Charlotte Cuts It Out (29 page)

I find Trent in the cafeteria. There are no seats around him, so I just squeeze in by his elbow, invading his personal space, crowding the guy next to him, and blocking everyone trying to walk behind him.

“What's the matter? You look upset.” How does he know anything's wrong? I did a spectacular job of pulling it together before going to lunch.

I tell him about the formatting issue, my music—or lack thereof—and that I need to work in more pics of Shea and Mackenzie. Although I'd rather feed Mackenzie to a family of rabid skunks right about now. The guy next to Trent tries to scoot away from me, but there's no room. Several people squeeze past me, almost dumping their trays on me. They all seem annoyed. I apologize, but keep talking and don't move away. The whole time Trent listens and wordlessly eats his sloppy joe. Finally I say, “So can you help me?”

He polishes off one of his milks, sighs, and says, “Do you want me to just do the PowerPoint for you? I can hammer it out in a couple of hours.”

“First of all, I don't have enough ATC bucks right now to pay you.”

“How much have you got?” He wipes his mouth on a napkin and throws it onto his tray. He smells good, like Axe and soap. I'm preoccupied by that longer than I should be, but I snap out of it and remember that I'm going to be reimbursed. Still, the ATC bucks aren't in my account yet, so I answer him with a pretty measly number. He swallows. “You're a tough negotiator, Charlotte Pringle, but you have yourself a deal.”

“Seriously?” I'm stunned. “You'll really do it? What about music?”

“I just said I would. And, yes, I'll figure
something
out for music.”

“Can you have something to show me first thing tomorrow?” A guy at the table behind us gets up and knocks into me, which pushes me into Trent. I apologize.

Unfazed, he shakes his second milk carton and opens it. “No can do.”

“What? Why not?” I realize I've never actually seen his work. What if it's as careless as Carter's? I can't risk it. I'd rather have my catawampus slides than misspelled, inconsistent ones.

“I have a lot to do, too. I'll get it done, but maybe not until tomorrow morning's lab, tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

“What if you have problems? What if you can't get—”

“Cut it out! I've got it, okay?” He chugs his carton of milk.

Isn't that what the pool said—
When will Charlotte cut it out?
Ralph won by answering
never.
I guess that's right. If I cut it out, it means I quit. Nobody's ever won anything by quitting. I'll
cut it out
after I win the showcase. Maybe. Right now I need to keep on top of things.

“Don't tell me to
cut it out
! My whole presentation has been a nightmare. You have no idea how important this is. So I'm going to have to approve the pictures and proofread your work, and—”

Even though he still has a third full carton of milk and half a sandwich left, he stands, and I have to look up to meet his eyes. He grabs his tray. “I know what I'm doing. Trust me.”

I get up and follow him. “Why should I? I hardly know you, and I've never seen your work. What if you can't spell?”

He buses his tray. “You. Are. Infuriating.” His eyes look grayish-brown today, and there's light stubble on his clenched jaw. He storms out of the cafeteria and leaves me standing there with my mouth open.

I'm
infuriating? He's the one who's infuriating! He expects me to just trust him? He's so sure he has it all under control. How cocky is that?

But I have no choice. It's either trust him or have no PowerPoint.

And he did send me the link and the photos I asked for on time. He went the extra mile for the hospital fund-raiser, too. If I trust him, it might just turn out okay.

In the middle of the crowded cafeteria, as several people step around me to get to the garbage can, I realize something else: I want him to do it because I want to see him again.

Lydia shows up with a Napanelli's pizza. Buffy, tail wagging, power-sniffs her and leaves slobber all over her jeans. “It's okay,” she says, “these are my painting pants.” Then she scratches behind Buffy's ears and says, “I've missed you, too, Buff.”

After we eat, she helps me glue the flowers to combs and pins, so I can put them wherever I want in the models' hair. Then she volunteers to help with the props.

I show her the mess. “See, I told you they were bad.”

She inspects a lollipop. “Uh, yeah. That's an understatement.”

“Thanks a lot.”

She laughs. “I have a few ideas, though,” she says. “Rather than repainting them, we could wrap the lollipops in colored cellophane to cover up the oopsies and twist-tie it like a candy wrapper, and then let's use red duct tape over the candy cane swirls to make them more uniform.”

“Wow! That's genius, Lyd! But where are we going to get the stuff?”

“At the dollar store,” she says, grabbing her keys from her coat pocket. “But we'd better hurry. They close in an hour.”

Lydia's right. The dollar store has rolls of cellophane
wrapping paper for five bucks, and colored duct tape for three dollars a roll. We get everything we need for less than twenty-five dollars.

“You're the bargain shopping master,” I say in the car on the way home. “If only you'd been with me when I went to Michael's.” I tell her about my experience with the vest lady, and she laughs.

We're still working on the candy canes—in the kitchen, though, because it's gotten even colder than before—when Mom gets home. “Hey, Lydia! Long time no see!”

“It's been a while.” Lydia smiles and tears off another piece of tape. “Good to see you, Kim.”

“Props are looking good, girls.” Translation:
Much better than they did yesterday.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, then add, “Sorry about your coffee.”

“No problem.” She shoots me a sly smile. “You can prep the pot for the morning. I'm tired and going to bed.” Mom grabs a glass of wine and her e-reader. “Good night, girls. Tell your folks I said hi, Lydia.”

“Will do.”

After Lydia leaves, I get Mom's coffee ready and go to my room to work on my speech. Shea's info outlines the reasons for her choices, the styles, the fabrics, and the more technical terms like “bodice” and “serging.” The rest of it—the overall theme, and our take on it—is all me. It sounds a little stilted, but it's informative and professional.

I choose my outfits for the morning—one for school and
one for the showcase—and practice my speech a few times in the mirror. I poke at the puffy circles under my eyes. Lydia called it right the other day—I look raggedy. All these late nights and stress are taking their toll on my skin.

My clock reads 2:29 a.m. The showcase is actually later
today
!

Win or lose, by this time tomorrow, I'll know the results.

Of the showcase.

Of the bet.

Of my future.

0 days to the Winter Style Showcase!
Today is the day! OMG!

Friday morning I load my car before I do my hair and makeup because it's starting to snow, and I can't have a wet, flat, sticky mess on the most important day of the year. Mom offers to help, but I need to organize it my way, both in my car and in my head.

Then I dress in professional salon attire—black dress pants, a fitted white button-down shirt, and silver jewelry with just the right amount of bling.

“Good luck!” Mom calls when I'm walking out the door. “See you tonight.”

The cos lab is swarming with people. First, there are the models. They show up as blank canvases—clean faces and hair—just as instructed. Then, there's us. Judging by how snappy everyone is and by how fast they're running around, the whole class feels like I do—excited, nervous, and more than a little nauseated. Finally, there are the five judges—four women and a guy. They're salon owners and educators from Jackson, Lansing, and Ann Arbor. Even though they're talking and joking with Ms. Garrett in the reception area,
they are terrifying. They hold more than coffee cups in their hands—they hold my future.

Just before we get started, Ms. G asks what I've decided about music.

I arrange my chalks on a paper towel and say, “I've decided to trust a guy.”

She winks at me. “Hope that works better for you than it ever has for me.”

Oh my lanta!
Thanks, Ms. G! As if I weren't worried enough already!

Then she announces, “Ladies and gents, are you ready?” Several of us nod, and I take a deep breath. “Many think the competition is tonight. While that is true, the serious work starts now—with part one—away from the audience. You'll complete a total style package for your model—makeup, hairstyle, and manicure.”

Although poised as always, Ms. G's voice shakes a little. She must be nervous, too. “The judges, who will walk around the room, will score you on technique, professionalism, creativity, overall aesthetics, and adherence to theme. Remember, you may only use the tools at your stations. You should be prepared. You will be penalized for extraneous talking, so speak only when necessary and only to your client, no one else.”

She starts the clock with spirit fingers and a cheery, “Ready, set, go!”

The morning flies by. And it's like a dream come true. First, I do Kaylee's makeup—moisturizer, foundation, eyeliner,
sparkly lashes, several eye shadows, a dash of mascara, brow pencil, an appliqué, a few more accents, a touch of blush, and shimmery highlighting powder. Her lips—liner, color, gloss, all layered to look ombre—really finish the look. Perfect!

I use brighter colors in Kaylee's hair than on Wednesday so they will show up better onstage. I chalk and dry, curl and backcomb, sweep and pin, and finish with spray and the sugar flower combs. I'm pleased, so I hope the judges are, too. But I can't tell from their stone-serious expressions.

I try not to look around at my classmates too much, but I can't help it. Country braids, simple middle part with a daisy headband, cascading curls with upswept sides, and one badass bouffant. None of those worry me at all. Toby and Byron are going all-out silver and neon, including lips and hair, which is interesting. I wonder how that's all going to look put together. Shelby and Taylor go with pinks and a few other pastels. I hope that's not too close to ours. Joelle and Tasha's Medusa and feathered Hera look like something Tyra would go gaga over—I'm talking TV show professional.

The competition is off the charts.

Then there's Mackenzie. Her style looks nothing like her design. In fact, she has the whole hairline pulled up into a faux French braid, which hides almost all of the highlights I helped her with on Wednesday. I desperately want to tell her to leave the back down to accentuate what's already been done, but I'm not going to lose points over it. I keep my mouth shut and work on Kaylee's nails.

Over the Iridescent Iris base, I paint the candy swirls
and stripes I imagined in the props, except this time, I execute it all perfectly. Just as I'm finishing the top coat, Melody and Lily show up. Mackenzie is still slaving away on those pointless braids, so I decide to do Lily's hair. Mackenzie can do her nails. She's better at nails, anyway.

Lily wiggles and wants to get down from the chair and run around and touch everything. Trying to stay professional and avoid excess chatter, I give her a Tootsie Pop from my purse, which buys me the time to pull her hair into a high pony tail and put a few curls in it. When the candy's gone, she goes to sit in Melody's lap, but almost immediately insists that I do Melody's hair, too. Since I only have one model and Lily's hair didn't take long, I have time. Melody flashes me a smile. She knows this wasn't in my plan, but it keeps Lily happy long enough for me to swipe some blush across her cheeks and a quick coat of polish on her nails.

I curl Melody's strawberry blonde locks into spirals with a wand. Since I have a couple more sugar flowers left, I sweep up each of the sides. It's nothing spectacular, but it's pretty. She likes it, and I think I even see one of the judges smile in our direction for a split second.

During lunch, I look for Trent, but he's not in the cafeteria, the digital design lab, or the sound booth. What if he's not here at all? What if he's sick? What if I don't have my PowerPoint slides or my music? Other than the style and speeches, those are the most important elements of the entire presentation!

After our other classes, about three p.m., we have dress
rehearsal. It's supposed to be a run-through to iron out any technical glitches and make sure everyone is on the same page. When we get to the auditorium, it's all set up. The backdrop, which was painted by the multimedia artists, looks as if it's straight from a Disney movie. There's a wooded area with a little cottage and a castle high on a mountain and flowers and butterflies and magical flying fairies. It's beautiful.

There's also a ridiculous papier-mâché rock right in the middle of the stage. I ask why it's there and the set team practically bites my head off. “It's for depth and dimension!” It's a rock, and it's right where my models will be dancing. I move it off to the side a little, but about a minute later it's back where it was.

Team by team we run through our programs. While one team is onstage, the next is waiting in the wings. The rest of the teams sit in the audience and watch. At this point, there's little danger of anyone stealing another team's details.

Shelby, Taylor, and Gabriella are first. I have to admit that their presentation is nice. They stick with the song “I Can't Help Myself” and they have a pink Cadillac wooden prop that they set up in front of the rock, so nobody notices it. Their models also dance—a version of the twist. And their speeches and PowerPoint are overall professional. They're definitely formidable opponents.

The Emilys, not so much. Their speeches ramble on, and their designers' dresses look as if they copied them from Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz.
Except, instead of ruby
slippers, their models wear red cowboy boots and dance to country music. They use the rock to prop up their boots and pose. It's okay, I guess, but it's going to take a lot more than mediocre to win.

Joelle and Tasha have a really fierce style. The dresses are really detailed, and their music is intense. However, I'm not seeing how the myths fit with the theme. It'll be interesting to see what the judges think.

We're up after Toby and Byron, so I don't see their run-through. They must've raced through it. I heard their loud techno music, but by the time we got backstage, they were coming off, high-fiving each other. I have to admit, though, their costumes are certainly original. I would've thought that all that silver, even with splashes of neon, would be boring, but it looks pretty cool.

When Mackenzie and I get onstage, I call up to the sound booth, “Trent? Are you up there?”

A different, yet also familiar voice, calls back, “No. Trent's busy.” Oh my lanta! It's Carter Reed. Just what I need!

“Did he give you my PowerPoint?”
Please say yes. Please say yes.

“No.”

“No?” My voice cracks. I'm about to melt down. “Have you heard from him? Do you know when it'll be ready?”

“No clue,” says Carter pointedly. “It wasn't my job to follow up on it, remember? I expected something a bit more
professional
from
you.
”

There's a collective “ooh” from the audience.

What an asshat. I hate him so much.
I want to scream and throw the giant, ugly rock through the sound booth window. Instead, I sit on it and lean forward, putting my elbows on my knees and cupping my face in my hands.

Lily runs around onstage, Melody chasing after her.

“Charlotte?” It's Lydia. She's here! She touches my shoulder and asks, “Are you okay?”

“No,” I mutter into my knees.

“We're on a tight schedule,” says Carter, like God on high. Or the Devil in Hades.

“Give her a minute, will ya?” Lydia yells. She must know who it is, too.
Go, Lyd!
Then to Ms. G., “Can someone else go next, so Charlotte can regroup?”

Ms. G sends the next team on—the bikers—and then meets my team in the wings. “You guys are going to have to go without your PowerPoint. Just do the best you can. It'll all come together tonight, I'm sure.” She doesn't sound convincing.

But we do what we can with what we have, which isn't much. There are no pictures, no music, no designers, and only two and a half models. I tell Kaylee to just pretend to change her hair because I won't be able to redo it.

Mackenzie's speech is pretty lame, but she says she's going to tweak it after rehearsal. I hope she does. I'm going to practice more, too, to combat my nerves. We go through everything several times to get the timing of the speech, the dancing, and the quick change right. But we get it.

In order:

1. I introduce Kaylee, talk about what I did and then move on to Shea's contributions.
   
2. Then I talk about Lily.
   
3. Mackenzie takes the mic and says her part.
   
4. Then I talk about Kayla's dress, and reintroduce Kaylee, giving all the info on her second hairstyle and the final dress.
   

As Kayla dances, some of her braids loosen. I tell Mackenzie, hoping she sprays them down. At this rate, they won't last the night.

Once rehearsal is over, I change into my dress and heels, redo my hair, and freshen my makeup. I ask Mackenzie when she's going to change, but she says she already has. Does this girl own anything other than khakis? We're grouped in teams in the band room, waiting for the show to start, when Trent finally shows up.

“Oh my lanta, where have you been?” I screech when he comes through the double doors. My heart races. I'm not sure if it's from relief, or nerves, or because the buffalo-check dress shirt he's wearing brings out the green in his eyes.

“Sorry,” he says immediately. “I'm sure you're freaking out.”

That's an understatement.

“Uh, yeah,” interrupts Mackenzie. “We're super stressed over here.”

“I had a lot to do, not just for you guys,” explains Trent to
all of us. “But it's done. I've already uploaded and tested it in the sound booth. And it's perfect. You're all set.”

“Did you use the pictures I wanted?” I ask. “And what about music?”

“Didn't you hear me?” he says. “I said it was perfect.”

“I heard you, but—”

“And if you don't like it, there's no hope for you whatsoever.”

“You are so full of yourself, you know that?”

He just stands there and looks down at me. One part of me wants to slap him. Another part wants to hug him—or kiss him—but I refuse to let my head go there. Well, maybe for a few seconds, but I quickly recover.

Lydia whispers in my ear. “Say
thank you.
”