Charlotte Cuts It Out Read Free

Lydia’s turn, she skimps on the soaking time. Then she pulls out my favorite nail polish—Iridescent Iris—which means she’s going straight from soaking to polishing. What about my cuticles? “Uh, Lyd?” I say, trying to be discreet. “Just because you overslept and slacked on your morning beauty routine—”
    â€œIt’s not like it matters. You’re going to redo it anyway. You always do.” True, but we’ve got to have this down cold if we’re going to ace cos and be prepared for state boards.
    She shakes the polish and starts on my right thumbnail. “Oh, and I didn’t oversleep.”
    She misses a spot. I resist the urge to take over and do it myself. “Huh?”
    â€œI didn’t oversleep. I’ve been up since five.”
    She uses too many brush strokes, so the polish is patchy. Wait, what did I miss? She’d better fill in the rest—both in the story and on my mani.
    She continues painting my nails. “Mom had a huge cupcake order for some hospital event. You know, those high-fiber, naturally sweetened ones.” We both wrinkle our noses. Truth be told, though, part of my nose wrinkle is due to the shoddy manicure. “We spent all night baking them, but needed to whip, frost, and decorate them this morning. It took forever!”
    â€œWhy did
you
need to do it?” I blow on my right hand while she finishes the left, trying not to let my disappointment show. “Where was Nutmeg?” Meg hates when we call her Nutmeg, but the name totally fits the senior baking assistant at Patti Cakes, Lydia’s mom’s bakery.
    â€œShe’s working at Meijer now.”
    â€œWhat?” I’m shocked. “Nutmeg quit?”
    Ms. Garrett shows up with her grade book. She gives Lyd’s nails an approving glance, and raises her eyebrows at mine. I fib and tell her that they were perfect before I reached into my bag for my makeup case and smudged them. I may have overdone it, but she just nods.
    â€œLydia.” Ms. G taps her nails on the grade book. She has perfect, squoval-shaped French-tip acrylics. “I still don’t have your paperwork for the hair show.”
    â€œI know.” Lydia rummages through the makeup case without looking up.
    â€œJust a reminder that it’s due by Friday.”
    â€œYeah, okay.” She takes out powder foundation, eyeliner, and mascara.
    When Ms. G moves to the next station, I whisper-shout, “Oh my lanta, Lyd! You need to get that paperwork in. I can’t go to the hair show without you. You’re my PIC.”
    Lydia and I were in eighth grade when we came up with our Grand Plan to go to cosmetology school and get jobs to build our clientele while we earned business degrees. Then we’d open our own salon. My brother Oliver always called his best friend, Danny, his PIC—Partner inCrime—so we started calling ourselves Partners in Cos.
    â€œI know, I know.” Lydia brushes foundation over her cheeks, forehead, chin, and nose. “But it’s a lot of money, and I don’t know if it’s worth it.”
    â€œNot worth it?” I screech. People look our way, so I lower my voice. “It’s the flipping Chicago hair show, and it’s only a hundred seventy-five dollars—a bargain!”
    â€œMaybe to you,” she says, swiping mascara on her lashes.
    The bell rings, so we hurry and clean up our station. “God, I hate that Ms. G never gives us enough time to clean up. Nobody does a good job. I had to dig through a dozen gunky Iridescent Iris bottles to find one that had the top screwed on tight.”
    â€œLighten up,” Lydia scoffs. “It’s just nail polish. There’s a lot more serious stuff in the world to freak out about.”
    â€œYeah, like that outfit.” We exit the lab, and I force Lydia into the bathroom to change.
    When she emerges, finally looking put-together, I remember what