The Mall

by Megan Mccafferty

  Drea looked me in the eye.

  “You almost got it right.” She gave me a second to figure it out for myself before proceeding. “If she hadn’t married, then left my dad, she wouldn’t be where she is today.”

  Okay. So I sort of understood where she was going with this story. But Gia was not Kathy.

  “You’re out of here in a month, right?”

  “Five weeks,” I answered. “Orientation starts on August twenty-third.”

  In exactly thirty-five days, I’d be moving into Sulzberger Hall and meeting my roommate, Simone Levy, from Rochester, New York. So far, she had not responded to the letter I’d sent when I had mono, and I was trying not to hold this slight against her.

  “In five weeks you’ll finally get out of here and live the real life you’ve always wanted,” Drea said. “Isn’t it about time your parents get to live theirs?”

  Drea was speaking from experience. And yet I couldn’t quite bring myself to agree. I shrugged noncommittally.

  “Until then,” Drea said, “what do you want to do?”

  I shook the cup, removed the lid, and stared into the dregs of my Orange Julius. I wished I had the power to read them like tea leaves. That’s how desperate I was to find a new purpose, a new plan to fill the next thirty-five days and help me forget that my family had fallen apart.

  “Well,” I answered finally. “Do we have time to go to Wood World?”

  Drea reached into her bra and pulled out the map.

  “Cassie Worthy,” she said with a smile, “I thought you’d never ask.”

  18

  THE TRUTH

  For as long as there was the mall, there was Wood World. Its lengthy motto was carved in—what else?—wood and displayed in the front window.

  WE SELL WOODWORK, WOODWORKING TOOLS, WOODWORKING SUPPLIES, WOODWORKING PLANS, AND WOODWORKING KITS FOR THE PASSIONATE WOODWORKER.

  “Please tell me one of your exes was a passionate woodworker,” I said.

  “Plenty of my exes knew how to passionately work their wood…”

  I gagged. Drea hawnked with wicked amusement.

  The sign was Wood World’s only form of promotion. And yet, this funny, fuddy-duddy little shop had survived since 1976, when trendier neighbors—a studio offering disco-dancing lessons that turned into an all-Smurf store that turned into the local headquarters of the Tiffany fan club—had died. It was one of those super niche stores that never advertised because their devoted customers wouldn’t shop anywhere else. Three of those devoted customers—all in flannel shirts despite the heat but rolled high enough to reveal their forearm tattoos—were having a very animated discussion.

  “As an accent wood, it don’t get much prettier than purpleheart,” said Gray Flannel.

  “Only commercial wood in that color,” said Blue Flannel.

  “Hard as hickory, but pricey,” said Green Flannel.

  “That’s because it comes from the Amazon,” said a heavy-set man with a snow-white prospector’s beard. His flannel shirt was red. He looked way more like Santa Claus than the guy the mall hired every year to play the part for family photos.

  “Sylvester,” Drea said as she pretended to examine a birdhouse. “The owner.”

  “How do you know his name?” I whispered.

  “You seem to forget that I grew up here,” she said, meaning the mall. “And you don’t have to whisper because he can’t hear us over the music.”

  After a few minutes of boisterous discussion, the three men in flannel departed with Wood World shopping bags. That left us alone with Sylvester, who hadn’t gotten up from his stool. He hummed along with the John Denver song about country roads that was playing just a little too loud for anyone who wasn’t already half deaf, whittling a block of wood with one of the hundreds of knives of varied sizes and sharpness that were available for purchase. If Sylvester hadn’t so readily evoked the twinkly eyes, merry dimples, rosy cheeks, and cherry nose of the famous Christmas poem, I would’ve been terrified.

  “So, what’s our strategy?” I asked Drea.

  Drea admired the smooth curves of a cutting board. “The truth.”

  “The truth? What do you mean the truth?”

  “I mean, the truth,” she said simply. “We tell him we want to pry up the floorboards behind the cash register because we’re on a treasure hunt.”

  “Why would he let us tear his store apart?”

  “He might not,” Drea said. “But he is an elder. He deserves respect, not bullshit. Plus, he has been on this earth long enough to see right through any scam. So, let’s just be direct. Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless you had your heart set on seducing him,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows. “But I have to warn you, he’s been happily married for fifty-five years…”

  I poked her with a salad spoon. She poked me right back with a fork. Our jousting got Sylvester’s attention.

  “Can I help you ladies with something?”

  His voice was rich and warm and southern by way of the North Pole. It was sweet potato pie and gingerbread. Hummingbird cake and candy canes. Peach cobbler and eggnog.

  “Hi, Sylvester,” Drea began, “you don’t know me but…”

  Sylvester might have been half deaf, but he definitely wasn’t blind. His eyes got even twinklier when Drea approached his stool.

  “Now, you just stop right there, young lady. Of course I know you. You’re Gia Bellarosa’s girl.”

  “Drea.” She extended a hand and fluttered her eyelashes girlishly.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? I got a feeling it got nothing to do with y’all taking up woodworking as a hobby.”

  Drea gave me a pointed look. See? I told you he was no bullshit.

  “Well, you see, Sylvester,” Drea began, “my friend Cassie and I— Have you met Cassie?”

  I stepped forward and extended my hand.

  “How do you do?” I swear I nearly curtsied like a debutante at a cotillion.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Cassie,” said Sylvester, giving my hand a shake.

  “We’re on a treasure hunt,” said Drea.

  Sylvester bent forward and stroked his beard.

  “Go on,” he said.

  Then Drea went on to explain how we’d been going from doll to doll to doll, to clue to clue to clue, to store to store to store, until the latest doll and latest clue had led us here, to his store.

  “We don’t know what’s at the end of it,” she said. “I think there’s fortune to be found. Cassie here”—she jerked her head in my direction—“doesn’t think we’ll find anything.”

  “Well, surely you must think there’s something to be found,” Sylvester said to me. “Otherwise why go on looking?”

  “Because she makes me do it,” I answered.

  “Well, now,” Sylvester said, setting his hands to rest on the curve of his stomach. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

  Drea shot me another look. Told ya. No bullshit.

  She spread the birth certificate on the counter, pushing aside a bowl of key rings carved into shapes of assorted beach creatures. A starfish. A dolphin. A seagull.

  “Now, according to this map,” she said, “the next clue is located…”

  Sylvester went behind the register and stomped the floorboard twice with his boot.

  “Right here.”

  “Yep,” Drea said.

  Sylvester stroked his beard and looked back and forth between us, like he was sizing us up. Then he let loose a laugh that came from way down in the deepest part of his belly.

  “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

  And, yes, it shook like a bowl full of jelly.

  “Let’s find some buried treasure!” he said joyfully.

  Sylvester had all the right tools for prying up the floorboards with minimal damage. When a big enough gap was made in the planks, he shined a flashlight into the crawl space.

  “Whoo-wee!” he whooped. “I’m rich!”

 
“I knew it!” Drea jumped up and down. “We’re rich!”

  “Oh, really?” Sylvester said. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law…”

  Just when I thought we were about to get into a battle with Santa Claus over buried treasure, Sylvester hauled his discovery from the crawl space. And I swear, Sylvester was so pleased to bring this black-haired, brown-eyed boy into the world, you would’ve thought he was Xavier Roberts himself.

  “Another clue!”

  Okay. So I was little excited too. And that excitement quickly turned to annoyance when I attempted to read the birth certificate out loud.

  “En Tat-wuss Yoo-gain?”

  En Tatws Ugain was the funkiest name we’d come across so far.

  “That’s Welsh,” Sylvester said, tapping on the box with a chisel.

  “You speak Welsh?” Drea and I asked simultaneously.

  “No.”

  Drea and I sagged together, both of us unreasonably let down by what would’ve been an unreasonable coincidence. Sylvester let our disappointment sink in for just a second or two more before giving us a mischievous grin.

  “I don’t speak Welsh,” he said. “But my wife, Evelyn, does.”

  I swear to God, it couldn’t have felt more magical, not even if he had put a finger to his nose and swooped up the nearest chimney.

  19

  SEALING THE DEAL

  Sylvester couldn’t reach Evelyn on the phone, so we’d have to wait at least another day for the next clue. This was fine by me because I’d had more than enough adventure for one Friday.

  “How did you know that honesty was the best way to approach Sylvester?” I asked Drea as we stepped onto the escalator.

  “If you sell to people long enough,” she said, resting her chin atop the Cabbage Patch Kid box in her arms, “you figure out how to read them.”

  “Is that how you knew what dress to pick out for my mom?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  When she didn’t elaborate, I decided I didn’t want to hear any more about what Drea has seen in Kathy that translated to bedazzled bimbo dress.

  “Isn’t it weird that no one found these dolls before we did?” I asked. “I mean, you can’t blame Sylvester for not looking under the floorboards, obviously. But, like, the ones that were barely hidden, or not hidden at all?”

  “Nah, not really,” Drea said. “People get into their routines. You go into work, do your thing, go home. Get up the next day and do it again.”

  We stepped around a janitor chiseling gum off the metal platform at the escalator’s base. A sad, sad Scott Scanlon. The lowest of the low.

  “Work is so depressing,” I said. “I’m so glad I’m getting the hell out of here next month—”

  And as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to suck them back in.

  Drea slowly shook her head.

  “Work is depressing,” she said, “if you don’t love what you do.”

  That was the first moment I truly envied Drea Bellarosa. She obviously loved what she did and was damn good at it too. Was there any greater joy? I had no clue what I loved to do. I’d joined Mock Trial and Odyssey of the Mind because they were the only extracurriculars available for ambitious kids at our sports-obsessed high school. There were usually two such achievers in every grade—maybe three in banner year—and these eight-to-ten freshmen through seniors met the minimum requirement for fielding teams in competitions. Troy and I were the best and the brightest Pineville High had to offer. Our coupling was inevitable, because what other options did we have?

  At least one, as it turned out.

  At least one un-housebroken, crunchy-haired option.

  “Isn’t that Slade over there?” Drea asked.

  All at once, I was reminded in the worst possible way that I’d had options too.

  “Nonononono!”

  The correct answer, obviously, was yes.

  Four days had gone by since our disastrous hookup, but I hadn’t gotten any closer to confronting him. Avoidance was far easier. So I leapt behind a marble column that served no structural purpose but met my need for hiding—and spying—quite nicely. If I peeked, I had a clear view of Slade leaning on the wall by the pay phone. He was plugged into his Walkman as if passing the time as he waited for a call. I’d bet our buried treasure he was listening to Bob Marley’s Legend. Greatest hits reggae was so Slade. So cliché.

  “Are you gonna rip him a new one or what?” Drea asked.

  Drea went off on her enemies—I distinctly remember her announcing to a full cafeteria that a baseball player ex-boyfriend had a micropenis—but I wasn’t ballsy like Drea. And I never would be.

  “What’s the point?” I replied. “It’s Slade’s word against mine. And it just gives the rumor new life. Besides, I’m out of here…”

  “In thirty-five days,” Drea said drily. “Yeah, I know…” Her attention returned to the pay phones. “Oh, look, he’s got company.”

  It turned out that Slade wasn’t waiting for a phone call.

  “Zoe?”

  “Do you know her?” Drea asked.

  “Yes,” I whispered, which was dumb because there was no way they could hear us at this distance. “I mean, no. Not really. She just kind of appears whenever I least expect it…”

  I didn’t get to review all the times Ghost Girl had entered and exited my life like an apparition because at that moment she was removing a small baggie from her cloak—really, whatever garment she had on could only be called a cloak—and pressing it into Slade’s hand.

  “It’s a drug deal!” Drea gasped.

  For once it was comforting to know that Drea was as scandalized as I was.

  Transaction completed, they peeled off in opposite directions. Slade toward the bathrooms. Zoe toward the food court. Just before she rounded the corner and out of sight, she stopped. She then very purposefully turned and caught the two of us peeking out from behind the decorative marble column.

  “Eeep!” I yelped.

  “Eeep!” Drea yelped.

  We ducked, but it was already too late. Ghost Girl gave us a wink so cartoonishly exaggerated, it could’ve been seen from whatever otherworldly dimension she hailed from.

  20

  DAMAGED GOODS

  Gia was pissed at us for leaving her alone in the store for two hours, but was less pissed when we finally returned.

  Together.

  “You two are lucky these clothes practically sell themselves,” Gia said, as she straightened a row of fringed caftans. “By the way, I had a nice talk with your mother after you took off.”

  “You did?”

  “Someone’s gotta give her the lowdown on the local divorcée scene,” Gia said. “I tell you, in that dress, your mother will be fighting them off left and right on Singles’ Night at Oceanside Tavern…”

  I winced so forcefully, the next thing I knew I was getting crushed in one of Gia’s overempathetic hugs.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, hon,” Gia said. “I forgot that this is still fresh to you. I know this is hard to believe right now, but I promise you’ll all be better off…”

  As Gia soothingly kneaded my shoulders, it suddenly struck me how maternal the gesture was, and yet not at all something Kathy would think to do for me herself.

  I shook Gia off.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “I’m out of here…”

  Drea snorted just loud enough for me to avoid repeating myself.

  In thirty-five days.

  “Just try to be more supportive of your mother,” Gia urged. “Take it from me, it’s not easy starting over in your thirties.”

  “My mom is in her forties.”

  “Yikes.” Now it was Gia’s turn to wince.

  “Well, maybe she should have thought about that before she and my dad decided not to be married anymore.”

  Gia opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. She had plenty more to say on the subject but understood I was in no condition to listen.

  “There’s a package on
your desk,” she said instead. “Verrrry special delivery.”

  I didn’t think much of it, despite Gia’s innuendo via inflection. I’d ordered some office supplies and assumed my delivery had arrived a little earlier than expected. Nothing major, just some floppy discs, printer paper, and other stuff that would be used by me for the next month and whoever took over the job after that.

  I was wrong.

  “What is it?” Drea asked, peeking over my shoulder.

  It was a cassette tape.

  Barbra Streisand.

  The Broadway Album.

  I ran my finger along the jagged edge of the case. A chunk of plastic was missing from the corner.

  “What is it?” Drea persisted.

  I opened it up and found a yellow Post-it note inside. In black ink, blocky handwriting, a message: DAMAGED GOODS. NOT FOR SALE.

  “Go on,” Gia urged.

  “But…” I protested.

  “You haven’t worked all afternoon,” Gia replied. “Why start now?”

  “But…”

  “But nothing! As your boss, I demand you go thank that cute boy immediately.”

  Cute? Was Sam Goody cute?

  “Go!” shouted mother and daughter together.

  * * *

  So, I went to the music store. Sam Goody didn’t notice me right away because he was busy with an aging hippie. I had to get within a foot or two to eavesdrop over the hair band blasting out of the speakers.

  “Finally found the love of a lifetiiiiiiiiiime…”

  This was a song written expressly for senior prom slow dancing if I had ever heard one. It was even worse than Michael friggin’ Bolton. Seriously, I didn’t know how Sam Goody endured this daily attack on his senses and musical sensibilities.

  “Compact discs have superior sound quality,” Sam Goody was saying. “They absolutely will not be replaced by any new form of musical technology any time soon.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” griped the customer. “That’s what they said about eight-tracks.”

  Sam Goody nodded grimly in agreement.

  “You know what? You’re right. There’s always going to be something newer and better to replace what you’ve already got.”