Charlotte Cuts It Out (31 page)

I deserve to crash and burn. The spotlight is on me. Sweat rolls down my temples and down the small of my back. The auditorium is silent—awkward, embarrassing silence—as the entire audience watches me. My family, Shelby, Trent, Carter, and every classmate who's witnessed not only my disastrous team meetings, but my epic walk of shame. They're all out there, waiting and probably laughing their asses off.

Then I hear the words “Stop, drop, and roll.” Is that Pops, or is it just in my head? Wherever it comes from, I get it now. Sometimes you can't control what's going to happen. Sometimes you can't even plan ahead. You just have to act in the moment.

I need to stop trying to control everything. Sometimes I have to drop my plans and roll with what comes.

Stop, drop, and roll.

So that's what I do.

I crumple my speech and throw it to the floor. “The next model is Melody. She's from our child development
program.” Melody glides into the spotlight. I describe the techniques I used to create this “sweet, yet classic hairstyle fit for a playful quest in an enchanted fairyland or a date with a handsome prince.”

Kayla slips out of her dress in the wings as Melody glides past the rock. She might not be a dancer, but she moves fluidly around the stage, turning and stopping and posing at a candy cane. The pint-sized fairy Lily mimics her every move. The crowd loves it.

When Lily notices what Kayla's doing, she stops following Melody and sheds her clothes, too. Melody is ahead of her and doesn't see right away. But I see. Oh, how I wish I don't, but I do. Lily flits across the stage like a naked cherub.

Then it gets worse. Kayla is so busy watching what's happening onstage, she doesn't realize that she tears the back of the skirt completely off the bodice when she steps into it.
I should have had Gabriella sew over the basting
, I think. There's a flurry in the wings as other designers try to salvage the dress.

I continue to ad lib the hair style and makeup I did for Melody and Lily. “. . . to complete the sophisticated look of this sparkly pixie, I backcombed and smoothed across the crown . . .” That's not exactly what I did to Melody—more like Kaylee, who's not even there—but nobody is listening to me. Not with a stripper fairy center stage. Once Melody notices her naked shadow, she tries to take Lily's hand and lead her into the wings.

But Lily loves her moment in the limelight and refuses
to go. She screeches and pulls away. Now the chase is on—around the gray papier-mâché rock and across the stage. The crowd is cracking up. I'm stammering over my words, trying to keep it together, but failing miserably.

Melody catches Lily and scoops her up. Screaming, Lily pulls at Melody's hair, yanking out every flower and throwing them to the floor. Melody tightens her hold and whips her head back and forth, trying to avoid the clawing fists, but within seconds, her hair looks as if it's been through a tornado.

Finally, Melody manages to get Lily into the wings.

We still have Shea's other dress, even though it's in pieces. My (two) hairstyles and the best makeup I've ever done are sitting in the emergency department at Allegiance. Every single one of the models is either hurt, naked, melting down, or a mess right now. Two partners and a myriad of other team members have bailed.

Yet the music plays on and here I am.

I keep trying and trying to force a plan that just isn't meant to happen.

I give up. So what if I visit a few colleges? Is that so bad? Why not see what's out there?

Maybe Lydia and I can still be PICs of some other kind. Partners in cashmere, maybe. Or crème brulée. Or coaxial cable. Who knows? It doesn't matter. We'll figure out something.

What's beyond the World According to Charlotte? Could it include different ways of doing things, like store displays
and school projects? And other people, too, like Nina and Hannah and Melody and Shelby and Trent. I won't know until I give them all a fair chance.

So much for my Grander Plan. Maybe I should just cut it out and see what happens. Starting with this nightmare of a presentation.

I hand the microphone to Mr. Finn and
tap, tap, tap
straight to the band room. I close the door behind me and exhale. Funny; I could cry now, but the tears don't come. Instead I'm overcome with relief. It's over. Disaster or not, it's over.

I sit alone at the back of the auditorium for the awards. Melody and Kayla left because of the weather, and Lily's dad carried her to the car—he was surprised she lasted as long as she did with all the excitement and no nap. Her mom apologized for the meltdown, but I said Lily was a doll and thanked her for letting her be in the showcase. I have no idea where Mackenzie went, and I haven't seen Trent. I assume he's in the sound booth, but maybe he left, too. I wouldn't blame him if he did.

The crowd chatters around me, no doubt speculating who will win. I've pictured these awards so many times—standing onstage with Lydia, accepting first prize, basking in the glow, knowing that we'd nailed it. Having our whole futures—planned and on track—ahead of us.

Instead, I'm imagining countless boring college visits and fights with Mom, trying to convince her that cos really
is
the right choice for me. I wonder if there's a super-secret extra poll about how many things could and did go wrong during my presentation.

Mr. Finn taps his mic, and the crowd settles down.

I half-listen to his lame attempts at humor and his long-winded gratitude speech to “the judges, the staff, the parents, and our community.” When he takes the envelopes from Ms. Garrett and Ms. White, I feel shaky.

I know I'm not going to win, and there's some relief in knowing that the worst is over. But deep down, there's a part of me still hoping. I've wanted this for so long, worked so hard. Until the names are read, anything's possible.

He opens the first envelope. After what feels like ten minutes, but is probably only a few seconds, he announces third place: Joelle and Tasha and the Bodacious Bodices. Their work was pretty amazing. I'm actually surprised they didn't place higher. They run onstage amid the cheers and applause, and Ms. G and Ms. White drape medals around their necks and hand them each an envelope. Mr. Finn tells the audience that third place winners get one-hundred-dollar gift cards—to Ulta for the cos team, Jo-Ann's for fashion design. Everyone applauds again.

Rachel from custodial services is sitting in front of me. She must've heard clapping behind her because she turns around and says, “Hey, Charlotte! I liked your presentation. Your dress looks nice on you, and your earrings are very sparkly.” She's wearing a cable-knit sweater dress and knee-high boots, and her hair is curled.

I smile. “Thanks, Rachel. You look really pretty tonight, too.” I wish everyone could only see what Rachel sees.

The audience settles down when Mr. Finn says, “And
now for the first runner up . . .” He opens the envelope and smiles. It's Toby and Byron and the Polyester Psychos! I guess their urban robot theme was pretty cool after all—lots of silver paint, neon lips and hair color, and break-dancing models. Who would've thought that slacker Toby could pull off second place?

They also get medals, but instead of gift certificates, the instructors hand them prize packages filled with “tools of their trades.” Toby and Byron fist pump when they open professional hair dryers, flat irons, trimmers, and a comb and brush assortment. The designers rave over their sewing machines and notions kits, whatever those are.

It turns out that they edged past Joelle and Tasha because they had more service points. They went to a juvenile detention home and cut kids' hair.

Maybe Toby isn't such a slacker after all.

Mr. Finn rambles on about what a fantastic job everyone did, a bunch of BS about how we're all winners. He uses so many stock phrases and takes so long to get to his point that his speech is more annoying than it is suspenseful. I notice people shift in their chairs all around me.

“. . . and the winners of this year's Arts and Trade Center Winter Style Showcase and one-thousand-dollar college scholarships are—”

I already know what Mr. Finn is going to say before he says it.

“Neon Taffeta, Shelby Cox, and Taylor Biggs!”

Their background music plays, and a whole section of the
audience stands and cheers. “Be sure to watch for these girls on Channel 6, JTV, and M-Live next week!” Mr. Finn adds.

Shelby, Taylor, Gabriella, and their other designer hurry down the aisle and onto the stage, where Ms. Garrett and Ms. White hug each of them and place their medals around their necks. Their prizes can't be handed to them. They're wheeled out on tables. Gabriella won a really fancy, high-tech sewing machine that makes the crowd go “ooh!” and a bigger notions kit. Shelby and Taylor each won rolling cabinets with everything needed “to take the state board exam and to set up a professional station.”

They stand arm in arm and beam. Cameras flash everywhere.

It's as bright and exciting as I imagined it would be. Except Shelby Cox won. She's standing in the spotlight—in her darling peacock pumps—with everything she needs to propel her into a cos career. And I'm in the back, in the dark, alone. I didn't even place.

I stand, force a smile, and clap. I knew it was coming. I did.

But that doesn't make it easier.

What's worse is that I know Shelby deserves it. She and Taylor worked well together. They didn't compete for a guy, argue over ATC bucks, micromanage each other, or challenge Gabriella every step of the way. Nobody walked out on their meetings. And nobody felt like calling them out for acting bitchy.

Except for me. And I was wrong.

A lump forms in my throat.
I will not cry. I will congratulate the winners, and I'll do my best to mean it.

After all, I wanted the interviews and prizes so I could brag about being the best. Shelby will appreciate the time in the TV studios because that's where she really wants to be. And the scholarship might be her only shot at college.

Mr. Finn taps his mic. “Could I have your attention for one more moment, please?” The crowd settles down.

“This semester's showcase has had its share of unique circumstances. The style design department and the ATC administration would like to recognize one student who had to roll with the punches a bit more frequently than the norm and has adapted to all the changes. As a result, we've adapted, too.

“Starting this year, we will be awarding a special prize at each showcase for the person or team who encounters added challenges, forges ahead, and overcomes.

“Our first recipient fought through team adjustments, loss of funding, and many last-minute snafus—and still gave her all onstage.” Is he talking about
me
?

“Her presentation, though at times painful to watch”—the audience laughs—“perfectly illustrated the tenacity and adaptability her instructors and I have witnessed these past few weeks.

“Please give a round of applause for our first ‘Through Thick and Thin Award' winner, Charlotte Pringle! Charlotte, will you please come up here?”

This was not the award I'd pictured myself getting. I
wanted to be recognized and remembered for excellence in cosmetology, not for being a such a colossal failure that people can't stop talking—and joking—about it. But, on the other hand, at least some people noticed what I was up against, and maybe that I wasn't to blame for
everything.

About halfway down the aisle, I hear Pops say to Dad, “
Our
Charlotte? Adaptable? Who knew?”

The audience rises again and applauds.

When I get onstage, both Ms. G and Mr. Finn hug me. Ms. G hands me a bottle of thickening hairspray and a pair of thinning shears wrapped together with red ribbon. Ha! “The Thick and Thin Award”! Clever! And Mr. Finn gives me a certificate and a twenty-five-dollar gift card to Meijer. Dad will love
that.

A few cameras flash.

I take the mic from Mr. Finn and say, “Thank you! I gladly accept . . .” What was this award officially for again? Something about overcoming obstacles? Whatever they call it, I'm calling it the same thing Grandmother would. “. . . the booby prize!”

The crowd laughs, and from the corner of the stage Toby calls, “You mean the
booty
prize!” He shakes his ass, and everyone who hears him cracks up. Except Mr. Finn.

Ms. G takes the mic and instructs everyone to “drive carefully, as the roads have become quite slick.” Then she thanks everyone, Ms. White thanks everyone, Mr. Finn thanks everyone . . .

And to all a good night.

In band room, while I'm gathering my stuff, Mom bursts into the room, strides over to me, and wraps me in a hug. I can't remember the last time Mom hugged me. I'm not sure how to react.

“That was the biggest train wreck I've ever seen.” She laughs into my hair.

“Thanks, Mom.” I let out a deep sigh.

She pulls away and sits in a chair while I shove everything into my purple duffel. “But it also took my breath away.” I stop in my tracks. She tugs me over to sit next to her, and makes sure I hear what she has to say. “Those pictures—they were amazing. You're really in your element here. Even more than at home or at the store. I'm sorry I haven't noticed before.” The words “I'm sorry” echo in my head. “And you with those kids at the hospital—wow! You really made an impact.”

She couldn't have gotten that from
my
presentation. It must have been how Trent portrayed me. That PowerPoint must have been even better than I realized. Mom doesn't apologize or change her mind easily. If Trent's still around, I need to thank him. I don't see him, though.

“Thanks, Mom.” This time I mean it.

And I can't stop from asking: “So, does this mean the bet is off? I can skip the college visits, even though I didn't place?”

My mother grins. “Oh, no! I never said that. A bet's a bet.” They will never make a Hallmark or Folgers
commercial based on our mother/daughter moments. Not ever. “But we might be able to reschedule them—after the hair show.”

“Deal!” I say. Shelby is on the other side of the room packing up her stuff. Her mom is riffling through her cabinet and commenting on every product and styling tool when Ms. G comes into the room. Then Mrs. Cox and Ms. G hug and make small talk and beam at Shelby.

A month ago I would've assumed Shelby's win was because of Ms. G's friendship with her mom. Now I know better. Shelby's a good cosmetologist. She deserves this, and more. She should get a shot at college if she wants it, and since she just won a thousand-dollar scholarship, maybe her mom will let her go.

My phone goes off, so I grab my purse. “Mom? Is there any way I could bring a friend when I visit Grandmother and the colleges?”

“I don't see any reason why not. Who? Lydia?”

“No, somebody else.” I wave across the room to Shelby, who's stuck between her mom and Ms. G, talking loudly and laughing about beauty school “back in their day.” I mouth “Congratulations!” and she mouths back “Thanks.”

I finally unearth my phone. I hear Mom's go off, too. We both have texts.

We read them at the same time. “Oh my lanta!” I yelp. “Nina's water broke.”