Charlotte Cuts It Out (20 page)

“You talked to Meg? Where?”

“At Meijer.”

“
You
went to
Meijer
?” She knows Dad's opinion of Meijer. “Why can't you just leave me alone? Why do you have to pry into everything?”

“What are you talking about? I didn't pry. I just ran into her. I didn't ask anything, except how she was. She's the one who said—”

“Ooh, a cat fight!” Toby bounces in his seat like a kindergartner.

“Shut up, Toby!” Lydia and I say at the same time. If we
weren't so pissed at each other, we'd probably laugh and high-five. But there is nothing funny or high-five-worthy going on. That's when I notice that the whole room is paying attention.

I lower my voice. “Lydia, what's going on with you? Everything's so messed up.”

“Everything's
been
messed up,” she retorts. “You've just been too clueless to see it.”

What is she talking about? I am not clueless! Up until a couple of weeks ago, everything was fine. Unless she was lying and hiding things from me even then.

“I've tried talking to you, but you don't listen. You know, not everyone lives in ‘The World According to Charlotte.'” She even uses air quotes.

The World According to Charlotte?

The supervising teacher returns and asks the two of us exactly what's going on. I'd answer, but I'm not even sure myself. I scan the room; a lot of people are still watching us, as if Lydia and I are today's entertainment.

Even Mackenzie is speechless.

I push past the instructor, muttering that I need to take a break—not waiting for an answer or a hall pass—and make a beeline for the girls' room, to the farthest stall. I cover the seat with toilet paper first, then sit down to pee. It takes less than a minute, but considerably longer to get my head together. I flush and dab the corners of my eyes with toilet paper so the tears don't streak my makeup.

My phone pings a reminder: Ms. Pink Pants. I figured I'd have Lydia's info for the background check by now. I rub hand sanitizer on my hands and shoot her an e-mail to say that Lydia won't be joining me. I don't give a reason.

The bell rings, but I can't move. It's lunchtime, and there's no way I'm showing my face in the cafeteria. No way.

The door to the bathroom opens. I lift my feet so that nobody will know I'm in here. One girl uses the toilet while the rest stand by the mirror.

“Can you believe all that? Talk about clearing a room. Charlotte's team couldn't get away from her fast enough.” The voice sounds familiar. I try to peer through the crack in the stall, but I can't see.

“I know, right?” Another familiar voice.

“You guys'll win for sure now,” says a girl whose voice I don't recognize at all.

“I don't know.” I'd know
that
voice anywhere. Shelby! “Charlotte might be intense—”

“Anal.”

Hey!

Shelby laughs. “Yeah, exactly.”
Rude!
“But she's got mad skills. My updos don't come close, and she can freehand nail designs better than stencils.”

Wait a second,
Shelby
thinks
I
have skills? If only Mom could hear this—that talent she talks about recognizes
my
skills.

The door opens again. They're leaving. “I still think you're going to win.”

“I hope so,” says Shelby as the door closes.

Maybe Lydia is right. I am clueless—at least about some people.

When we were kids, Lydia and I used to play a game called Opposite Land. “Good” really meant “bad,” and vice-versa. We'd talk about how much we loved the dentist, and hated the water park, or how candy was horrible and dog food tasted good. With Lydia being all bitchy and Shelby complimenting me, I feel like I'm in Opposite Land for real.

Shelby thinks I have mad skills.
For some reason, this makes me feel better about everything that happened today.

Just before the bell rings, an announcement comes over the PA: “Charlotte Pringle, please report to the office. Charlotte Pringle, Mr. Finn would like to see you.” Great. Either the building trades guy or Carter has been trashing me. Or else that teacher turned me in for being out of class without a pass. I rearrange my clothing, wash my hands, and run out of the bathroom without even drying them.

As I march down the hall, I notice everyone looking at me, yet again. Some people are grinning. Some are out-and-out laughing.
Ignore them,
I tell myself. One girl in a plain ugly bun claps her hand across her mouth.
Grow up! She's just jealous.
I lift my head high. Even without a team, I have a chance of winning the showcase. I have style. I have swagger. I have skills.

Rachel comes up to me. “I need to tell you something.”

“In a little while, okay?” I keep walking. “I need to see
Mr. Finn.” This is the third time I've been called to his office in the past month. This time I'm not scared. This time I have things to tell him, too.

Tap, tap, tap.
More snickering. I can't believe how fast rumors travel in this school. Has everyone already heard about the scene this morning?

I pass Trent at his locker. He slams it and runs up beside me, yanking off his hoodie, just before I get to the office. I feel his arms around my waist.
What the hell?
I swat him away. He leans in, as if he's going to whisper in my ear. Or, oh my lanta, is he trying to kiss me? “What are you doing? Quit it!” I pull away and run into the office.

“Mr. Finn wants to see me?” I say, a little out of breath.

Mrs. Ellenwood tells me to go in. But as I pass her desk—before I can get to Mr. Finn's office—she whispers loudly, “Oh, Charlotte, honey, you have toilet paper hanging out of your skirt.”

Another secretary looks up and adds, “And there's some more stuck to your shoe.”

I look down at the little white paper tail trailing from my heel.

Their words travel in slow motion—

from their mouths—THIS—

through the air—CAN—

into my ear—NOT—

and through every nerve and synapse—BE—

to my brain—HAPPENING.

Pow!
It all registers.

Oh, God! I reach back, yank out the wadded-up and trailing toilet paper, and smooth my skirt, as if smoothing it down can erase the fact that I just paraded down the hall in front of the whole entire school with toilet-paper streamers flapping behind me.

10 days to the Winter Style Showcase

The meeting with Mr. Finn isn't what it could have been. I'm pretty sure the construction trades dude did talk to him, but he doesn't say so. He simply says he's “checking in” on how things are going—you know, “since my team is
unusual.
”

“Oh, Mr. Finn, you have no idea!” I give him a censored recap of everything, mainly detailing how few ATC bucks my team has and how we should, in the interest of fairness, be given a stipend, since two of our team members weren't able to do any fund-raising.

He listens intently and seems to be thinking over what I said.
Come on, Finn. Come on!
Finally, he says, “
In the interest of fairness,
I'm afraid I can't simply
give
one team additional ATC bucks. Imagine, if you will, that your team wins. How can we defend against any accusations that you had an unfair advantage?”

Is he serious? He's denying me more money because of how it might look? He doesn't care about me or my team. He's just covering his own ass, as usual. I gear up to tell him
so, but then it hits me. Finn thinks my team will win.

And he's right. When I win, I want to make sure everyone knows that I overcame my disadvantages and earned it. I thank him for his faith in my abilities and walk out of his office with my head held high.

But then, as soon as I hit the hallway, I get a few stares and snickers and want to run and hide. I can't, though. I have a test in “icks” class, and I need to revamp my vision for the showcase—one that amazes everyone, especially the doubters, scoffers, and haters. I decide to fly under the radar for the next couple of days, until someone else does something even more stupid. Then everyone will forget about my scandalous TP parade and move on.

Charlotte's Even Grander Plan

1. Win Winter Style Showcase —> Earn stellar reps, bragging rights, and accolades.

 Bonus: Win the bet and prove everyone wrong!

2. Graduate high school with honors, college credits, and cosmetology license.

3. Get an apartment and a job in a top salon to pay for college.

4. Get associate's degree in business at Jackson College.

5. Build clientele —> Get enough money to open a salon.

6. A. Be the boss and live happily ever after.
B. Have a hot, non-annoying boyfriend.