that reads
Hannah, November 9.

On Thanksgiving, Hannah had told us how her sister had bailed out of babysitting on her first day. Which is why I'd caught her on the phone, and called her out for ignoring customers. And made her cry.

I wonder if I want to see what the next pool is.

Just then, Ralph walks in. He starts to speak, but as soon as he sees what I'm looking at he backs out the door. “Hold it!” I say. “What do you know about these?”

He raises his right hand. “I plead the Fifth.”

“Two questions,” I say. “And I want the truth.” He waits, eyebrows raised. “One, how long have these pools been going on? And two, am I really that bad?”

“Since you officially started working here—so about five years—and yes. Yes, you are.”

Ralph has always been straightforward, but not like this. This is a punch in the gut.

“I'm not one for hugging or nice words to make people feel better.” He reaches into the drawer in front of me and pulls out a roll of masking tape. “I start betting pools.”

Then he leaves me alone with the evidence.

I don't need to ask what he means. I already know. When Mom didn't think I had what it took to win the showcase, Ralph got a wager going. Then when I was upset about thinking Hannah was a slacker who ignored customers, he started another one. Both times there was comfort in knowing his money was on me. He—and everyone who bet with him—had my back. But really, he was betting that my spoon-licker ways would earn him a few bucks.

A sure thing.

Then he'd include Katie and Hannah and everyone else on the
Charlotte-made-me-melt-down
sheets. Once they'd made the pool, he'd show them, turn it into a joke. A game. A way to let them in on the future action and show them that they weren't alone. I look down at the file in my hand. The damning evidence is right here. Names, dates, calendar squares with circled winners.

It's like a secret club. One that I thought I was a part of—and I am, but not in the way I'd assumed. One that shows how people
really
feel about me. One that exposes how I really am.

If I'm such a bitch, why hasn't anyone said anything to me and told me to cut it out?

I know the answer to that, too. Mom and Dad have, more than once. I just blow them off. Oliver has, and I've blown
him
off, too. And then there are Pops's “Stop, drop, and roll” comments.

Nobody else at the store can say anything—because they can't. Because I'm a Pringle.

I
am
a spoon-licker. Oh, God.

Just a few days ago I was crying in the bathroom, feeling like everyone was against me. Seeing the list of people I've done that to makes me want to hide and cry again.

Maybe I should add my name to Ralph's pool.
Charlotte, December 7.

And then there's the showcase, four days away.

I return to the break room and look at the reconfigured list in front of me, and all that I have to do. And that I've created a situation where I have to do it all by myself.

There's a reason why most of my team has left. I thought I was a speak-her-mind, get-things-done, strong woman. What I am instead is a keep-your-distance, whip-cracking-tyrant, Grade-A bitch.

It's too late to apologize and turn back the clock. The only thing I can do is put all of my energy into streamlining the presentation and making sure it, at least, works.
Maybe I
can actually pull it off,
I tell myself. Maybe I can still win—or at least place—and get to go to the Chicago hair show and earn the right to direct my future.

If my life were a movie, this would be the musical montage where the heroine figures it out and works and fights her way to the top. I can hear the
Rocky
theme song in my head. I channel Baby from
Dirty Dancing,
practicing that lift until she nails it and shows everyone that “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.” I imagine Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman,
shopping, pulling herself together, and proving those snooty boutique bitches wrong—“Big mistake. Big. Huge!” I am Elle Woods in
Legally Blonde,
pulling out all the stops, winning the case, and freeing her framed sorority sister.

I have what it takes. I can do it. I will do it.

But first, I need a sandwich. I'm hungry.

Monday night, I stay up until after 2:00 a.m. painting a primer coat on the unfinished wooden candy cut-outs that I'll paint tomorrow to look like lollipops. It's freezing in the garage, so I hurry. Luckily the PVC pipe for the candy canes is already white, so I don't have to paint that. While they dry, I add “learn how to make candy flowers” and “make them” to my to-do list, since I still haven't heard back from Lydia. Then I rewrite my speech for the third time. The first two times I read it aloud, it sounded robotic, forced, and ridiculous.

When that's done, I start blocking out the PowerPoint. Trent e-mailed the link to his pictures like he said he would. Because it's last-minute and because he refused to give me a firm quote, I'm sure he's going to gouge me, so I plan for only the pictures that will maximize my message and skill set. With so few pictures, the slides look as skimpy as my ATC bucks account, but they'll have to do. I make a list to give to him tomorrow.

Please, please, please,
I pray to any god who might listen to spoon-lickers who deserve every rotten thing that happens to them.
Let someone come through for me.

3 days to the Winter Style Showcase

Of course, I oversleep. I take a five-minute shower, and my hair is in a legit messy bun, not a strategically styled messy bun. I throw on an outfit I just wore last week, hoping nobody remembers. I don't even have time to put on eyelashes—just mascara. I guzzle a gigantic travel mug of coffee on my way to school.

Thank God I'm not in heels today. Right before first bell, I race down the hall and come to a skidding halt at Trent's locker. I thrust my list at him, catch my breath, and say, “How much will you charge me for these?”

He takes it and says, “Good morning to you, too. You're not wearing tarantulas on your eyes today. Looks nice.”

I do not have time for his sarcasm.

He sighs, then takes a look. “What are you going to do with these?”

After I explain the revised PowerPoint, he shakes his head. “No offense”—which tells me he's about to say something offensive, and here it comes—“but stick to cos, because that's one crappy presentation.”

I can't glare at him, as much as I want to. I need him, so I adopt a reasonable tone. “What am I supposed to do, then? You know that
other
digital dude called me a bitch and bailed.”

“Find someone more reliable.” He's so damn cocky!

Two can play that game. “Like who? You?”

“Maybe. For the right price.”

The right price?
He's expecting me to pay for filet mignon on a BOGO Loco's Tacos budget.

“What about just the pictures?” I ask.

“One ATC buck each.” Wow! That's reasonable. Surprising.

“Deal. Can you get them to me by tomorrow?”

“You'll have them by noon.” He stuffs the list in his pocket and practically saunters away.

The bell rings, and as I race to class, I think:
Why does he have to make everything so difficult?
All he had to do was tell me how much the pictures would cost. Instead, he tells me my idea is crap, and acts like he's God's gift to the digital world.

Lydia sits with Carter at lunch and then completely ignores me in computers and “icks,” so I ignore her, too. Whatever. I can't think of anything I've done wrong. I did my best for her showcase, and she hasn't done a single thing I need her to do for mine. She's lied—
a lot
—ditched the Grand Plan, and thrown away our friendship—for a guy, and a dumbass guy at that. Spoon-licker or not, if I've been horrible to Lydia, I can't see where.

Shea is nowhere to be found, so I track down Gabriella, who tells me that she's still sick.

I text Shea:
Still not feeling OK? Anything I can do?

Three days to the showcase, and no dresses! I report the problem to Mr. Finn, who says he'll check into it and get back to me. I fill him in on everything, including my frustration. He says he understands.

After work, I put a coat of white paint on my candy props and leave them to dry. Shea hasn't texted back, and there are no e-mails from Mr. Finn about Shea, but I have to assume he's on it—the showcase is important to her, too. She wouldn't just bail.

Then I thumb through my store of fashion magazines and scour the Internet for inspiration. I load my Pinterest board with fantasy makeup and hairstyle images. I need the perfect pair of looks—one that can be quick-changed into the other. I decide to do an ombre color—from natural to bright pink—with curls. For one dress, I'll pin up the curls. Then all Kaylee has to do is remove the pins, shake out her head, and give it a quick spray. Voilà! Two styles, one head. It'll be impossible to change makeup that fast, so I'll just have to make it doubly awesome. I decide on sparkly lashes with fancy eye shadow to look like rainbow wings, swirly eye-to-cheek appliques, and deep to bright ombre lips to coordinate with the hair. Fabulous!

Hair and makeup planned out—check.

I drive to Michael's to get the paint and brushes I need to finish the candy props. The circles will become lollipops when I add twisty rainbow spirals, and red stripes will make the PVC pipe sticks into candy canes. No biggie.

But there are too many options. Acrylic or oil paint? Tube or jar or plastic bottle? What kind of brushes? Finally, I ask a woman in a red vest. I go into great detail about the size and shape and the materials, and the white base coat.

After all that, what does she say? “I don't work here.” And she walks away like
I
just inconvenienced
her
!
Hello! You could have stopped me!

They should have a big sign on the sliding doors:
RED VESTS WORN BY AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.

I have to repeat it all for a legit Michael's vest-wearing employee, and leave about seventy-five dollars poorer. Still, I've got what I need—and I know I can do this. After all, I have “mad skills” when it comes to freehand nail designs (thank you, Shelby Cox). This is just on a bigger scale.

But it turns out that three-foot wooden circles aren't exactly like one-inch nails. Everything is much more visible, and the brushes are harder to control, especially in the cold garage. My lines go from fat to thin to fat again, and there are blobs and missed spots. So much for uniformity.

The paint fumes are giving me a headache, too. I decide to take a break and grab some dinner.

“There's some leftover ham and au gratin potatoes in the fridge,” Mom says, letting Buffy out and getting ready to go to bed.

“Thanks.” I pull the Tupperware from the fridge and grab a plate.

“What are you doing out there anyway?” Mom fills the coffeepot with water and pours it into the reservoir.

“Painting props for Friday,” I say. I scoop some food onto the plate, cover it with a paper towel, and put it in the microwave.

“What does that have to do with cos?” She puts coffee in the filter and sets the timer for morning. “Wouldn't another program handle those?”

“It's art, Mom. It's all related. Don't you know anything about synergy?” I have no idea what that means, but I say it with great conviction.

The truth is, she's right—not that I would give her the satisfaction of telling her so or admitting that I'm struggling. None of this has anything to do with cos, but it's my only hope of having a presentation at all.

As I'm devouring my potatoes, Mom lets Buffy in. “Well, you look like you could use some sleep, so don't stay up too late.”

“Thanks! Like that's possible,” I mumble, mouth full, but Mom doesn't hear me because she's halfway up the stairs. Buffy sits next to me with a sympathetic expression. I tell myself that at least
she
's on my side, but I have a sneaking suspicion that if I weren't eating, she would've been in bed before Mom.

The rainbow twists on the lollipops are a mess. The colors bleed together, and the harder I try to fix them, the
worse it gets. I'm left with what looks like a bunch of pre-school paintings that not even a mother—
my
mother—would display on the fridge.

I turn my attention to the candy canes. I can't keep the angle consistent as I wind around the first PVC tube, and I have no place for the thing to dry without smudging the paint on one side. (I don't realize this until I'm almost finished.) I end up chucking the tube across the garage, getting red paint on the floor and the lawn mower. (Good thing it's already red. Maybe Dad won't notice.) I brew Mom's coffee, drink two cups, and keep going. The other three look just as bad, but by the time I'm done, I don't care.

It's almost three a.m. I start to look over my speech again, but realize that the letters are all jumbly. I take a shower to wake up.

Then I fill a bag with the tools and makeup for tomorrow's practice. I need to tweak my speech. I need to work on the PowerPoint. And I still need to figure out how to make candy flowers, not to mention actually making them.

Wrapped in a towel, I lie on the bed with my laptop and scroll through recipes. I don't understand half the words. What's gum paste? A ball tool? I don't even cook—how on earth am I going to do this?

I find a site where I can buy sugar flowers. But they're thirty dollars each, and I need twenty.
Six hundred dollars?
Forget it. There are instructional videos, aren't there? I find one, click play, and lay my head down to watch.

Buffy's barking wakes me up—but it's the middle of the
night, and she only barks like that at the garbage guys. Then I hear the rumble and clang of the garbage truck.

What the hell? I paw for the clock. 7:44 a.m. My appointment with Kaylee is at eight!

I jump out of bed, throw some clothes on, grab the hairdo bag, and run, leaving Buffy slobbering and barking, and the garbage truck in the dust.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror of my car. My hair is sticking up all over and has a weird part in the middle. The right side is a ratty mess from falling asleep with a wet head. I am not fit to be seen out in public, let alone school. I try smoothing it down, but it boings back up.

At the first stoplight, I dig through my purse for a brush and a hair tie. I tame the mess as best I can in the forty-seven seconds I have before the light turns green. Of the other eight lights on the trip to school, only three more are red. I use one for eyeliner, one for mascara, and one for mouthwash. I spit out the window, and it trails down the side of the door. I can hear Oliver now: “You spit like a girl.” I start to answer the Oliver-voice, but stop myself. Have I totally gone bonkers? Judging by the look on the man's face in the car next to me, the answer is yes.

I run into class five minutes late. Kaylee is talking to Ms. Garrett. “There she is,” she says. Ms. G gives me a look. The rest of the class is already working, either on makeup or hair color.

Even though I'm frazzled, I do my best to pull it together and be professional. First, I get Kaylee a magazine to read
while I set up. Before I style her, I'm going to do the semipermanent pink ombre. It'll be bright for the show, and gradually fade out after about fifteen washes.

Except there are no color bowls left in the supply room. Every single one is being used. When I ask Ms. G, she says, “I don't know where they went. It's like they grew legs or something.”

Oh, no!
I
know where they went—into the garbage. I “borrowed” them for the wellness fair, and tossed them after the Carter Reed debacle. I
had
planned to replace them . . . Now I'm screwed.

I rummage through cupboards for something else that might work. There are tiny Dixie cups, but the paper would disintegrate in two seconds. The only other thing is a gigantic Halloween serving bowl covered with witches, Frankenmonsters, and ghosts.

I mix up the color and return to my model. She looks uncomfortable when she sees the monster bowl. “What's that?”

I try to laugh as if I'm in control, and reassure her she doesn't need to worry. It doesn't work. My laugh is more like a cackle, my hair's a wild mess, and I'm cradling a freakishly ghoulish bowl. Kaylee vaults out of the chair. “I can't do color. Okay? No color!”

“But this is a showcase of my skills,” I plead. “If I don't do color, the style will be too simple.” What am I going to do now? Then I see Toby across the room applying silver hair chalk to his model. The skill level isn't the same as foiling,
but it's better than nothing. And it's totally temporary. The only thing is, I'd have to do it again on Friday.

“I don't care. If I came home with pink hair, my dad would freak out.” We lock eyes. It's a stand-off. “I'm not sitting down unless you agree to only style,” she repeats. “No cutting.
No color.
”

“What about chalk?” I offer as a compromise.

“Chalk?”

I explain that it's a lot like pastels that artists use, only it's designed for hair. It washes out immediately, so her dad shouldn't care. She agrees and sits back down.

First, I section her hair, twist and color each piece. Then I dry it and create a magnificent updo with twists and strategically placed curls. I'm able to use a larger palette—pink, blue, purple, yellow,
and
green—than if I'd applied actual color, so I'm pleased.