Charlotte Cuts It Out (24 page)

The nurse who went after Sarah returns to tell us that she's refusing to go to the dance. “Would it help if I talked to her?” I ask.

She looks dubious. “You could try, but I don't know. She's had a pretty rough week.”

“Yes, she has,” agrees a girl sporting a mesh headband with peacock feathers. “But you should. I'll come with you.”

“I'll come, too,” says another girl.

“And me,” says Marley.

“We'll all go,” declares the fedora-wearing boy who started the “Cancer sucks ass” chant.

Shelby, Trent, and I look at one another, then at the
nurses. The patients are already out the door, on their way up to pediatric oncology. As we follow them, I feel a twinge of guilt. How could I have felt so sorry for myself this week? That was nothing compared to this.

As resolved as the kids are to talk to Sarah, she's not budging. “Get out!” she yells at the crowd in her hospital room. She pulls the covers over her head.

The kids all start talking at once, doing their best to convince her. Sarah emerges from under the covers, but she just glares and refuses to talk to anyone. I notice how her eyes keep darting to the older boy in the fedora, though.

I sit on the edge of her bed, lean in, and whisper, “I saved some lashes for you—some really sparkly ones.”

“I don't want them.”

“You sure?”

She shrugs.

“How about I get them and then you can decide?”

She shrugs again.

I start to get up, but Trent stops me. “I'll go,” he says. “Where are they?”

After he leaves, Sarah calls one of the nurses over and whispers in her ear. The woman orders everyone out. “Let's go back downstairs,” she says. “Mrs. Worthington will wonder where you went.” Reluctantly, they obey, but not before each one says something encouraging to Sarah, or gives her a smile.

I stand up, and that's when she asks, “Will you stay?”

“Of course.” I sit back down.

Shelby says, “I'll meet you downstairs.”

The room is empty, except for Sarah and me. “Can you make me look like you did at the fair?” Her voice, just above a whisper, cracks.

“I have even more stuff now,” I say as convincingly as I can. She's much paler than she was that day, and her eyes have dark circles around them. “We can go totally glam, if you want.”

A smile threatens to break through her scowl. I've got her!

Trent walks in, carrying my bright purple duffel bag as if it's a sack of potatoes. He looks goofy—but in a sweet way, not a stupid way.

“Thanks.” I've been meaning to say that to him ever since my walk of shame, but I haven't had the guts. Just looking at him is embarrassing, knowing what he saw—and how he tried to help. And how I thought he wanted to kiss me and swatted him away.

I quickly dig out my glue and a new pack of sparkle lashes and get to work. As I spread the glue on the edge of Sarah's right eyelid, I casually ask, “So what's his name?”

“Who?”

“You know.” I wipe off the excess with a Q-tip. “The hottie in the fedora.”

She doesn't answer, and I realize it's because Trent's still there, watching. “Oh, sorry!” he says. “I don't mean to stare. I've just always wondered how she puts those tarantula things on.”

Sarah almost smiles. “Don't worry,” I tell her, and give him the side-eye. “You can talk in front of Trent. He won't say a word. Right?”

“Right.” He zips his lips. “Okay if I take a few pics? They would be great for this project Charlotte's doing.” Sarah shrugs, then nods.

Then Trent looks at me. “If you want them, I mean.”

I not only want them, I need them—especially if I'm going to have to do my PowerPoint presentation myself. So I lean in and pose, but I still can't look directly at him. He snaps the picture. Then he tells me to ignore the camera, that candid shots are best. Pretty bossy.

As I finish Sarah's eyelashes, she says, “Felix.” She blinks a few times, then opens her eyes. Even though I'm not finished with her makeup, the blue of her eyes is hard to miss framed in the curly lashes. She's stunning! “His name is Felix,” she says. “You really think he's hot?”

I tell her to close her eyes again and I finish with some shadow—a neutral coppery rose on the lid and a pale pink highlight on the brow bone. “Sure I do. He's got that Bruno Mars vibe going on. Don't you think?”

“Maybe.” She blushes. “I don't know.” I catch a glimpse of sweet and shy before her face clouds over. “After what just happened—”

“He'll worry that if you're not feeling better,” Trent cuts in, “he'll miss a dance with the prettiest girl here tonight.”

“You're just saying that,” she retorts. “There's nothing pretty about puking in front of a guy. It's horrible.”

“Yeah, well, imagine this: This girl at school was in the bathroom during a break last Monday.” I lean in and whisper, “You know, doing what you do in the bathroom.”

She makes an
Ew!
face. I continue in a dramatic narrator voice, “Suddenly, she was paged. To. The. Principal's. Office.” Sarah is listening, wide-eyed.

“But there's something she didn't know. You know what that was?” I pause.

“What?” She shifts her weight toward me on the bed, which pushes me closer to her.

“She had . . .” I look her straight in the eye. “Toilet paper! Hanging from her skirt! And trailing from her shoe!”

“And it was wet, too,” Trent chimes in.

It was wet?
Oh, God!
I hope he's exaggerating for effect.

Sarah's gaze shifts to him. “Did you see?”

He smiles. “I tried to tell her, too, but she pushed me away.”

“Rude,” says Sarah.

“Yes, it was,” I admit, looking at Trent, who's still smiling. Then, turning back to Sarah, I say, “You know who else saw?”

She raises her eyebrows.

“The
whole
school.” I gesture emphatically. “Everyone.”

She has a look on her face that is somewhere between amused and mortified.

“You know who that girl was?”

“You?” she says with a slight grimace.

I nod.

“Did that really happen?”

Before I can reply, I notice that she's not looking at me, but past me, at Trent. I turn around. He's nodding, too, and doing his best not to bust out laughing. I can't blame him.

Then Sarah finally does laugh, and Trent can't hold it in anymore.

“It isn't funny.” I cover my head with part of her blanket, but she pulls it away. My face is burning. “See? We all do embarrassing stuff and live to tell about it.” Then guilt washes over me. How can I say that to someone whose life is as uncertain as hers?

She doesn't seem to have the same reaction. Instead, between giggles, she asks if she can have lots of sparkles.

As I'm finishing Sarah's eyes and makeup, Shelby comes in.

“You look great!” she tells Sarah.
Shelby thinks I have mad skills,
I remember. “I thought you'd want to accessorize a little.” She holds out the almost-empty bag. Happily, there are still some good things left, and Sarah chooses a wide headband with a huge red flower on it.

All put together, she looks adorable. She preens in the mirror a little, but she still doesn't feel so hot, so her nurse gives her something for the nausea.

“The other kids are at the dinner now.” Shelby sits on a rolling stool. “They hope you're okay, Sarah.” She turns to Trent and me. “When Mrs. Worthington came to get them, they asked her if we could stay for the dance, too. She said
she hoped so, but I told them all that I'd have to check with you guys.”

“Oh, please come!” Sarah bounces a little, but stops, looking a little green. She adds a final “please, please, please!” before she lies back down.

How can we refuse?

The three of us agree to go, and even though we're hungry—at least I am—we decide to keep Sarah company instead of eating. She's not up for the banquet, and we weren't included in the head count.

Once I fish a couple of energy bars from my purse, Trent heads to a vending machine and contributes a pack of pretzels and some M&Ms. Shelby asks the nurse where we could get something to drink, and she brings us ice waters, a few apple juices, and several individual packages of graham crackers.

“That's all I could find,” she apologizes. “It's the weekend.”

We thank her and divvy up our hodgepodge feast onto paper towels. Sarah even eats half of a graham cracker and a few ice chips while we debate the merits of the latest Melissa McCarthy movie, which morphs into a game we dub
Funny or Stupid.
We take turns saying movies, and the other three have to guess if that person thinks the movie is funny or stupid. We add our own opinions, too, of course. Even though I love movies, I don't know Shelby, Trent, or Sarah very well, so I'm horrible at the game, which Sarah finds hilarious.

About an hour later, after I've refreshed Sarah's makeup, we follow the nurse as she wheels Sarah down to the banquet.

The conference room is on the fifth floor and seems to take up nearly a whole wing. Twinkle lights wrapped in tulle adorn the ceiling and pillars. The large round tables are covered with fancy tablecloths, and in the center of each table is an evergreen and candle centerpiece. It's hard to imagine this as a hospital meeting room tonight.

The DJ is in the corner playing old music that Pops would call peppy while the caterers clean up and tear down the food tables near what I assume is the dance floor. Nobody is dancing. Most of the older people sit at their tables; only a few are mingling. The kids are sitting at two tables in the corner, looking bored out of their minds.

Mrs. Worthington hurries over to us, beaming. “Charlotte, Shelby—thank you so much. The children look so . . . festive.” Trent is already snapping away.

“Thanks for the opportunity.” Shelby sets her purse on her chair. “It's been fun.”

“I love helping people feel good about themselves,” I add. “Everybody deserves that—especially these kids.”

“I couldn't agree more,” says Mrs. Worthington. “I'm delighted that you-all could join us. I hope you'll encourage the kids to get out on the dance floor.”

I give her a big smile. “No offense, Mrs. Worthington,” I say politely, “but I don't think they're going to dance to this kind of music.” By the look on her face, I'm guessing
she chose the music. “Would you mind if I requested a few songs?”

She recovers quickly. “By all means, dear. The event is for the children, after all.”

I march over to the DJ stand and ask if they have anything from this century. “We have everything,” one of the guys says. “What do you want?” I list about ten bands off the top of my head.

“You got it, babe,” the other guy tells me. I am no one's “babe,” but I shelve the argument in favor of the music, thank them, and walk away.

The next song is one of my suggestions. Even though it's current and perfect to dance to, the kids are suddenly shy.

“Oh, no!” I announce. “You are all getting out there. We didn't come all the way down here to spruce up some wallflowers. You are divas and hotties and dancing queens and jumping beans and—please don't make me keep going here!”

Shelby looks at Trent, who mocks, “Jumping beans?” Everyone laughs, and the ice is broken. Shelby, Trent, and I pull some of the kids to their feet, and the rest follow. All of us—including the nurses in their pink cat and blue moon scrubs—shake it on the dance floor.

The songs keep coming, and we have a blast. Once an old disco song comes on, a few of the donors join us as well. Shelby, Trent, and I dance and sing together with the patients like we're all old friends. Everyone—whether they're dancing or sipping from crystal goblets and tapping their
toes under the table—seems to be enjoying themselves.

Sarah gets tired and has to sit down, but we bring over her wheelchair so she doesn't have to miss out. Marley starts to push it around, but Sarah's stomach can't take it, so she stops.

The next song is slow and the kids scatter like glitter in a wind gust. I take a second look, and realize that Trent is on the dance floor with Sarah, who's gotten out of her wheelchair. I don't know what he's saying, but she's smiling. They're swaying slowly, probably to keep her stomach steady.

Felix is watching. Ooh! I think he likes her, too. “You can cut in, you know,” I say casually.

“No, that would be rude.” He doesn't take his eyes off them.

“If you like her, go after her.” I give him a little playful push. And, to my delight, instead of resisting, he goes.

Soon he's dancing with Sarah, and Trent is walking back to the tables. He's smiling. “It worked.”

“What?” I ask.

He leans close so I can hear him above the music. “Sometimes seeing the girl you like smile at someone else . . .” He trails off.

“What?”

“Makes a guy know what he wants.” He looks away. Is he still talking about Felix and Sarah?

The next set of fast songs gets Mrs. Worthington and even more of the rich hospital benefactors out on the floor. Some of the accessories get passed around, and a bald man
in a suit sports the rainbow Afro and giant sunglasses while his wife shimmies with a boa to a Daft Punk song. A few songs later, an older guy does the twist to Lady Gaga. It's so cute.

I'm catching my breath when a slow song comes on. I start back to the table, but then feel a tap on my shoulder.

“I wasn't sure how to get your attention,” says Trent. “The last time I touched you, you slapped me.” I wince inside yet again, and—yet again—can't bring myself to look him in the eye. “Want to dance?”

Why do I feel fluttery all of a sudden? I've danced with guys before—tons of times. It's no big deal.
It's just Trent. Stop it!
“Okay,” I say.