Charlotte Cuts It Out by Kelly Barson

change the font and balloon. Personally, I think the peach looked better, but I’m a team player, so I give in.
    We use the color printer—and every piece of lavender copy paper in the cabinet. “The mall. Seven. Be there,” I say to Lyd with a grin.

    I wait at a table by the Twisted Pretzel for fifteen minutes before I text her. After another five minutes with no reply, I call and get voice mail. I pull the ATC catalog out of my purse and look at the names and faces on every page. No Reed, but there’s the guy who pulled him away from me—Trent Rockwell, Digital Design. With that mop of hair and his droopy brown—or hazel?—eyes, he reminds me of a basset hound.
    I look closer at each digital dude, but Lydia’s right: Reed’s not there. She shows up as I’m trying to figure out why.
    â€œHey! Sorry I’m late.” Lydia collapses into a chair. She’s out of breath, her hair is a disaster, and she has green frosting on her sleeve. “I have so much to tell you. I’ve been running nonstop since school let out. The bakery is freaking busy.”
    I hand her a napkin and point to her sleeve. Food-smearedclothes and messy hair aren’t exactly our best advertisement. “Your mom hasn’t found a replacement for Nutmeg yet?”
    She grins. “Just call me Nutmeg 2.0.”
    â€œYou can’t do it all.” I pull the flyers out of my purse, along with my wallet, a compact mirror, and a hair clip. “Has she placed any ads?”
    â€œIt’s okay. I don’t mind.”
    I hand her the mirror and clip and get up. “I need a pop. Want anything?”
    â€œNo thanks. I’m good.” She peeks in the tiny mirror and tames her stray locks with her fingers and the clip.
    When the girl at the Twisted Pretzel—her name tag says Ann—hands me my Diet Mountain Dew, I hand her a flyer. “We’re doing a fund-raiser for the ATC cos program. If you know anyone who’d want a mani or pedi, come in on Thursday or Friday morning and ask for Charlotte or Lydia.” I point to the bottom of the page. “Only ten bucks!”
    â€œOkay, thanks!” She smiles and takes it. Who knows if she means it, though.
    â€œDon’t forget to ask for us.” I swipe my card and smile. “We get credit.”
    Back at the table, Lydia is talking to a couple of guys. When I walk up, they say good-bye and head toward the main entrance.
    â€œWho was that?” I ask, taking a sip of my pop. “The guy in the Carhartt coat is cute.”
    â€œI know, right? Just some guys from ATC. They’re in the computer programs. One of them is talking to Emily.”
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œWhich guy, or which Emily?”
    â€œBoth.”
    She spills what she knows—Emily R. met the goatee guy at a party a few weeks ago—even though I really don’t care. What I really want to know is how Lydia knows all of this when I don’t. Yes, she’s friendlier with people than I am, but she usually keeps me in the gossip loop.
    We traipse through the mall, handing out flyers to everyone we see and to the clerks in every store that will take them. Some won’t, especially if they sell their own nail care products.
    When we’re done, I’m famished. I suggest Applebee’s, since it’s right there, and they have the best mozzarella sticks.
    â€œI don’t know,” Lyd says. “I’m not really hungry.”
    â€œHave you already had dinner?” I know perfectly well she hasn’t, especially if she’s been busy.
    â€œIt’s just that . . .” She’s acting all weird, not even looking at me.
    â€œWhat?” I say a bit too loudly. I lower my voice. “You have something else going on?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen what?” We’re standing in the middle of the mall right outside Snapz! People are starting to stare.
    She whispers, “I