Charlotte Cuts It Out Read Online Free PDF Page A

both know that I do.
    I pick up Mom’s checklist. There’s also a manila envelope marked
Some things to consider.
Knowing Mom, I’m guessingit has something to do with college. She’s been relentless lately, pushing for me to go to a four-year university instead of a local college. I’m not even sure I need any college, since Lydia and I already have business experience and mentors. Adding an associate’s degree to the Grand Plan was a compromise—give Mom an inch and she pushes for a mile. I set the envelope aside until after I start dinner.
    First on the list is to put the chicken in the oven
.
Got it. Done. Easy.
    Next is to assemble a casserole. Mom’s already chopped the veggies and put them in the fridge. I read over the printed recipe she included. The steps are confusing and require me to sauté. What does that even mean? I’m not an Iron Chef! This is not assembly; this is
cooking.
Since all the ingredients end up in the same dish eventually, I decide to just mix them up and let the oven work it out—except for the mushrooms and onions, of course, because they’re gross. I throw those in the garbage, where they belong. Then I cover the casserole dish with foil, put it in the oven, grab my list and the manila envelope, and head down to the basement.
    Next on the list is laundry. I empty the dryer and fold the towels, sewn edge against sewn edge, in half and in half again and then in thirds. Then I stack them in the basket. Neat. Perfect. It’s relaxing, like rolling a perm—even and methodical. Lydia doesn’t understand why I like it so much. At her house they fold laundry any which way, edges crooked and uneven, slapped together haphazardly. What’s the point of folding if the result isn’t aesthetically pleasing?
    I pull clothes out of the washer, hang up my favorite shirt carefully, and wince at my mother’s jeans. She needs something more updated. These jeans are a serious style crime.
    After I clean out the lint trap and start the dryer, I go back to the checklist and the manila envelope. I finally peek inside. Sure, enough—college pamphlets.
    When Lydia and I announced in eighth grade that we were going to do the cos program, Mom was less than thrilled. She pretty much said that by the time eleventh grade came around, we’d change our minds. We didn’t.
    She had a huge attitude at the welcome meeting, which was held last year during the final week of tenth grade. We’d already taken our skills tests and had our interviews with both the staff and the graduating seniors. We, the chosen twenty-four soon-to-be juniors, had received our acceptance letters and were “invited”—along with our parents—to the mandatory informational meeting.
    That’s when it hit Mom that this was real, that we weren’t just playing around. All week she tried to get me to change my mind. First, she talked about all the classes Oliver loved in high school and how sad it’d be for me to miss out on them. Then she mentioned how hard it would be to start at a new school halfway through.
    Finally, as we were on our way to the meeting, she said, “There was a report on NPR about how people with college degrees earn a million dollars more in their careers than their less educated counterparts.”
    â€œDid they give sources for the data? You of all peopleknow how often studies are skewed just to prove a hypothesis.” I threw Mom’s statistical background at her. She didn’t say another word.
    That is, until we were at the meeting and Ms. Garrett said, “Completing our program, students earn up to thirty-four college credits, so those who wish to continue their education already have a head start.”
    Then Mom perked up and nudged me. “Did you hear that? College credits!”
    Ms. G continued by outlining what it takes to become state licensed and explaining that we would be eligible to take the