Chapter 4: Lauren

Chapter Four

LAUREN

" G irl, you're jumpier than a horned toad on a rainy day," exclaims my client Rose as the door chime makes me flinch for the hundredth time.

"I've got a package coming," I lie. Although is it? I'm expecting either the police to show up or Mrs. Ware, and both options would be bad for me. I force myself to concentrate. I just need to finish her cut and I can go on break.

"Ohh, what is it? Something pretty, I hope. You're always wearing black. I think you should branch out. Look at Criselle over there. She's always wearing something bright and fun, and she's got more men than most women have purses."

"Purses are expensive," I murmur between snips.

"If you had more men in your pocket, they would pay for your purses."

"I'll keep my eye out," I say because I really can't argue with Rose. Her Hermes collection rivals the Kardashians, and as far as I know, the fifty-plus Fifth Avenue matron hasn't held a job in her life. Liz, our perks girl who goes around giving hand massages during the cuts and styles, says that Rose's hands are as soft as a marshmallow. The hardest task that she's ever undertaken is probably deciding which caterer to choose. One bag and my brother would be out of jail.

"My son was lamenting just the other day the lack of eligible ladies in the city. He says that he would bring one home if he could find one."

Not that I'd want to date Rose's son, but it's interesting how she's never offered to hook me up. I don't think it ever occurred to her that I could be a potential match. To her, I'm probably not fully human, just the service bot who cuts, colors, and styles.

The door flies open with a bang. Even Rose jumps in her seat. I narrowly avoid chopping off a huge portion at the crown when Isabella McGowan comes running in.

"Did you hear the news?" she cries, her giant Delvaux bag banging against my friend Chloe's work cart. Chloe toes it out of the way so the dye mixture doesn't get knocked to the floor. I send her a look of sympathy, and she shrugs. What can you do? This is how we make money to feed our families.

"You almost made me spill my Americano, Issy." Rose brushes a few droplets off her cape. I offer her a towel, which she takes and then tosses onto the floor. "Out with it. The gossip looks like it's about to burst your seams if you don't share."

Issy bustles over to my station and drops down in an empty chair. "The Academy was broken into last night."

The scissors slip out of my hands and glance off Rose's cape-covered shoulder to fall harmlessly onto the concrete floor.

"My God, girl, what are you doing? You almost killed me," shrieks Rose.

I mumble an apology and retrieve the scissors. Rose isn't going to leave me. I'm the only one who gets the blond color right, or so she's said, but I can say goodbye to any tip. My heart sinks to my knees. I need money for bail. The jail told me it was a grand, and I just don't have that lying around.

Issy tsks. "Good help is so hard to find these days."

"Forget about her." Rose brushes her hand next to her face as if she's ridding herself of a pesky fly. "Tell me more. Did they catch who did it? What did they steal?"

"The test answers, of course, for the entrance exam, and as far as I know, no one was caught. They're going to redo the tests."

"It is obviously one of the parents because who else would be interested in those test results?" Rose taps her lower lip with a perfectly manicured fingernail painted in pale pink. I snip slowly, trying to draw out the cut long enough to get all the gossip I can from these two.

"I don't know why someone would go to those lengths just to steal test results," Issy says.

"They have a hundred percent placement rate at the college of the student's choice. If your child wants to go to Harvard or Stanford or NYU, the Academy will open that door. It doesn't matter how the child performed before entrance because they work some kind of magic there."

Money , I think.

"Money," Issy says out loud. "All you have to do is endow a professorship at one of those colleges and your child is in."

"Easier said than done. You know those universities are cracking down on that ever since those parents got prison time for bribing college admissions offices. It's harder than ever to buy your way in." Rose sounds disgusted that her money is not moving the mountains that it used to. "No one pays attention to the prep schools. It's the safest avenue to the degree of your choice."

Not the kid's choice but the parents', I think. How miserable.

"And a guaranteed future for your child. I shudder to think where Zaya would have landed if she hadn't gotten her degree at Harvard."

Rose's phone rings. Her jaw tightens at the sound. "I'm sure it's Jamie." Without any notice, she gets out of the chair. I narrowly avoid lopping off too much off one section and check the time. At this rate, I'm not going to have a break.

"Jamie is her daughter," Issy needlessly informs me. I've been cutting Rose's hair so long that I know all of her family, from her Wall Street son to her high-strung daughter, the family's three poodles, the house on Nantucket and pied-à-terre in Paris. I could probably run a voice phishing scam on all her accounts with ease. People share way too much with their hair stylists.

Jamie is seventeen and wants to get into Harvard. Her ultimate goal is to be a Supreme Court Justice. More power to her. I wish I could dream like that for Mick. He's so smart. Too smart to be running small cons on the street and stealing rich people's Louis Vuitton bags. Rose returns with a high flush in her cheeks. The convo with Jamie didn't go well. When we finally finish the cut and style, I have five minutes left of my break.

In the small cramped space between the washing machine and the storage cabinets, I wait for my cup of ramen to heat up. Misty, the manager, comes in and frowns at my still-chipped nails. I curl my fingers inward.

"That is not in keeping with the standards here at Blue Salon. If you don't want to work here, just say so." It's kind of an empty threat. I'm really good at my job, which Misty knows. She won't fire me, but she doesn't mind making snide remarks either.

"I'll fix it." Because looking good is expected by my clients. If my clients think I don't take care of myself, they won't trust me to style their hair, especially at five hundred a pop. I take a deep breath because I need Misty to give me an advance.

"Fine. And try not to drop sharp implements on your customers' shoulders. The last thing you—and I say you because any settlement is coming out of your paycheck—need is a lawsuit."

"So an advance on my paycheck is out of the question?" I say lightly.

"We are not a payday loan operation here," Misty sneers. With that, she swishes out, leaving behind a cloud of Chanel No. 5. I sag against the washing machine and tell myself to get it together. Then I jerk upright, remembering my ramen in the microwave. By the time I get it out, the noodles are swollen and soggy, but I'm too hungry to care and take a bite of the mess.

The carbs have barely settled in my gut when Chloe pops her head in. "A Chris is here."

Chris is our code word for hot guy.

"Which Chris?"

"Hemsworth body, Pine face."

"Nice combo."

"Anyway, he's yours."

"I don't have a Chris on my client list." I have a lot of Roses, Isabellas, and Dianes but very few men and none that fall into the Chris category.

"He asked for you by name, and since you need the money, I stuck him in. He looks like a good tipper."

Men's cuts are easy. Mostly razor and no color.

"You're a doll, Chloe." I toss the barely eaten ramen in the trash.

"He wants a shampoo, too, but you probably have five minutes since he's just being shown to the lounge. Maybe put some lipstick on. It can't hurt."

I barely have time to brush before my name is called over the staff intercom. I swipe my apron clean and head out to the floor. What I see makes me want to run in the opposite direction. The "Chris" in the lounge is actually the man from the Academy.

He's here to arrest me.