Foiled Page 2

  “Sorry, Mick,” Eve said, and she looked sorry, practically pouting her bottom lip. “Maybe we can do the mall thing some other time.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. “No big deal.” I tried to shrug it off like it was no big deal, but the truth was, I was beyond bummed everyone had left. I tried to tell myself that my sleepover had been a success, even if it had ended a little too soon. But as Eve got in her mom’s car, asking questions about the job, I started to feel a little lonely.

  CHAPTER 3

  After Eve left, I went back inside to the kitchen for another glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. Mom was there, dressed for work to classic perfection in a black tailored jacket and pants and black patent heels.

  “Morning, honey,” she said, sipping a cup of tea like she did on most mornings. “Did everyone leave already? I thought they’d stay longer since you took the day off to be with them.”

  “Kristen and Lizbeth had plans,” I said, sitting down next to her. “And Eve’s mom just picked her up. Took her to see about a job for this Career Exploration class thing we have coming up.” I told her about the class. “You have to sign a form for me, by the way. It’s no big deal since I’m already working at my job. Hey,” I said, just thinking of something. “Since they’re gone, anyway, I might as well come in today after all.”

  Mom took a last sip of tea, then stood up. “It sounds like this class is about making mature decisions and sticking by them?” I nodded yes. “Then I think you need to stick with your decision to take the day off to be with your friends. Even if they’ve all made other plans.”

  That was the thing about Mom. When it came to her business, she did not mess around.

  So I was stuck without much to do. Instead of cleaning my room from the mess we’d made, I decided to go see what Jonah was up to. We have a gate connecting our backyard to his—testament to our respective dads’ BFF status—and I walked through it to find him throwing a baseball to Kyle, his friend from school.

  Kyle saw me just as Jonah tossed him the ball. It almost clocked him in the head.

  “Dude, pay attention!” Jonah called as Kyle went to get the baseball. He turned to me. “Did all your friends go home?”

  He knew about my sleepover—I’d told him Friday as we walked to school together. Even though I had several new girl friends, Jonah was still the friend I told the most to.

  “Yeah, they left,” I said. Kyle ran back and threw the ball to Jonah. “Hey, Kyle.”

  “Hey,” he said. He had dark, thick curly hair that always looked like it was on the verge of needing to be cut. Kyle was cute, but he was always so quiet, at least around me.

  “Why’d they all leave so soon?” Jonah asked. “You run them off or something?”

  Sometimes I took Jonah’s bait, and sometimes I ignored it. I wasn’t feeling so great about everyone bailing and not getting to work, so I chose to ignore it.

  “They had stuff to do. Tennis, ballet, brunch. And Eve went to talk to someone about a job for Career Exploration.”

  “What’s she doing?” Jonah threw the ball to Kyle, who caught it easily in his gloved hand.

  “Working at some day care.”

  I expected him to make a joke about that, like it was lame and boring and typically girlish, but he didn’t. He just nodded. “Yeah, I gotta go see the dude at the skate shop about my job.”

  “So you got the job?”

  “Yeah,” Jonah said. “Practically.”

  Practically didn’t sound so convincing, but I didn’t say so.

  “Kyle, what are you doing?” I asked.

  “Not sure,” he said, throwing the ball back to Jonah. “I’ll just take whatever they give me.”

  “Dicey move,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I like to live dangerously.”

  I grinned and watched as they threw the ball a couple more times.

  “You want to hang out or what?” Jonah said. “We’re about to go play Warpath of Alien Doom. You’ve barely made it to level two. You could use the practice.”

  I might have been the master of Warpath of Doom, but the alien version was new. I usually loved playing, but I wasn’t in the mood to hang out with guys. I’m all for blowing stuff up on a video game, but today I wanted to bury myself in the pages of my glossy, girly magazines. “Nah,” I said. “I’ll see you guys around.”

  “Later,” Jonah said.

  And Kyle? He didn’t say anything. But he did look at me, holding the baseball in his glove. A grin spread across his face before he tossed it back to Jonah. I watched, noticing that his smile and even the way he looked at me—briefly—made him kind of cute. But I would die before admitting that out loud.

  I walked back through the gate, thinking about the fun day my friends were having while I was stuck at home—alone.

  CHAPTER 4

  “I’m not talking to you so don’t even try.”

  That’s how Giancarlo greeted me Sunday when I got to Hello, Gorgeous! Not to be biased or anything, but I was pretty sure Giancarlo was my favorite stylist. He just had a way about him that always made me smile—even when he was teasing me. I mean, you just had to take one look at the guy—big, bald, and wearing a white Hello Kitty tee stretched tight over his barrel chest—and you couldn’t help but feel happy.

  “What’d I do?” I asked.

  “And here I thought you were serious about this job.” He shook his head as he wiped down his station, readying it for his next client.

  “I am!”

  “Then tell me why skip out on a Saturday? This Be Gorgeous thing is going through the roof, and we really needed your help yesterday.”

  This, actually, made me feel really good—they needed me. And Be Gorgeous was basically my brainchild. Every Saturday one stylist did a demo, with a little insider tip on how to keep your hair looking gorgeous once you left the salon. How to style it for different looks, what the best products were, that kind of thing. So far it’d been monster successful.

  “Sorry, GC,” I said. “I had a sleepover with my friends yesterday.” Just saying it out loud made me feel better about the fact that they had all bailed early. I had the sleepover—with several of my friends—and that was still pretty cool.

  “Pardon,” Giancarlo said. “Someone is popular.”

  In the break room I did the one thing I disliked about my job—I put on my plastic smock. As the salon sweeper, it was part of the uniform and something I’d learned to suck up and deal with. The only dress code for the stylists was that they had to wear majority black or white. Megan, as the receptionist and first face of the salon, could wear what she wanted as long as it was stylish. Mom didn’t exactly want her wearing overalls—unless, of course, they were made out of satin or silk and designed by Stella McCartney.

  But because of the smock, I’d learned to show off my style where I could, by wearing cute skirts or pants and shoes and hair accessories, since my shirts didn’t really show. Today I wore a black ruffled skirt with a fitted white tee and black flats.

  Although my main job was sweeper, I quickly learned when I first started working that my job was much more than that, especially on crazy-busy days like this one. I helped Megan at reception, showing clients to the back to get changed into luxurious batiste cotton robes. Then sometimes I’d have to grab something from the back for one of the stylists—supplies for hair dying (foils, gloves, mixing bowls, and brushes), clips, combs, the works. Oh, yeah, and in between all that I was supposed to keep the floors swept to gleaming perfection. There was always plenty to do.

  I swept around Giancarlo’s station just before his client arrived—I had to be out of there before she sat down—and Megan motioned for me to come up front.

  “Cute shoes,” she said. Even in the midst of chaos, she could still dole out compliments and greet clients at the same time. “Could you show Ms. Warren where to get changed? Thanks! Anna, you’ll look amazing with the new color. You’re in good hands with Devon. Oh, hi, Lily! Here for a facial with Ro
wan?” Megan was a machine.

  “Right this way, Ms. Warren,” I said to the ginger-haired woman.

  One of the big things I’d wanted to gain from working at the salon was the ability to, you know, talk to people. And I had done that in a major way. (See: sleepover.) But talking to people I didn’t know—especially adults—still made me freeze up with nerves. I was trying, though.

  As I led the way to the changing rooms, I thought of what Megan had said to Ms. Warren about getting a new hair color and how Ms. Warren still seemed kind of nervous about it.

  “Even if Devon does a terrible job,” I said to Ms. Warren, “you’ll still look better than now.”

  As soon as I heard myself say the words, I realized what I’d done. I didn’t need to hear Ms. Warren’s little gasp of breath. I didn’t need Violet, the salon manager who had a no-nonsense look—all pixie cut and glittery blond—shooting me evil glances, either. Only she did.

  “Ms. Warren, you always look gorgeous! And don’t worry, Devon is one of our top stylists. She’ll take great care of you,” Violet said as she nudged me out of the way, ushering Ms. Warren to change.

  “No, that’s not what I meant,” I said, but Violet led Ms. Warren away from me as if I’d just busted out with a case of Tourette’s.

  Great. I’d been back at work for about thirty minutes and already I’d messed something up. I refolded the towel Violet had tossed aside and prepared to face her when she came back.

  “Mickey, honey.” Violet sighed as she came back for the towel.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I said. “Honestly.”

  “I know, but be careful what you say. She’s coloring her hair for the first time ever. Don’t make her feel bad about herself.”

  “I didn’t mean to. I just meant Devon is so good that even if she were having a bad day Ms. Warren would still come out looking beautiful.”

  Violet gave me a stern look. “I know. Now back to work. Okay?”

  Deflated, I got my broom and looked for spots to sweep.

  I tried to sweep away the bad vibes while I dreamed of a day in which I ran my own Hello, Gorgeous! Maybe I’d open a salon in Boston. Or maybe New York City. Or Paris or Milan or London or Singapore. Endless—when my mind ran, the possibilities were totally endless.

  “Mickey!” Devon—Goth-chic with jet black hair, blunt bangs, and matte red lips—was deep into Ms. Warren’s coloring job. As always, Devon was retrocool in high-waisted capri pants, a white shirt tied at the waist, and a red bandana headband. “Could you get me some more foils from the back? I’m almost out.”

  “Sure,” I said, watching for just a moment as Devon dipped a dye-soaked brush into the bowl she held containing the new coloring for Ms. Warren’s hair. She took a section of her hair and placed a square of foil beneath it, then brushed the color on. Finally she folded up the foil toward her scalp, securing it in place. Devon saw me watching and gave me a little wink. I smiled, then headed back to get the foils. She made it look so easy. Section, brush, fold, done!

  Before I could get far, though, I got a happy surprise—Lizbeth came into the salon.

  “Hey!” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Nails,” she said. “I’m the only one who didn’t do mine at your sleepover.”

  Lizbeth and Kristen had been coming into the salon as clients since about the fourth grade. Mostly they got manis and pedis, but they also got haircuts. Their hair always looked better than mine, even though I had learned to style from a pro.

  “I’ll get you a bottle of water, okay?” I told her. Another perk of the salon—free beverages.

  “Thanks, Mickey!” Lizbeth said. She settled into the couch while she waited for Karen, the manicurist, to finish up with another client.

  I could have gotten a bottle from the side table that held all the drinks, but I wanted to get my friend a cold one, so I went to the refrigerator. On my way back up, Devon looked at me expectantly. Oops! I was supposed to get her those extra foils.

  “Forget something?” she said, holding her hands out to the side, one of which held the small plastic bowl with the hair-dye mix.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said. “I just have to deliver this and I’ll get them.”

  She dipped her brush into the bowl and, with the bowl still in her left hand, brushed the dye on another section of hair.

  Devon’s station was right behind Karen’s manicure station, where Lizbeth was now seated, so at least I didn’t have far to go to deliver the water. “Here you go,” I said to Lizbeth.

  “Thanks! Have you seen this color before?”

  I looked at the bottle she held—a sheer, pale purple. “Sea Glass Haze, yeah,” I said. “It’s really pretty on. Light and springy.” Devon cleared her throat behind me. I made an uh-oh face to Lizbeth, then smiled. “Gotta go!”

  I quickly turned back toward Devon, but she’d moved closer to the manicure station. I was halfway to facing her when we collided, my body slamming into hers so hard I squeezed my eyes shut.

  “Oh my gosh!” someone said.

  The wind had been knocked out of me but I was glad I hadn’t fallen to the floor. When I got my bearings, I saw that the bowl of dye Devon had been holding had gone flying in our collision. It splashed on the floor, and all I could see was red all over Mom’s pristine, cream, and expensive marble floors.

  “Are you okay?” I said to Devon, who had a stunned look on her face. I kept one eye on the floor.

  “I’m okay,” she said.

  Knowing this, I practically dived to the floor with the rag I had in my smock pocket, desperate to clean it up before Mom saw it and freaked. As I wiped up the dye, heels clicked past me—Mom’s spiky heels. I realized no one had stopped to help me. That’s when I heard the commotion behind me at the manicure station. I turned to see what was happening. It wasn’t pretty.

  The woman sitting next to Lizbeth had her hand over one eye as Lizbeth stood next to her, pouring water from the bottle I’d brought her onto a napkin. Mom was there, trying to see what was wrong, but it was Lizbeth who put water on the woman’s eye and patted her shoulder.

  Still on my knees, I realized the dye had splattered to the mani station and into the woman’s eye. A freak accident. As Lizbeth and Mom ushered the woman—who was probably going blind at that very moment—past me, Mom looked down at me and said, “What are you doing down there?” She looked at the rag in my hand, and I got what she meant—how could I worry about the floor when a woman’s eye was burning into her skull?

  Lizbeth, Mom, Karen, and Devon all rallied around the poor woman as they leaned her back into one of the sinks to flush her eye out. Tears welled in my own. What had I done this time? Had I really hurt that woman? A slow, familiar panic seeped through me. It wasn’t so long ago I accidentally started a rumor about Devon making some poor woman go bald. When she found out what I’d done, I’d had this same feeling. I watched, paralyzed, as Lizbeth said something that made the woman laugh while Mom ran water gently over her eye.

  “You okay down there?”

  Giancarlo knelt beside me with a spray bottle of floor cleaner, spritzed the area where some splatters had landed, and helped me wipe it up.

  “Giancarlo,” I said, the words barely coming out of my mouth. “That woman—is she . . .” My chin started quivering as if an 8.0 earthquake were in effect right on my face. I’d made mistakes before, but I’d never physically hurt anyone.

  “Hey, hey,” Giancarlo said, looking me in the eye and resting a baseball glove–sized hand on my shoulder. “Look at you. Calm down, girl. It’s not that bad.” I tried to steady my breathing, but it was impossible. “Mickey, look at me. She’ll be fine. Believe me. She’s not the first person to get a little hair dye in her eyes.”

  I sniffed and said, “She’s not?”

  He nodded. “It happens sometimes. Usually not outside beauty school, but it happens. Come on,” he said, heaving himself up. We’d gotten the floor pretty clean—you couldn’t see a single smudge
. “Let’s pick up this other stuff.” He picked up the dye bowl and brush from the floor and placed it on Devon’s trolley next to her station. I stood up and tried to pull myself together. Giancarlo took me by the shoulders as if trying to steady my shaking. “There’s no crying in the salon. We are all beautiful here, all the time. Okay? Take a deep breath and pull yourself together.”

  The thought of facing the woman who could only see with one eye was frightening, but I knew he was right. I had to be mature and own up to what I’d done.

  Mom came back up to attend to her client, who had waited patiently for the drama to end. When she passed by me she leaned in close and said, “We’ll talk about this later.” My stomach dropped.

  “Is she okay?” I asked, my voice quivering again.

  She turned back to me. “You should go ask her yourself.”

  The woman was now sitting up in the chair at the sinks, wiping the water from her face. Violet and Lizbeth stood beside her, and the three of them were talking as if nothing had gone wrong, as if she was just back there to get her hair washed. I walked up to her on shaking legs.

  “Um, hi,” I said. She looked up at me, one side of her hair wet from the rinse. “Um, your manicure looks really nice. I mean, um, I’m really sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” she said, then dabbed her twitching eye. I wanted to cry again, but held back, remembering what Giancarlo said.

  “I’m really sorry. Let me know if you need anything. Sorry.”

  Another smooth performance by Mikaela Wilson! So eloquently spoken! I couldn’t believe what I’d done.

  Devon was wiping down more spots near her station when I approached her. “Devon? Are you sure you’re okay?”

  She looked at me, her blunt bangs still hanging perfectly below her red kerchief. “I’m okay. A little rattled, though. Are you okay?”

  I felt relief knowing she wasn’t mad and that she was even a little concerned. We’d come a long way from rumors about making clients go bald. Devon was cool, but I’d learned the hard way that you didn’t want to cross her. “I’m okay. I just feel stupid.”