Charlotte Cuts It Out (2 page)

“Ms. G! Ms. G!” I wave my hand frantically. “May I use the little girls' room really quickly? Pretty please?”

“Quickly. The period's more than half over.” She hands me the bathroom hall pass, which is a gigantic flip-flop with a gaudy yellow sunflower stuck on it. Somehow it's supposed to be a deterrent to loitering in the hall. Right now, I am determined to save my best friend from a fashion disaster, and it's going to take more than a cheap shoe with a flower on it to stop me.

Once I'm out in the hallway, I slip off my heels and run
barefoot past the restrooms, then through the heavy double doors to the parking lot, and straight to my car. The frigid November wind flutters up my skirt, and I put my shoes back on. Then I dig through my stash of extra clothes and accessories in the backseat until I come up with a workable outfit—a short color-block dress, black leggings, and black ballet flats. (Good thing Lydia and I wear the same size.) Perfect!

When I get back to class, she has our nail station all set up in the cos lab—the salon that connects to our classroom. Two walls of the cos lab are lined with back-to-back stations—mirrors, salon chairs, and workspaces that flip up to access the sinks. Another wall is lined with a high tiled bench with several jetted tubs underneath for pedis. Small nail tables in three rows of four fill the middle of the room.

I hand Lydia the clothes and the gigantic flip-flop. “It's okay,” I assure her. “I'll cover for you.”

To my surprise, she looks down at the pile as if I just gave her yesterday's garbage. “I'm fine. Let's just get this assignment over with.”

Fine?
Seriously? If someone posts a pic of her today, she'll regret it forever. I leave the clothes on a chair; she can change after we're done. Then I pull my makeup case and styling wand out of my purse. (Thank God Lydia chose a table near a post, so I have a place to plug it in.)

“Is there anything you don't have in there?” she teases.

“Nope.”

“Got any snacks? I'm starving.”

I fish out a protein bar and toss it to her.

She grabs the purse and rummages through it, pulling out a scarf, a spool of wire ribbon that I bought for wrapping presents, fake eyelashes and glue, two packs of barrettes, a headband, a wide-toothed comb, a few bangle bracelets, a bottle of mouthwash, roll-on glitter, some AA batteries, and a squirt gun. “Why do you need all this?”

“You never know.” I shove everything back before she exposes some feminine hygiene product.

Ms. Garrett stops by our station. “Having trouble?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “We just have a slight fashion emergency we need to tend to really quickly. We'll do the manis ASAP.”

“Get moving, girls. You both need to finish before the bell.”

“No worries, Ms. G,” I call to her at the next station. “You know we've got this.”

As I wrap Lydia's golden locks around the not-quite-hot-enough curling wand, she asks, “So what did I miss this morning?” That's more like it. Conscientious Lydia is back.

“Tons and tons.” As I move the wand around her head like a deft fairy godmother, I tell her about the theme and my preliminary design sketches for the style showcase, and that we'll get our catalogs tomorrow. By the time I'm finished, the ringlets are all done.

Next, I put on my smock—this boxy black jacket with the ATC logo on it—and move on to her nails. I carefully review every step for her, but she watches the clock more than she watches me. Weird. She usually takes as many notes as I
do in class, and manis are more complicated than they seem. I finish in record time and show Ms. G. She's impressed with my freehand zebra stripes, which are pretty snazzy, if I do say so myself.

When it's Lydia's turn, she skimps on the soaking time. Then she pulls out my favorite nail polish—Iridescent Iris—which means she's going straight from soaking to polishing. What about my cuticles? “Uh, Lyd?” I say, trying to be discreet. “Just because you overslept and slacked on your morning beauty routine—”

“It's not like it matters. You're going to redo it anyway. You always do.” True, but we've got to have this down cold if we're going to ace cos and be prepared for state boards.

She shakes the polish and starts on my right thumbnail. “Oh, and I didn't oversleep.”

She misses a spot. I resist the urge to take over and do it myself. “Huh?”

“I didn't oversleep. I've been up since five.”

She uses too many brush strokes, so the polish is patchy. Wait, what did I miss? She'd better fill in the rest—both in the story and on my mani.

She continues painting my nails. “Mom had a huge cupcake order for some hospital event. You know, those high-fiber, naturally sweetened ones.” We both wrinkle our noses. Truth be told, though, part of my nose wrinkle is due to the shoddy manicure. “We spent all night baking them, but needed to whip, frost, and decorate them this morning. It took forever!”

“Why did
you
need to do it?” I blow on my right hand while she finishes the left, trying not to let my disappointment show. “Where was Nutmeg?” Meg hates when we call her Nutmeg, but the name totally fits the senior baking assistant at Patti Cakes, Lydia's mom's bakery.

“She's working at Meijer now.”

“What?” I'm shocked. “Nutmeg quit?”

Ms. Garrett shows up with her grade book. She gives Lyd's nails an approving glance, and raises her eyebrows at mine. I fib and tell her that they were perfect before I reached into my bag for my makeup case and smudged them. I may have overdone it, but she just nods.

“Lydia.” Ms. G taps her nails on the grade book. She has perfect, squoval-shaped French-tip acrylics. “I still don't have your paperwork for the hair show.”

“I know.” Lydia rummages through the makeup case without looking up.

“Just a reminder that it's due by Friday.”

“Yeah, okay.” She takes out powder foundation, eyeliner, and mascara.

When Ms. G moves to the next station, I whisper-shout, “Oh my lanta, Lyd! You need to get that paperwork in. I can't go to the hair show without you. You're my PIC.”

Lydia and I were in eighth grade when we came up with our Grand Plan to go to cosmetology school and get jobs to build our clientele while we earned business degrees. Then we'd open our own salon. My brother Oliver always called his best friend, Danny, his PIC—Partner in
Crime—so we started calling ourselves Partners in Cos.

“I know, I know.” Lydia brushes foundation over her cheeks, forehead, chin, and nose. “But it's a lot of money, and I don't know if it's worth it.”

“Not worth it?” I screech. People look our way, so I lower my voice. “It's the flipping Chicago hair show, and it's only a hundred seventy-five dollars—a bargain!”

“Maybe to you,” she says, swiping mascara on her lashes.

The bell rings, so we hurry and clean up our station. “God, I hate that Ms. G never gives us enough time to clean up. Nobody does a good job. I had to dig through a dozen gunky Iridescent Iris bottles to find one that had the top screwed on tight.”

“Lighten up,” Lydia scoffs. “It's just nail polish. There's a lot more serious stuff in the world to freak out about.”

“Yeah, like that outfit.” We exit the lab, and I force Lydia into the bathroom to change.

When she emerges, finally looking put-together, I remember what happened before class. “Oh. My. Lanta! I forgot to tell you!” I say about an inch from her newly made-up face. “I found out QT's name!”

She arches an eyebrow. “A real name, or something you invented?” I am not amused. Since Lydia's never actually seen QT, she doesn't believe he exists. She claims that we're together too much for me to have flirtatious moments with someone she's never seen.

I scoff. “Real, of course!” I show her my skirt and tell her how it got trapped in my locker. She points out that torn
skirts do not prove personhood. I can't deny that, but I tell her his name anyway. “Reed,” I say. “One of the guys in his class called him that as he dragged him away.”

“Whatever.” She does this offhand gesture thing as we head to lunch. Add that to her weird attitude about the hair show, and if I didn't love her so much, I'd kill her.

The first thing I see when I get to work after school is my brother Oliver pleading with his wife, Nina, behind the deli/bakery counter. “Come on, honey, please . . .”

“I can't work another minute, Ollie.” As usual, she pats her protruding belly. “It's just too stressful, and you know that's not good for the baby.”

“What if we get you some more help?”

She stares at him as if he should know what she's thinking. I could tell him, as could everyone else at Pringle's Market:
I can't believe you're trying to make me do something I don't want to do.
She does this so often that “pulling a Nina” is store code for having a lame excuse. (But we don't say this in front of Oliver, of course.)

I try to slip past them to the break room to stash my things—and to avoid getting sucked into today's drama.

“Charlotte!” Oliver cries. “Thank God you're here.”

Crapola!

I stop, pivot, and glower. My purse slips off my shoulder and I try to shrug it back up, but it slides down to my forearm
and digs in. It weighs about a thousand pounds.

“Nina's quitting,” he announces, clearly ignoring my
I'm-not-in-the-mood-to-deal-with-this
look. “Again.”

I look at him. “You're getting divorced?”

Nina pulls off her green apron and huffs. “Of course not!”

“Then it's too late. As long as you're a Pringle, there's no quitting. Simple as that.”

Nina's been working here since she was in high school. She knew what she was getting into when she accepted my boneheaded brother's proposal—in the middle of the produce section, no less. The only thing cheesier would have been if he'd asked her in dairy.

I fully expect her to bring up Mom, and I'm ready for it. Mom is a freelance statistician, but she maintains our website, negotiates with vendors, and works a register if we're slammed and she's here. Nobody can accuse Kimberly Pringle of shirking. But for whatever reason, Nina doesn't push it.

As I walk away, I hear Oliver say, “See? I told you Charlotte accepts you.” I roll my eyes.
Spin it any way you need to, Ollie.

I push open the break room door to find my father and grandfather ready to flee. As soon as he sees me, Dad visibly relaxes. “It's only Charlotte.”

“Are they still at it?” asks Pops.

Ralph, the meat and produce manager, comes out of hiding.

“You're all cowards.” I drop my backpack onto the floor. “Each. And. Every. One. Of. You.” I hang up my coat and purse, and clock in. “And who's out there running the store
while three grown men—the owners and manager of this store, I might add—are hiding from an itty-bitty pregnant lady?”

“That ‘itty-bitty pregnant lady' is worse than a rabid wolverine,” says Ralph. He's practically a Pringle himself—he started as a bagger back when Dad was in grade school and Great-Gramps ran the store. Then he went to Vietnam. While he was there, Great-Gramps passed away and Pops took over. He gave Ralph his old job as soon as he came back, and he's been here ever since.

“Tammy and Barb are out there,” Dad says, not looking at me.

“And Tyler,” adds Pops.

Of course they know how ridiculous they're being. Two cashiers, no matter how capable, and a timid bagger cannot run this store alone. And Mike, the night-and-weekend manager, doesn't get here until four.

Before any of us can get back onto the floor, Oliver slams in. “She went home,” he announces.

“Is she coming back?” asks Pops. Is he concerned, or just looking for advanced warning?

“Doubt it.” Oliver slumps into a chair like a worn-out teddy bear. “At least not today. She's really tired.” He pauses. “It takes a lot of energy to grow a person.”

A laugh escapes before I have a chance to stop it, not that I would have anyway. “That's Nina talking, not you, right?”

Now he's the one to glare. “That doesn't make it any less true.”

“So who has today in the pool?” asks Ralph.

Around the store, we bet on pretty much everything: from the date the snow pile finally melts in the parking lot to how many days between Ralph's quarterly—or sometimes biannual—haircuts to how many times the UPS man sighs while dropping off packages, and anything else we can think of. It costs a buck to get into each pool. Winning isn't about the money, though, which is rarely over twenty dollars. It's about the bragging rights: Ralph correctly guessed my birth date more than sixteen years ago, and I'm still hearing about it.

Since I'm closest, I dig through the drawer under the microwave and pull out the file marked
Nina.
Then I flip through a sheaf of papers—
Date Baby Born, Hours of Labor, Baby Size.
“Ah, here it is!”
Days Missed for Being Pregnant
is a grid showing the dates from when Nina announced her pregnancy to two weeks past her due date, January 2nd. I look at today's square: it says
RWL.
“Uh, that would be you, Ralph.”

“Thought so!” He pumps his fist in the air. “How much do I get?”

“I can't believe you people!” Oliver stands, and the chair topples backward. “Betting on how many days my wife will miss work . . .”

Pops rights the chair, and I count the squares between the last day Nina left work to today. “Twelve bucks.” I count out a five and seven ones from the envelope and paper-clip it back to the form.

Ralph fans his winnings and cheers. Then he sees Oliver standing there. “Sorry, man.”

“No,” says Oliver, still pissed. “I can't believe you bet on my wife and didn't let me in on the action!” He grabs the paper from me. “How many squares are left?”

“Not many,” says Pops. “Ralph keeps using his winnings to buy more.”

Ralph flashes a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Can't pass up a sure thing.”

Oliver chooses two dates, slips his money in the envelope, and puts it back with the rest.

“Okay, so where's Katie?” I return the folder to the drawer. “Can't she take over for Nina?”

“She didn't show up today,” Oliver says.

“Oh,” says Dad, as if he suddenly remembered. “She called in a little while ago. Her cat has diarrhea again.”

Ralph makes a face like he just had to clean it up.

“Oh my lanta!” I yell. “Does
anyone
work around here anymore?”

Oliver leans in and says to Ralph, even though we can all hear, “Katie could use some of that Mylanta for her cat.” All four of them bust a gut. Even as I shake my head and pretend it's not, I have to admit that Oliver's comment
is
pretty funny. I'd never encourage them with an actual chuckle, though.

Before I can leave, Dad, between giggles, tells me that Mom has a meeting in Kalamazoo, so I need to go home by four to feed and let out the dog, move the laundry from
the washer to the dryer, and start dinner. “Is that all?” I ask with as much sarcasm as I can muster.

“You could stop global warming,” says Oliver.

“Ha, ha. Very funny. Where's that mouth when you need to stand up to your wife?”

Oliver gives me the same stupid smirk he did when we were little. I can't believe he's married, much less a father-to-be.

“Oh, and could you cure cancer, too?” says Ralph.

“I'll get right on it.”
Ignore them, and they'll stop.
Mom's advice. Sometimes it even works.

“And query Congress about the exorbitant price of rutabagas?” Pops deadpans.

Since I don't even know how to answer that, it's easy to ignore. I pull open the heavy door and try to stalk out, but it's not as dramatic as I hoped, because they all follow me.

There's a line at the deli/bakery, and some of the customers look pretty impatient. Dad gives me his puppy-dog eyes—a pudgy, wrinkly, bald bulldog puppy. “Since Nina and Katie aren't here—”

I force every bit of air from my lungs. “I need to take down the Halloween displays.”

“Pops and Ralph will do it.”

“They won't put the plastic jack-o'-lanterns away right. They need to be wrapped so that—”

“I'll tell them.” He nudges me toward the day-old baked goods.

None of us likes dealing with irritated customers, but someone has to do it. Dad knows me, knows I'll step up,
knows I always step up. He lightly tugs my hair, winks, and disappears down aisle one.

An upbeat Michael Franti song plays in the store. Pops says music soothes people and makes them buy more. Let's hope he's right.

“So sorry about your wait.” I pull my hair back and wash my hands. Then I plaster on a smile as I tie my apron. “What can I get you?”

“A pint of German potato salad,” snaps Mrs. Bandy, “and a half pound of smoked turkey.” I scoop, slice, bag, weigh, and apply the UPC price sticker, and finally hand everything over the counter. She doesn't thank me. Mrs. Bandy must be immune to Michael Franti's infectious melody.

I hustle, and within fifteen minutes the line is almost gone. A woman wearing way too much makeup and the fakest-looking extensions I've ever seen tells me that she ordered a cake and is here to pick it up.

“Okay,” I say, looking around for it. “When did you order it?”

“Yesterday,” she says. “I talked to Nina.”

“Let me give her a call.” I grab the phone and motion for her to wait. The phone rings three times.
Please pick up. Please pick up.

“Hello?”

“Nina, it's Charlotte.” I turn away from the customer. “Is there a cake around here somewhere ready to be picked up?”

“Oh, yeah!” she says.
Whew!
“But I didn't get a chance to decorate it. The icing's made and in bowls in the cooler. You just have to frost it and decorate it.”

She can't be serious! “You know I don't know how to do that!” I'm trying to keep my voice down. “You need to come back and finish it. Like, now. She's here.”

“Sorry. I can't.”

Before I can press her for an explanation, I hear a voice in the background that sounds as if it's coming in over an intercom. “Alicia, Nina is in the salon. Alicia, Nina is—”

“Gotta go.” She ends the call. Not only did she hang up on me, but she's at a salon! She knows I'm perfectly capable of giving her a simple cut or a mani-pedi. If my own family doesn't trust me, how will I ever build a clientele? And why
is
she at a salon anyway, if she's so tired?

I'm seething, but I have to pull it together.
Your personal issues are not the customer's problem. Never look angry or in
competent in front of the customer.
I've heard Pops and Dad say these things a million times; they're part of my DNA. Yet here I am, wanting to throttle my sister-in-law and throw her under the bus and fire her and punch her in the face. All in front of the customer. I exhale slowly.

“It'll just be a minute,” I tell extension-woman, who scowls and then gets on her own phone. I'm sure she's posting on social media about this.

I find the unfrosted cake in the cooler next to the icing. I set it on the counter in the back and search for the order slip. At least
that's
where it should be.

“I'm sorry, but it's not quite finished yet,” I tell the woman.

“It was supposed to be done at three,” she barks. Her face
is so overly made up that it looks as if it's on fire.

What I
want
to say is “Talk to Nina about that. Here's her number.”

What I
do
say is “I know. And I'm sorry. But could you give me another half hour?”

She stomps off, complaining that the extra half hour feels like forever with all she still has to do.

I stare at the naked chocolate cake, the bowls of white, pink, green, and yellow icing, and the empty decorating bags and tips. Okay, so I have to frost the thing. Then I have to make flowers all around the edge and pipe
Happy Birthday, Paisley!
on top. I've never done it—that's Nina's department—but it can't be that hard. I've seen Lydia's mom, Patti, do it a million times.