Charlotte Cuts It Out by Kelly Barson Page B

in my mouth.
    She pauses to wipe her hands. “This all sounds really great, but won’t the fashion girls want to design their own dresses?”
    â€œOh, they can,” I say. “But our ideas are going to blow them away. They can use them as a starting point.”
    â€œUh-huh.” Lydia sounds apprehensive. “Um, but I wonder—you know, you just have this way of taking over sometimes . . .”
    â€œI do not!” I polish off the last mozzarella stick, stack the plates, and gather all the debris from the straw and napkin wrappers. “But someone’s got to be in charge of this thing. We only have thirty-eight days, and I don’t want to go into the first meeting without a plan.”
    Our food comes, and while we eat I tell Lydia about my plans for subcontracting. I have ideas that include quite a few of the programs. “To be
synergistic.
” We both roll our eyes.
    â€œBut we’re going to have to cover some of the costs with actual cash, right?” she asks. “We can’t subcontract everything. Remember last year? Some of those presentations were pretty extravagant.”
    In eighth grade Lydia and I attended the ATC visitation and fell in love with the cos program. We’ve attended every winter style showcase since then—observing, critiquing, planning. Last year, when we heard we’d actually been accepted, we made our parents go, too. I can’t believe it’s finally our turn to shine.
    â€œMaybe a little, but it’ll be ninety-nine percent ATC bucks.” I count out the financial plan by holding up my fingers. “First, there’s the fund-raiser, which we’re going to own. Next, the fashion designers will add their own supplies and ATC bucks to the mix. Finally, don’t forget about all the makeup and hair care tools we already own.”
    â€œI don’t know. It still sounds expensive.”
    â€œIt shouldn’t be too bad.” A little ketchup drips between my fingers.
    She takes a sip of water. “I, uh, need to talk to you about that. It’s kind of about this dinner, too.”
    â€œOkay.” I wipe the ketchup off my hand with my napkin.
    â€œYou know how my dad was sick?” She picks at her thumbnail, leaving little peelings from yesterday’s mani on the table. It’s a nervous habit, and she’s tried to stop, but it’s not great if you’re going to be a professional stylist. At least she doesn’t bite them anymore.
    â€œUh-huh.” My hand is still sticky, so I look through mypurse for a wet-nap. Lydia’s dad suffers from serious depression. He was hospitalized for nearly three weeks last summer, and it was several more months before he was working again full-time. Wait! What is she saying? I stop what I’m doing and look at her. “Oh, no! He’s not sick again, is he? Oh, Lyd.”
    â€œNo! No, it’s nothing like that.” She fidgets with the salt and pepper shakers. “He’s doing much better. Great, actually. It’s just that . . .”
    Then her phone rings. Lyd takes the call, and I take the salt and pepper shakers and put them back with the dessert menu. After listening for a few moments, she says, “I’ll be right home,” then hangs up. “That was Mom. More bakery stuff.”
    â€œSo, quick, tell me about your dad,” I say. Is he still hassling her mom about working so many hours? Are they getting divorced? Is he really as
great
as she says?
    When he was sick, it was so hard on them. Some days he didn’t get out of bed, and then he’d be up all night. The meds made him look and act like a zombie. They couldn’t get the combo and dosage right until he was hospitalized.
    â€œIt’s no big deal, really.” She leans in and whispers. “It’s just that things are a little tight right now until the hospital bills are paid off.”
    What is she talking about?