The Mall

by Megan Mccafferty

  “When does Troy’s seasonal assistant management training come to an end?” asked Kathy.

  “Soon?”

  “You should attend those meetings with him,” said Frank. “Show them you’re seasonal assistant management material.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  The air was already swampy, and I was pretty much soaked by the time I walked all the way around the parking lot and reached the automatic doors to J. C. Penney. The thermostat was set to Christmas, and I was not at all prepared for the drastic drop in temperature. I shivered in the arctic air conditioning—more of a full-blown seizure than an ordinary chill—and vowed to bring a sweatshirt from then on.

  One advantage to working at Bellarosa? It was the last place my ex or Helen or anyone would think to find me. Unfortunately, the food court was the congested heart of the mall, located in Concourse D in the dead center of the map. The most direct path to Bellarosa—a straight line from Sears via Concourse C—was not an option because I couldn’t risk running into Troy on his way to America’s Best Cookie. Instead, I went in through J. C. Penney, took an escalator, traversed Upper Level Concourse B, and came back down in an elevator that deposited me right in front of Unz Unz Alley. And I wasn’t above ducking behind mannequins and peeking around potted plants whenever I thought I caught a glimpse of the kind of overbleached hair that was, unfortunately, all too popular among Jersey girls in the summer of 1991. I was so focused on avoiding Helen (mostly) and Troy (somewhat) that I was blind to anyone who didn’t fit their specific descriptions. So that’s why I didn’t realize I was being followed until it was already too late.

  “Hey, you!” Sam Goody ran up alongside me.

  I was annoyed by his face and the interruption. In that order.

  “You’re the opposite of loitering this morning,” he said breathlessly. “I could hardly keep up.”

  “So?”

  It was 10:05. I literally did not have time for this. I wasn’t psyched to start my new job, but at the very least I could avoid unfavorable comparisons to No-Good Crystal by being punctual.

  Sam Goody swept a hand through his impressive upswell of hair. Then he gestured toward the words VIVA HATE written across my chest. It was the title of my favorite Morrissey album.

  “I guess this proves you’re a fan after all.” He raised an eyebrow like he expected me to be grateful for his approval. Where did he get off thinking his opinion mattered to me at all?

  “I didn’t wear this shirt to prove anything to you.”

  Then I walked away without waiting for a response. This bizarre and unwanted interaction was my first hint that 900,000 square feet was not nearly big enough to avoid all the people I never wanted to see again.

  Gia was too preoccupied with a busty silver-haired lady to notice my arrival at Bellarosa Boutique. The client posed on a raised platform in front of the three-way mirror, lifting a red-and-black ball gown up to mid-thigh like a can-can dancer.

  “Can you make it short in the front but keep it long in the back?”

  The mullet of dresses, I thought. Classy.

  “You ask, we alter,” Gia cooed. “Your mother-of-the-bride look will be as chic and unique as you are!”

  Drea emerged from behind a rack of zip-front corsets to share her opinion.

  “YAAAAWWWWNNNNNNNNNNNNAAAAHHHH.”

  And it wasn’t a subtle yawn either, but the kind that required full over-the-head arm extension and at least three distinct stages of throaty vocalization.

  Today’s ensemble was even more incredible than yesterday’s catsuit. And by incredible, I mean the true definition of the word, as in impossible to believe. It was literally impossible for me to believe that someone my age could get away with wearing a rhinestone-encrusted military jacket and matching micro mini. And yet, there Drea was, wearing the hell out of it.

  “Cassie! You made it!” Gia trotted over to give me a hug. “Drea will show you the books while I assist Francine here.”

  “Ma! How about I handle Francine while you show her the books?”

  Gia gritted her teeth while Francine watched with gossipy interest.

  “How about you do what I say for a change?” She turned to Francine. “Does your daughter give you such headaches?”

  “A more ungrateful bride the world has never seen.” Francine hoisted her cleavage. “After all the dough her father and I are sinking into this wedding…”

  Drea cracked her gum and turned toward the back office. I took this as my cue to follow.

  “I didn’t mention this yesterday, but I’m already familiar with accounting software because I was the treasurer for…”

  Drea didn’t even pretend to listen to my credentials. She dug elbow-deep into the bottom drawer of a file cabinet and scooped out a jumbled armload of loose-leaf paper, unopened envelopes, crumpled receipts, assorted candy bar wrappers, and who knew what else.

  “The books,” Drea said dryly. “Good luck.”

  She brusquely dropped the mess on the desk and was out the door before I could let out a gasp of dissent. No-Good Crystal was even worse at her job than I’d imagined. How could I turn this disorganized pile into data I could put into a spreadsheet? I’d have to tell Gia that this was a formidable task for a professional accounting firm, let alone a recent high school graduate with minimal bookkeeping experience.

  And yet, as I sifted through the pile, I thought about my Odyssey of the Mind training. Whenever we were perplexed by a particular problem, we were encouraged to take a small, doable step instead of just sitting around and thinking so hard. Ironically, by doing and not thinking, our brains got all stimulated and came up with ideas we wouldn’t have thought of otherwise. At least that was the theory.

  In this case, I started by isolating and disposing of all the candy bar wrappers. Evidently, Crystal favored Snickers bars (twenty-eight wrappers) but also enjoyed Baby Ruths (thirteen) and PayDays (six) now and then. Tossing them out made a significant dent in the pile.

  Next, I moved on to separating bills and receipts from the loose-leaf papers covered in Crystal’s scrawls. At a glance, all those numbers and letters and symbols looked like gibberish. Making sense of it was the most daunting task and the one I’d tackle last. It was much easier to track the invoices because they were usually printed on yellow or pink attention-getting paper and, okay, I won’t bore you with any more of my methods except to say that I was pretty proud of myself for sorting it all out.

  The process took hours, an entire shift in fact, only interrupted by a brief lunch break spent eating a cheese-and-tomato sandwich out of a paper bag in Bellarosa’s back office. But I didn’t mind the work. I hadn’t exercised my brain in six weeks, and it felt really good to get it working again. I was sort of disappointed when Gia and Drea came in around six to tell me my shift was over.

  “Oh really? I hoped I’d have time to play around with the Mac.” I pointed to the beige computer in the corner. “By the way, did you get the memory expansion card?”

  “Oh my gawd,” Drea said. “You’re an even bigger nerd than I thought.”

  Gia smacked Drea in the back of the head.

  “Manners, Drea!” Gia turned to me. “You know how to use this thing?”

  “Sure,” I said. “You don’t?”

  “Nah,” Gia said. “It was a gift from the manager of Electronics Universe.”

  “A gift?” This computer must have been worth more than two thousand dollars.

  “Drea dated him for a while,” Gia explained.

  Drea picked at nonexistent lint on her sleeve. “He was trying to impress me.”

  “Did it work?” I ask.

  Gia arched an eyebrow.

  “Nothing impresses my daughter.”

  Drea inspected her cuticles.

  “Ma made me keep the thing ’cause she thinks it makes the office look more professional.”

  “You’d be surprised how many people don’t take me seriously,” Gia said.

  I nearly laughed out loud b
efore realizing they weren’t kidding.

  “I guess I can start a spreadsheet tomorrow.” I shrugged.

  “You really made sense of this mess?” Drea asked incredulously.

  “Crystal created her own code.”

  “A code?” Drea pulled a face. “It was a bunch of scribbles.”

  “I thought so at first,” I said. “But then I realized Crystal’s code had an internal logic to it. Like, once I figured out that the smiley faces meant receivables and the upside-down crosses meant payables, it all kind of came together.”

  “Why would she make up this wacky code?” Gia asked.

  “Cocaine,” Drea answered.

  “To make herself invaluable to the organization,” I replied. “If she was the only one who understood the finances, she thought she could never be fired.”

  “It also helped make it easier for her to steal from us,” Gia remarked.

  “Exactly,” I replied.

  “And you can put all of Crystal’s mess into the computer?” She rapped the monitor with the gold rings on her knuckles.

  “Sure, that’s what it’s made for,” I said. “Once I enter all the data, you’ll be able to use the same template from month to month.”

  “Fate!” Gia threw her arms around me. “I knew I was right to hire you!”

  Then she hustled out of the office to greet an incoming customer. I expected Drea to follow her mother, but she stayed behind instead.

  “Your team did good at that Nerd Olympics, huh?”

  “You mean Odyssey of the Mind?”

  Drea crossed her eyes as a way of saying, Yes, nerd.

  I cleared my throat and kept going.

  “Well, this year’s team should have qualified for state but…”

  “Ahhh!” She waved her hands wildly. “I don’t care!”

  Drea’s reaction wasn’t unusual. Very few people were interested in a detailed rundown of the interscholastic power rankings for Odyssey of the Mind.

  “I just need to know if you’re really good at solving riddles and stuff.”

  “I guess so.”

  She broke out into a stunning smile, the kind that could turn any crush into a conquest. Drea Bellarosa was a Worthy Orthodontics and Pediatric Dentistry success story if there ever was one.

  “You and I should spend some quality time together,” she said. “Like, after I’m finished up here.”

  “Um, okay,” I said. “I think I’m available.”

  “I know you are,” she said.

  If she weren’t right, I might have been offended.

  7

  THE CABBAGE PATCH

  We took the service elevator down, down, down to the second basement. This was a level I didn’t know existed. A level not listed on the mall’s directory. Level Z.

  “Are we allowed to use this elevator?” I asked.

  The doors slid open, and Drea took the lead through the narrow underground passageway.

  “Are we allowed to go down here?”

  She ignored this question too, ducked under a pipe, and pressed onward in the direction of a bassline bump-bump-bumping somewhere in the near distance. We were in the catacombs of the mall, and we weren’t alone. Someone had strung up Christmas lights along the ceiling to guide the way, but it was definitely not up to code down there.

  “What if there’s a fire? How do we get out?”

  The music was getting louder and clearer.

  “Come on, come on.”

  Marky Mark and the friggin’ Funky Bunch.

  “Feel the vibration.”

  I did. Literally, through the rattling ductwork. And I was close enough to make out the hum of conversation and bursts of laughter too.

  “Is there really a party going on down here?”

  I had barely finished asking this latest question when the skinny corridor opened wide.

  “Welcome,” said Drea with a sweep of her hand, “to the Cabbage Patch.”

  A couple in Foot Locker stripes made out on a low-slung tweed couch of dubious hygiene. Packs of Marlboros were being passed around what I assumed was the smoking section, as designated by the cinderblock wall decorated with photos of Naomi, Cindy, Linda, Claudia, and Christy—only the highest echelon of supermodel—posing sexily with cigarettes. Another small crowd gathered around a trash can from which Slade Johnson—yes, that Slade Johnson—ladled a questionable beverage into red Solo cups.

  “Can ya feel it, baby?”

  There was a party going on down here. Drea slipped away, and now, here I was, by myself, in the bowels of the mall, being offered a purple drink by Slade Johnson.

  Yes, that Slade Johnson.

  “We meet again.”

  He held out one of the two Solo cups in his hands. Never much of a drinker, I wasn’t about to start with something served out of a trash can.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I don’t like the taste of alcohol.”

  He flashed a dazzling smile. Not even my parents could find a single flaw in spacing or symmetry.

  “It’s Kool-Aid and Everclear,” he said. “Not tasting the alcohol is the whole point.”

  If Slade were Troy and Troy were still my boyfriend, I would have made a joke about Kool-Aid and Everclear being the beverage of choice for our brainwashed generation. But Slade wasn’t, and Troy wasn’t, so I didn’t.

  “No, thanks,” I repeated firmly.

  Slade shrugged and dumped the contents of one cup into the other. Then he said something I couldn’t hear. Someone had pumped up the volume on the stereo because Vanilla Ice said so.

  “BUM RUSH THE SPEAKER THAT BOOMS!”

  To be fair, “Ice Ice Baby” is best appreciated at the precise decibel level that causes instant deafness.

  “I’M KILLIN’ YOUR BRAIN LIKE A POISONOUS MUSHROOM!”

  Slade leaned in and shouted directly into my ear.

  “Sorry about the job.”

  “Oh, it’s okay,” I shouted back. “I got hired somewhere else.”

  “Oh really?” he asked. “Where?”

  “Bellarosa Boutique.”

  Like Vanilla Ice, Slade didn’t miss a beat.

  “As a model.”

  “As a bookkeeper.”

  He took a drink, then carefully licked his lips.

  “That’s a shame.”

  Slade inched even closer to me. The room already felt more crowded than it had moments before.

  “It would’ve been fun to work together,” he said. “But Bethany gets jealous of anyone hotter than she is.”

  I was not used to being talked to like this. And I reacted in the only reasonable way. I laughed right in his gorgeous face. And not a cutesy giggle either, but a guttural Ha! Ha! Ha! guffaw.

  Slade was undeterred.

  “We can still have fun.”

  I knew what “fun” meant. And most girls would’ve been flattered by Slade’s attention. But I was confused by it. And more than a little uncomfortable too. I looked for Drea to help me, but she was deep in conversation with a mustached guy wearing an orange Electronics Universe T-shirt. Her ex, I assumed. He was one of the few in attendance who looked old enough to drink legally. Maybe that’s why he was put in charge of tapping the keg.

  “What do you say?” Slade tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. By now, his flirtation was making me downright claustrophobic. He grinned again, only this time his perfect teeth were stained purple.

  “You know what? I’ll take you up on a drink after all.”

  Slade didn’t hesitate. As he rushed to the trash can, I seized the opportunity to take off in the opposite direction. I couldn’t move very far or fast because the Cabbage Patch had filled up with faces I sort of recognized. A makeshift dance floor had formed between the trash-can punch on one side and a keg on the other. Mostly girls but some brave boys did all the sweaty things C+C Music Factory commanded.

  “So your butts up, hands in the air, come on say, yeah.”

  I admired the dancers’ joyous, gymnastic gyrations. Their
needs were so simple. Total bliss was this basement, some booze, and a booming sound system telling them exactly what to do next …

  “Troy. Gimme a drink!”

  Helen’s voice sledgehammered through the wall of noise and smashed me in the chest.

  “Gimme a drink. Troy!”

  I was totally incapacitated. My ex-boyfriend had arrived at the Cabbage Patch with his new girlfriend, and all I could do was watch.

  I watched as my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend ladled Everclear and Kool-Aid into Solo cups.

  I watched as my ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend straddled him on the couch of dubious hygiene.

  I watched as my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend broke every rule we had ever set for ourselves about public displays of affection.

  I got feverish, dizzy, and barfy all over again. Only this time, I knew for sure it wasn’t mono.

  I had to get out of the basement without being seen. Troy and Helen seemed pretty oblivious to the world outside their grubby, grabby-handed lust bubble. But what if they came up for air just in time to catch my humiliating exit? I pulled on the nearest door handle and slipped inside. When the automatic lights flickered on, I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing:

  Row upon row of creepy babies staring back at me.

  Cabbage Patch Kids in their original boxes.

  Evidently, I had stumbled into the storage closet that had given this underground party place its name. As marketed, each “Kid” looked different. And the manufactured individuality went way beyond variations in skin, hair, and eye colors. Computers had been used to track freckles and dimples, outfits and facial expressions. Eight years ago, the promise of individuality made them irresistible to millions of kids like me. Like all fads, the frenzy had fizzled as swiftly as it had begun.

  I walked up and down the aisle, whispering their names.

  “Prentiss Charlemagne. Orville Toby. Rhonda Bess.”

  For varied as the kids were, each and every ones’ arms were outstretched in the exact same way. After all that time—nearly a decade—these unwanted orphans were still waiting for a hug.