The Mall Page 7

  “It won’t happen again,” I promised.

  “I know it won’t,” Gia replied.

  Drea stopped pretending to fold lace camisoles and motioned for me to follow her to the back office. Rey Ajedrez, Lustig Zeit, and Pieds D’Abord sat on the velvet couch, waiting for us with open arms.

  “Should we hit Feet First on our lunch break?” I asked.

  Drea picked up Pieds and sat between Rey and Lustig. I turned on the computer and prepared to address the stack of invoices that had come in since the day before.

  “I don’t need your help getting in and out of the orthopedic shoe store,” she said. “But you need my help getting laid.”

  “Drea!”

  Sometimes my own prudishness took me by surprise. Drea reacted accordingly.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She placed her hands over Rey’s plastic ears. “Not in front of the children.”

  “Drea! I do not need to get laid!”

  She calmly walked behind the desk and pried an envelope out of my white-knuckled grip.

  “You’re right,” she said. “You are totally chill and not at all in need of a release of eighteen years’ worth of repressed sexual tension.”

  “Seventeen,” I corrected her. “And I am not repressed.”

  “Oh, right.” Drea rolled her eyes. “How could I have forgotten you skipped a grade?”

  Seriously, how could she have forgotten? Drea was preternaturally mature for her age. But the extra year she had on me widened the pubescent chasm between us. I remembered a trip we took to the mall when we were in sixth grade, watching in shock as Drea shopped—boldly, shamelessly—for underwire bras at Macy’s and tampons at Woolworths. At the time, I wore Wonder Woman Underoos and was still three summers away from my first period.

  “Even your earlobes are clenched.”

  I instinctively touched them to see if Drea was right and immediately felt like an idiot for doing so.

  “I am not repressed,” I repeated for lack of a better argument.

  “Prove it,” Drea said. “Go to the Cabbage Patch with Slade tonight.”

  “Slade? Slade Johnson?” My legs buckled, and I sank into the throne that served as my office chair. “You think I’m going to hook up with Slade because you dared me to?”

  “No,” Drea replied. “You’re going to hook up with Slade because it will make Troy insanely jealous to see you’ve moved on with someone so much hotter than he is.”

  I had to admit that I liked the sound of this revenge in theory, even if I couldn’t actually picture myself getting physical with Slade Johnson.

  “If I agree to ask Slade to the Cabbage Patch tonight, do you promise to leave me alone for the rest of my shift so I can actually concentrate on getting some work done?” I was already almost an hour behind at that point, and I really hated the idea of letting Gia down. My irrational fear of disappointing authority figures was a key to my academic success.

  Drea held up Pieds D’Abord’s little stuffed hand.

  “We promise,” she said.

  So I agreed to ask. But I couldn’t guarantee Slade would say yes. Despite his flirty overtures at the last Cabbage Patch Party, I was certain he’d laugh me right out of Surf*Snow*Skate. Drea, however, did deliver on her promise, though her absence might have had more to do with the high volume of customers taking advantage of half-priced “Cruise and Cabana,” which I had learned was boutique speak for swimsuits and cover-ups. I more than made up for my lateness by bringing Bellarosa’s accounting totally up-to-date on the computer, an achievement I was eager to share with my boss. I was pleasantly surprised to find that despite No-Good Crystal’s lackadaisical work ethic, the store was very solidly in the black.

  “Why should that surprise you?” Gia countered upon hearing my report.

  I was shaken by her caustic tone. I’d heard her speak to Drea that way, but she’d never used it with me.

  “W-well,” I stammered, “I’ve never shopped here, so…”

  “So what? You assumed no one else did either?”

  “Um…?”

  From the sour look on Gia’s face, it was clear I had achieved the very opposite of the approval I had sought.

  “Look, hon. I’ve been running this business for seven years now. I must be doing something right.”

  Before I could apologize for the misunderstanding, Gia turned on her spiked heel and walked out of the office just as Drea sashayed in.

  “Before you head to Surf*Snow*Skate!”

  She shook a hanger at me.

  “Nonononononono…” I objected.

  “Seriously, unclench.” Drea yanked my earlobe. “I picked this outfit especially for you.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Drea brushed off my comment with utmost professionalism. She pressed a denim skirt against my waist.

  “See? This isn’t any higher than your jean shorts,” she said. “But it’s a better option because boys like skirts.”

  “Why do boys like skirts?”

  Drea did not dignify my ignorance with a reply.

  She held up a cream-colored top with a black satin ribbon woven in and out and around the collar.

  “This is basically a T-shirt, just like the one you’re wearing,” she said. “But you can adjust the tie around the neck so it’s almost off the shoulder but not quite.”

  She coaxed me in front of the mirror. Just draped in front of me and not actually on me, I could see for myself that this was probably the most flattering outfit I’d ever worn.

  “I thought you’d feel more confident showing collarbone, not cleavage.”

  “Thank you, Drea,” I said, meaning it. “These picks are perfect.”

  Drea headed to the supply closet and returned with a purple can of Aussie Mega Hairspray in one hand and two combs in the other.

  “You know what would be really perfect? If you let me add just a little height…”

  My bangs fell straight across my forehead. Drea’s bangs rose six inches above her eyebrows. Even if we compromised somewhere in the middle, three inches of bang would still be too teased for me.

  “Ummm…” I pointed to the clock. “Aren’t we running out of time?”

  “There’s always time for lipstick.” She dashed to the closet and came back with a tube of Revlon in Wild Rose.

  “Is this too pastel for my complexion?” The pearlescent pink was not what I expected. “The girl at the Macy’s cosmetics counter said I was a spring…”

  “With your light brown hair and hazel eyes?” Drea blew a raspberry in contempt. “The idiot doesn’t know what she’s talking about. You’re a summer stunner, sweetheart!”

  I turned to the mirror and couldn’t believe what I saw. Drea was right: I was a summer stunner. Now all I had to do was prove it.

  To Slade.

  To Troy.

  But most of all to myself.

  12

  PROTECT THE COOKIE

  It was so easy.

  “The Cabbage Patch?” Slade asked. “With you?”

  A month ago, I would’ve interpreted those same exact words as a revolted response to a ridiculous question. And I wouldn’t have been wrong. But judging from the pool of saliva at Slade’s feet, he was anything but repelled by my invitation.

  “Yeah,” I said, taking Drea’s advice to keep the conversation short. “It’ll be fun.”

  I also remembered to look up at Slade coyly through my lashes. I hadn’t thought it was possible, but he, too, had gotten even more summer stunning since my disastrous interview. His hair was blonder, his skin darker. Most miraculously, his tank top was cut lower than ever and yet still managed to qualify as a shirt.

  “Yeah.” Slade ran a hand through his sun-bleached tresses. “It will be fun.” When he followed that up by touching my arm, I had about a split second to register these as the same exact moves Drea had instructed me to make. Did Slade also subscribe to Cosmo?

  Without another word, Slade slung his arm around my shoulder and
led me across Upper Level Concourse A toward the service elevator that would take us down to the Cabbage Patch. No negotiation or conversation. Just like that. Slade was as easy on the brain as he was on the eyes. So, so, so easy.

  His arm was also so, so, so much heavier than Troy’s. Meaty was the word that came to mind, but that might have been influenced by the collective aroma hovering around the dozen or so members of Ponderosa Steak & Ale’s dinner crew who were also ready to party at the Cabbage Patch. My body leaned into Slade’s at an angle that was awkward for walking but—based on the startled looks we were getting—awesome for gawking.

  “Yo.” Foot Locker Boy high-fived Slade.

  “Yo.” Slade low-fived Foot Locker Boy.

  Foot Locker Girl showed no interest in introducing herself to me. The doors to the service elevator opened, and the crowd surged forward. There were far too many of us to fit comfortably.

  “Maybe we should take the next—”

  When Slade squeezed himself in the last bit of available space, I assumed he was ditching me. I was a joke to him all along, and he’d just been waiting for the best opportunity to humiliate me in front of an audience. Of course. Now this was making more sense.

  “Come on, Cassie!”

  Just as the doors started to close, he grabbed my hand and pulled me to him.

  “Crowded,” Slade accurately observed.

  “Mmph.”

  My mouth smushed against his upper pectoral. Troy and I dated for six months before I’d even come close to making similarly intimate physical contact. But there I was, with my lips on Slade’s chest, and my God, I didn’t know if it was the coconut oil or what but he tasted friggin’ delicious. I might have worried we were exceeding the elevator’s 2,500-pound weight limit, but I was far too focused on my crotch, which rubbed against Slade’s thigh in a not-unpleasant way as the elevator rattled in its descent. As the partygoers chattered about getting wasted, I was already feeling pretty wasted myself. Or, more accurately, what I thought it felt like to be drunk—warm from the inside out, woozy, wobbly—because I’d never actually been drunk before.

  “Almost there,” Slade said.

  He had no idea.

  The car convulsed when we hit bottom, and I unintentionally let out a little gasp that sounded more sexual than any noise I had ever made with Troy. So it was a dizzying irony when the doors opened to none other than my ex and his new girlfriend waiting to get on as Slade and I—ahem—got off.

  “You’ve disrespected me for the last time, Troy!”

  Troy and Helen were obviously in mid-fight, which explained why they were already leaving the party before it had really started.

  “I—”

  His defense was cut short when Slade and I literally collided into them to avoid being stampeded to death.

  “CABBAGE PATCH! CABBAGE PATCH! CABBAGE PATCH!”

  The rowdy Ponderosa crew must have pre-partied pretty hard with pilfered bottles from the restaurant bar. Foot Locker Couple followed close behind, leaving just the four of us to reckon with the awkwardness.

  “Yo.” Slade held up his hand for a high-five. “I’m Slade.”

  Compared to Slade, Troy was as pale and soft as a mixing bowl of America’s Best Cookie dough.

  “I know who you are!” Troy squeaked. “We graduated from the same high school!”

  “Ohhhh, yeah?” Slade shrugged. “Sorry, dude.”

  “We were in the same homeroom for four years!”

  Jarvis, Troy. Johnson, Slade.

  “Hey,” Slade said, holding up his hands. “Chill, dude.”

  “Chiiiiiiiilllllll, duuuuuuuuuude,” Troy said mockingly.

  The icy looks we were getting from Helen could chill us all back to the Pleistocene epoch.

  “You?” Troy pointed a shaky finger at me. “Came here with him?” Troy thumbed toward Slade.

  “Actually, I came here with her.”

  Slade rested his hands between my neck and shoulders. The elevator door opened, releasing another wave of Cabbage Patchers representing Jo-Ann’s Nut House, Woolworths, and other businesses I couldn’t identify because they didn’t require uniforms. The last to exit was none other than Ghost Girl—Zoe—herself. I hadn’t seen her since she’d offered me Fat-Free Fudgies, but she was as wraithlike as ever in all black.

  “Ms. Gomez,” Troy said nervously.

  He was probably paranoid that his boss would bust him for underage drinking. But she paid him no mind at all. Just as she was poised to pass through our group with spectral indifference, she placed that pale, cold hand on my shoulder for a second time.

  “Protect the cookie,” she whispered cryptically, with a special emphasis on crypt.

  As Zoe floated away, Helen made her own message undeniably clear.

  “Troy! We are leaving!”

  She stepped inside the elevator, but Troy was frozen.

  “You … you…” He spluttered. “You look…”

  This was my moment. I quoted Bellarosa’s philosophy and meant every word.

  “I look like the best possible version of myself.”

  Oh yes, it was happening. I was a summer stunner who’d snagged the yearbook-certified hottest guy in our graduating class. I had made Troy regret dumping me for a girl uglier than me in every possible way. Okay, I knew that wasn’t the, like, feminist thing to think, but I’d never met anyone whose heinous outsides so accurately reflected her hideous insides. I was a Cosmo “After” and I wished Drea were here to see it.

  And it had been so easy.

  “I swear to Christ, Troy, if you don’t get in this elevator with me right now.”

  “Helen, I—”

  Troy’s words were mercifully cut off by the closing doors.

  Slade turned to me with a bemused half smile.

  “You know that chode?”

  “He’s my ex-boyfriend.”

  Slade titled my chin so his Pacific-blue eyes met mine.

  “You,” he said, “are so much hotter than his new girlfriend.”

  Okay. So it wasn’t exactly romantic, but …

  “Let’s skip the party,” I suggested. “We can go somewhere private, and…”

  “Talk?”

  “Right,” I said, remembering to play with my hair. “Talk.”

  That’s all it took.

  So, so easy.

  Minutes later, Slade and I were kicking Cabbage Patch kids off the couch in Bellarosa’s back office, talking our faces off. And by talking, I mean kissing, and by kissing I mean dry humping as though an American victory in the Gulf War depended on it.

  “You’re so hot,” Slade murmured in my ear.

  “So are you,” I murmured back.

  It all happened so easily, so quickly that it took a few minutes for my brain and body to sync up.

  I want this, I thought as Slade pulled his tank top over his head. I really, really want this.

  But only a few seconds later, Slade was sliding his hand between my thighs when I suddenly realized that this was the reason why boys preferred skirts over shorts.

  Easy access.

  So, so easy.

  Too easy.

  An eerie whisper in my ear.

  Protect the cookie …

  “Stop!” I cried, yanking his hand away.

  “Stop?” Slade blinked in disbelief. “But I thought you were enjoying yourself.”

  “I was enjoying myself,” I replied honestly. “Until I wasn’t.”

  Slade went back to teasing my earlobe with his tongue. But instead of feeling sensual it just felt … slithery. Serpentine. Rey Ajedrez’s unblinking brown eyes stared up at me from where he’d been thoughtlessly knocked to the floor. I abruptly shifted to pick up him up, and Slade face-planted into the armrest.

  “This is happening too fast.” I stood to rearrange my skirt, which had fully rotated from front to back, back to front. “Maybe we should go to the party after all.”

  I knew as I was saying it that I didn’t want to do that either. Lo
cation wasn’t the problem. Slade was hot, but I wasn’t attracted to him. Not really. Or not enough, anyway. And now that Troy had already seen us together, what was the point of pretending Slade was anything more than what he was: a pretty prop in my ploy to make my ex insanely jealous.

  “No, Cassie,” he said quietly but firmly. “I can’t go to the party.”

  “Why not? Troy and Helen are gone and…”

  “No, Cassie.”

  I was taken aback by the sharp rise in his voice. I didn’t get where this suddenly unchill urgency was coming from … until Slade moved Rey Ajedrez to reveal the magnitude of the bulge in his Jams.

  “You can’t just leave me here like this.”

  And for a second time, I reacted to Slade’s ridiculous comment in the only reasonable way: I laughed right in his gorgeous face and got the hell out of there.

  13

  WRECKAGE

  When my parents offered to drive me to work, I thought my family was back to normal.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  I’d spent most of my weekend off thinking about what had happened with Slade. And on the ride to work, I was still thinking about him, and how difficult it would be for me to tell him that we couldn’t see each other anymore. No matter how I finessed it, he obviously liked me a lot. He was bound to take it, um, hard.

  We’re just too different, I’d say. I’m leaving for college and you’re staying at the mall.

  “Your mother and I want to take you out to lunch this afternoon,” Frank said as he pulled into the mall parking lot.

  The Volvo was rolling along at less than five miles per hour. But my stomach plummeted as if we were speeding over a cliff Thelma & Louise–style. Even though I’d never gotten to see it with or without Troy, I still knew how the story ended.

  “Lunch?”

  My parents never, ever went out for lunch. They always started their work days in late morning and scheduled appointments through lunchtime because it was often the only time of day working moms and dads could get away from their own jobs to take their kids for checkups. It was that high level of patient care and parental accommodation that had made Worthy Orthodontics and Pediatric Dentistry an industry leader for twenty years.