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“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 becauseany 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.
