The Cinderella Society by Kay Cassidy Page B

it’s not for you. Make Zen your mantra and you’ll do great.”
    “Whatever it takes, captain,” I said. I’d make Lexy is queen my mantra if it meant getting to my makeover faster.
    The butterflies revolted at the mere thought.
    Okay, maybe not that. But I’d do just about anything else to rock this project. My social status depended on it.
    *   *   *
    The Signature Style Portfolio was broken down into sections: Styles I Admire, Styles That Make Me Nervous, and Styles for the Real Me. For each one, you had to find examples in magazines that fit that particular statement for you. Then you cut them out and created a collage, along with words to represent each section, like carefree for things I admired or dramatic for things (and people) that made me nervous.
    My chameleon ways were having a fit.
    Instead of gluing my heart out and writing words and slogans in curly script, I mostly just shuffled my pictures around among the three poster-board cards. Just when I thought I’d finally figured out the difference between styles I admired and styles that were really me, Gaby’s mantra would pop into my head: Zen is queen .
    And I’d realize that the “real me” page was actually the “really think this should be me” page. Which is not at all the same.
    Good thing I hadn’t been gluing, changing my mind, and peeling things off the whole time. My boards would’ve looked like a three-year-old had been learning to use a glue stick. Instead, my trusty glue stick sat next to me, still capped, waiting for me to commit.
    Kat’s chair squeaked as she sat back, rolling her shoulders in slow circles to loosen up her neck. Without even thinking, I started doing the same thing to ease the crick in mine. Sitting hunched over for long stretches did not make muscles happy.
    “Pretty amazing stuff, don’t you think?” she asked.
    “Amazing and then some,” I said, leaving out the and also insane-making part. “I don’t know what I’ll look like when I’m done, but I can’t wait to see the new me.”
    “Do you think they can make me look like Halle Berry?” Kat joked. “Only shorter and heavier and without the knockout cheekbones?”
    “If they can, maybe I can get a Leighton Meester makeover.” I glanced over at her. “Have you done a full-out makeover before?”
    “Nah. My dad doesn’t believe in that stuff. He says everyone should just be happy with what God gave them.”
    Easy for him to say. Kat’s dad was former Hollywood stuntman Roscoe Walker. He was a dead ringer for Dwayne Johnson (aka The Rock), so what God gave him was pretty darn nifty. Even if Kat got embarrassed every time someone told her that her dad was a hottie.
    “He’s my dad,” she’d groaned when someone joked about it at Overnight. “It’s just … ack, you know?”
    Kat flipped her CMM shut and stood to go. “But I figure God wants us to make the most of what He’s given us, right? I can be the best me, inside and out. Nothing wrong with getting a little help from our friends,” she added, with a wink.
    Especially when those “friends” were people like Bobbi and Stacy.
    I looked at my watch as she left, shocked to see that more than two hours had gone by. I’d never make it home in time for dinner. A quick negotiating call to Mom that involved me promising extra nursery painting plus a dreaded outing to Babies “R” Us as a bribe, and I was off the hook for the night.
    I fished around in my locker to check my cash situation and settled on a ham and cheese panini. I popped my head in to see if Gaby wanted anything. Her bleary eyes were ready for a break, so I ordered for both of us.
    I’d almost decided to just cut out every photo of Reese Witherspoon to make my “admire” page complete when Audrey came to the door with savory food and lively company. Gaby came out of her office, her nose leading the way toward our most excellent yummage, and Audrey asked if we minded if she took her dinner break with us.
    Cut. It.