Charlotte Cuts It Out (14 page)

There's about an hour left when a mother and daughter come up. The girl is about thirteen, and she's wearing a knit cap pulled down so low it almost covers her eyes. The mom looks completely exhausted, as if she hasn't slept in years. When Lydia massages the mask into her hands and talks about the benefits of avocado oil, you'd think she'd found the Fountain of Youth. The daughter sighs, glares, and says, “Come on, Mom! You promised we'd leave by six and get dinner at Napanelli's.”

“Just a minute, sweetie. I want to find out about this.”

The girl pouts. She has the biggest, roundest blue eyes I've ever seen. Something is different about them, though, but I can't figure out what. To buy some more time for the mom, I try to make conversation with her.

“I know you're too old for face paint,” I say, “but I could
do your makeup, if you want.” She shrugs. I turn on my salon charm. “Come on. Why not?”

Her mom overhears. “Go on, sweetie. It'll be fun.”

The girl almost throws herself into the chair. Her arms are crossed, her lips pressed tight. I sanitize my hands, open my purse, and pull out my makeup bag and the samples I—
we
—won from the fund-raiser. Then I lay out brushes, moisturizer, powder foundation, blush, eye shadow, eye liner, and mascara across the table.

“I can't wear mascara,” the girl says matter-of-factly. “I don't have any lashes.” That's it! I knew there was something different about her eyes. She doesn't have lashes, or brows.

“That's okay. I wasn't going to use that anyway. It's mine, and using someone else's mascara is as gross as using someone else's toothbrush.” She scrunches up her face in disgust. “Exactly!” I say.

I open the tube of moisturizer. “Wait a second,” she says. Then she pulls off her cap.

She's bald. Her head is beautifully shaped, and there are tiny, baby-fine wisps of blonde hair just beginning to sprout. “I have cancer.” The way she says it, it's like she's trying to shock me. She watches my face intently, coldly. I've seen that look before. I've
given
that look. She's testing me. Is she trying to see if I'll feel sorry for her, if I'll look away?

Challenge accepted.
“You also have gorgeous eyes and amazing cheekbones,” I say with authority, keeping my eyes locked on hers, which widen ever so slightly. Clearly, that's not the response she expected, and she drops her guard a
bit. I suppress a smile, and squeeze some moisturizer into her hand. “Rub that all over your face evenly; it makes your skin softer, and it's a good base for the foundation.” As she does, she watches me. I open the foundation and pick up a brush. “This is organic. It's made with powdered minerals and tints. Your skin color is close enough to mine that it'll work.”

When she's ready, I brush on the foundation, which blends perfectly. Then I follow with a few strokes of bronzer and blush.

“How do you get the sparkles on your eyelashes?” she asks.

“They came like that.” She gives me a Buffy-confused head tilt, and I laugh. “They're fake,” I say, which gives me an idea.

“You know,” I say as I crack open a sample of lip gloss, “I don't have any unused mascara, but I do have a new pack of false eyelashes, if you want. They're not sparkly, though.”

By then, her mom is watching us.

“Can I, Mom?” she pleads. “Please.”

The woman hesitates, and I'm sure she's going to say no, so I quickly add, “They peel right off.”

She gives in. The girl's lips tighten again, but this time she's holding back a smile.

Turning her chair so her back is to the room, I rub sanitizer all over my hands again and squeeze a tiny dot of glue between my thumb and index finger. I tell her to close her eyes, and then I use a Q-tip to spread a thin, even layer
across the edge of her lids. I press the lashes into place.

While they're drying, I brush on some rose-gold eye shadow, then open up the brown eyeliner and draw in some faint brows. “Just a few finishing touches.” I dig into my purse to find a spool of wide ribbon
,
some glitter, and a stray bangle bracelet. Everyone should have a little sparkle. I cut off a long piece of ribbon and tie it around her head like a headband, finishing with a bow on the side.

She fidgets in her chair and sits on her hands. “What's your name?”

“Charlotte.” I roll a little glitter across her lids, and slip the bangle onto her wrist. “What's yours?”

“Sarah.” She looks from her wrist to me.

“It looks better on you,” I say. “You can have it.”

After I turn her chair around, I hand her a mirror. “Ta-da! The beautiful Sarah, fully accessorized.” Her whole face lights up in a grin so wide that it shows a missing top tooth about halfway back.

“Oh!” Her mom covers her mouth, and starts to tear up.

“I don't even look sick,” says Sarah, still beaming.

“It's not that,” her mom chokes. “It's just been so long since I've seen you smile.”

Lydia stands back and looks as if she's going to cry, too. I notice that a few people are watching. Before Sarah leaves, she hugs me. A little makeup magic has completely transformed the sullen girl of thirty minutes ago.

Once they've moved to another booth, a tiny older woman in a pink pantsuit comes over. Her hair is too dark
for her age and skin tone, but it's perfectly coiffed in a classic roll-set style.

“I saw what you did. It was quite remarkable. How would you like to do it again?”

I hope she's talking about Sarah, and not falling on my butt earlier. “What do you mean?”

“Every year around Christmastime, Allegiance Health hosts an event to raise awareness”—she leans in and whispers “And money,” then resumes a normal volume—“for the pediatric oncology department. It's held on the hospital campus so everyone, including inpatients, can attend.” I nod, still not sure what she wants, and a little distracted by how much she uses her pink-manicured hands when she talks. “Sometimes young patients who lose their hair are so self-conscious that they refuse to go. Maybe if you brought in some of your—”

“Accessories?” I offer.

“Yes, accessories!” Her hands flutter with each syllable. “Maybe that would help persuade them. After all, it's their event. I'd hate for anyone to miss out.”

I think of a roomful of girls like Sarah, and what I could do for them. “Sure, I'd love to,” I say. Then I glance over at Lyd, who's busy cleaning up the bowls and straightening the brochures. “Can my friend Lydia help, too?”

“Of course,” says the woman. “That would be wonderful. One more thing, just so you know.” More over-the-top gesturing. “To work with our young people, we'll have to run a background check on you both, and you'll have to sign a
confidentiality agreement. We do this with everyone. HIPAA laws.” She says this as if I know what HIPAA is.

I make a mental note to look it up later. “I'm sure that will be fine.”

As I put the ribbon and glitter back in my bag—and keep scanning the room—she goes on and on about past events and how people with money give more to charity before the first of the year “so they can write it off, you know.” At the word “charity,” a light bulb goes on in my head. This can be my service project! It's cos-related and helpful to the community. Plus, it's something I would like to do. Win-win-win.

Then I see him.

Reed is here! He's over by the eye-test booth talking to Trent. I realize again how tall Trent is. But even though Reed's almost a foot shorter, that's tall enough for me. Trent points to our booth and Reed begins walking toward me, weaving through the thinning crowd. Ms. Pink Pants keeps talking, and I reply automatically, hurrying her along as I watch Reed come closer.

“I'll get everything cleared through the administration and staff . . .” she's saying.

“Right, right.”

“You'll probably need several hours with the patients . . .”

“Right, right.”

“And you're welcome to attend the dance afterward . . .”

“Right, right.”

“Well, I won't keep you,” she says finally. “I'm sure you
have better things to do than talk to me all evening.”

“Right, right.”

She stops suddenly, hands freezing mid-gesture.

Oh, no! I laugh nervously. “I mean . . .”

“It's fine, dear.” She touches my arm as if to dismiss the awkwardness. Then she pulls out a little notepad and pen, both matching her pink suit. “May I get your contact info, please?”

As I write my name, e-mail, and cell number down, my heart races. Reed is just a few booths away. I hand back the notepad, and she hands me her business card. She looks at my info and says, “Charlotte Pringle. Any relation to Bill?”

Oh, great. She knows my family.
Pops or Dad? Probably Pops, since few people even know Dad's real name. “Uh . . .” I'm so focused on Reed that I suddenly realize it looks as if I'm totally clueless. “Yeah,” I say, collecting myself. “My dad and my grandpa are both Bills.”

“I'm guessing it's your grandfather I know,” she says. Figures. Her and the entire town.
Pringle's Market: Serving Jackson since 1945.
She launches into how she knows him—the VFW or the IGA or something—and Reed is almost here. Will she
ever
stop talking? Maybe she's related to Mackenzie.

Luckily, another older woman saves me. “Excuse me. Anita?”

I take advantage of the interruption and escape. Ms. Anita Pink Pants calls after me, “I'll be in touch, Charlotte.”

“Thanks so much!” I flash a quick smile and wave just as Reed gets to our booth.

“I'm so sorry I'm late,” he says, checking his phone before slipping it into his pocket.

“It's all right,” both Lydia and I say at the same time.

We look at each other.

“Charlotte, this is Carter. Carter, this is Charlotte.”

Carter?
Wait. This guy isn't Carter—Lydia's Carter. This guy is Reed. My Reed.

There must be some mistake. Or a mix-up. Like in a movie or hidden camera show. Maybe Carter and Reed are twins. Please tell me they're twins. I can deal with that. In fact, it's perfect. Lydia and I are interested in twin brothers. Yay! Right?

“We've already met.” He laughs. “We talk all the time.”

No, we haven't. I know your twin brother, Reed. Not you. I haven't met you.

“Charlotte, what's the matter with you?” Lydia seems annoyed. I can't imagine what I look like. I hope I don't look like I feel, which is confused. And weird. And confused. And stupid.

Trent comes over to the booth as I say, “Carter? I thought your name was Reed. He called you Reed that day in the hall.” I point at Trent.

Lydia says, “Reed? Did you say Reed?” Now that I see her face, I know what mine just looked like. What it must still look like. She turns to me. “QT?”

I nod slowly. It's hot in here, stuffy. I can hardly breathe.

“Cutie?” Reed, or Carter, or whatever the hell his name is, seems amused. “My name is Carter Reed. My guy friends
call me Reed, and most everyone else calls me Carter.” Then he looks at me. “So that's why you've been calling me Reed? I just figured you were being like one of the guys.”

One of the guys? Is he serious? I have never, ever, ever tried to be
one of the guys
!

If I'm one of the guys, then what's Lydia? His girlfriend? The guy who I was hoping to make my boyfriend, so we could go out with Lydia and
her
new boyfriend, turns out to
be
her new boyfriend! How could I be so stupid?

Lydia and Reed—
Carter
—and Trent are watching me, but then quickly look away. They're embarrassed for me. They're pitying me. I think of how Sarah tested me to see if I'd look away.
I'm embarrassed,
I tell myself.
I don't have cancer.
In comparison, this is nothing. This. Is. Nothing.

But when I see Reed—oh, God, will I ever be able to call him Carter?—it doesn't feel like nothing. I turn to the bowls of crusted-over face paint on the table. Lydia already cleaned up her stuff while I was talking to Ms. Pink Pants. All that's left is my mess. All over the place. Staring at me.

I stack the bowls and brushes on top of one another, take them to the garbage can, and dump them in. Even though the bowls are for mixing hair color, and they aren't disposable—and they don't belong to me—I don't care. I'll buy new ones.

When I start shoving makeup back in my case, Trent comes over. “Can I help?”

“No, it's fine.” I tighten the cap on the foundation before putting it away. “I've got it.”

Lydia tugs on the drop cloth I'm standing on. “Oh, sorry,” she says. I step off, and she and
Carter
fold it up. Together.

“You sure?” Trent asks again.

“Uh-huh,” I say. Then I pull off my smock. “Hey, Lyd, if you have everything under control, I'm gonna take off, okay?” All that's left is cleanup and awards. Right now, I don't care if we win. Right now, it doesn't look like there is a
we
anymore.

“Sure, okay,” she says, as she takes down the silk flowers and hands them to Carter.

I look at Reed—Carter—as nonchalantly as I can. What did I miss? He's been flirting with me for weeks. Hasn't he? We've had this
thing
—this playful banter practically every morning. He was interested in me. So what's this? Why is he with Lydia like
they
have a thing?

I want to ask him. But that would be so trashy, like reality TV. And I am not the desperate chaser girl. If he doesn't want me—and only me—then he can burn in the fiery pits of hell, with a bad perm. And a mullet.

I need some air. I'm out of here.