“If it’s all the same to you,” said the curmudgeon as he shuffled toward the exit, “I’ll stick with vinyl.”
“What’s your opinion on cassettes?” I asked, holding up the cracked case of The Broadway Album.
Sam Goody spun around.
“Oh! Bellarosa! Hey! Um. Hi!”
His cheeks flushed with surprise. Gia was right. Sam Goody was cute. And catching him so flustered like this only made him more so.
“The Broadway Album is now the least terrible of all musical options when my mom drives me to work every day.”
“Aha!” Sam Goody shook both hands through his hair. “Barbra was for your mom. That makes so much sense. I was wondering how The Broadway Album fit in with Morrissey, 10,000 Maniacs, R. E. M., Indigo Girls…”
Aha indeed. It hadn’t ended with “Viva Hate.” Sam Goody had been paying attention to all my T-shirts. Which meant Sam Goody had been paying attention to me. He immediately realized how creepy this confession could come across.
“I’m not stalking you or anything! Nine hundred thousand square feet sounds like a lot of space, but it’s really hard not to see the same people who work here every day.”
Yet I hadn’t seen Sam Goody nearly as often as he’d apparently seen me.
“I didn’t see you,” I replied truthfully. “Until you tripped me at the bookstore.”
This made him smile, which made me smile. My parents would’ve recommended refitting a new retainer, but I liked his mouth just the way it was when it wasn’t smirking.
“You tripped over me,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.
“As Barbra sings on The Broadway Album: Po-tay-to, po-tah-to, to-may-to, to-mah-to…”
Barbra didn’t actually sing those lines on The Broadway Album. But I doubted Sam Goody’s musical knowledge had that kind of reach.
“I feel bad about how I acted,” he said, “you know, the first time we met.”
There was just enough hesitancy in his voice for me to know he was telling the truth.
“I’m listening,” I said.
“I was having a bad day—a year’s worth of bad days, really—and I decided to take it out on you for some reason. And for that, I’m sorry.”
Earlier in the summer, I wouldn’t have accepted this excuse for dickish behavior. But I’d had more bad days than good lately. I knew I wouldn’t want to be judged by my tray-flinging anger at Troy, my short-and-sick attraction to Slade, or any of the other lows vying for the honor of my sad, sad, Scott Scanlon moment of the summer.
“I—”
“Hold that thought,” Sam Goody said.
He needed to help a baffled old lady wandering up and down the Rap/R&B aisle. But I wasn’t annoyed by the interruption. For the next five minutes, I watched Sam patiently explain the difference between Prince and the Fresh Prince to this well-intentioned granny who wanted nothing more than to buy the perfect gift for her grandson’s birthday. I actually admired how Sam Goody took his job seriously enough to stop socializing and actually do what he got paid to do. Only then did I realize that my lunch break from Bellarosa was well into its third hour. I was bordering on unacceptable No-Good Crystal-level slackery, and I needed to get back to work pronto.
“You’ve probably seen him on TV,” Sam Goody was saying. “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air…?”
“I watch Lawrence Welk on PBS,” Granny replied. “Now that’s a talent!”
I walked directly in his line of sight and waved goodbye. Sam Goody returned the gesture with an apologetic shrug.
“To be continued,” he said, though I had to read his lips because yet another monster ballad had reached its ear-shattering crescendo.
He knew he’d see me around again, as he’d already been seeing me around so far this summer.
And now that I knew who to look out for, maybe I’d see him around too.
21
RADIOACTIVE
The Broadway Album turned out to be a double peace offering. From Sam Goody to me, and from me to my mother. I offered it along with an apology for freaking out on her in Bellarosa.
“Oh, Cassandra!” Mom gushed. “I knew I could depend on you!” Then, after a beat, “Why is the case broken?”
I had insisted we listen to it immediately, you know, to make sure Barbra still played just fine and also to avoid talking about bimbo dresses and Singles’ Nights at Oceanside Tavern. We were so unused to speaking one-on-one, and yet I knew when Kathy was girding herself to bring up awkward subjects. I could see it—she’d take a breath and square her shoulders and … That’s when I’d cut her off with an observation about Barbra’s impeccable phrasing or Sondheim’s lyrical genius. I knew this strategy wouldn’t last indefinitely, but it had succeeded in getting me through the weekend and the drive to work.
For his role in this tenuous peace with my mother, I thought Sam Goody deserved a genuine thank-you. Though I had gone to the store with that in mind, I’d never actually uttered the words.
Besides, our last two conversations had not been unpleasant.
Also, I was curious to hear more about what had happened at Wharton.
And how he ended up working at the mall.
And what his next plan would be.
And if there was “life beyond the Ivy League.”
For all these reasons, I should’ve swung by the music store on the way to work. But I didn’t. And I’d barely crossed Bellarosa’s threshold when Drea hijacked the rest of my day.
“Cassie! Did you get my messages? Why didn’t you call back? Do you want me to drown you in the Wishing Well?!”
I’d gotten her messages, proving there was no shortage of creative and extremely specific ways to be killed for the crime of ignoring Drea Bellarosa when she had major news. I had the weekend off from Bellarosa, but that hadn’t stopped her from leaving a series of increasingly dramatic messages on my answering machine.
“Cassie. This is Drea. I’ve got news! Why aren’t you picking up? I’m gonna be super pissed if you don’t pick up. Pick up!”
Her threats got more violent and well detailed with every call back.
“Cassie. This is Drea. If you don’t call back, I’ll strangle you with a scrunchie!”
“Cassie. This is Drea. If you don’t call back, I’ll bludgeon you with a thousand-page book on Greek astrology!”
“Cassie. This is Drea. If you don’t call back, I’ll slash your throat with a Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch CD and make it look like a suicide and everyone will think you did it because you felt so guilty for making fun of me for liking ‘Good Vibrations’ when you were hiding your secret forbidden love for the lesser Wahlberg brother the whole friggin’ time!”
The abuse came to an end only because the tape ran out before she did. So I shouldn’t have been at all surprised when she pounced on me Monday morning.
“Seriously, Cassie! Why didn’t you call me back?”
“I didn’t call you back,” I replied calmly, switching on the computer, “because I spent the weekend helping my father set up his new bachelor pad.”
When I wasn’t avoiding conversation with my mother at home, I was avoiding conversation with my father in his condo. I got seriously nostalgic for the days when I was medically prohibited from talking.
“Ouch,” Drea replied. “I’m sorry. That sounds awkward as hell.”
Yeah, it was. His marriage of twenty-one years was over, and yet Frank couldn’t stop asking about America’s Best Cookie.
“Wait,” Frank had said as we tore the plastic covering off the mattress he’d bought for the “second bedroom,” which he had gone out of his way not to call the “guest bedroom” because I was his daughter, not his guest. “You’re not in the seasonal management training program?”
That succinctly summed up the shitty weekend that had left me too emotionally drained to respond to Drea’s messages when I got home last night.
“So, what was so important?”
I surveyed the Cabbage Patch Dolls on the
couch. Two boys, two girls, one preemie. No new additions, so I assumed she hadn’t gotten the next clue from Sylvester.
“Slade Johnson was in the hospital!”
“Oh my God. Is he okay? What happened to him?”
My concern took Drea by surprise. Maybe it’s because I’d recently been rushed to the hospital myself, but I felt more sympathetic toward Slade than he probably deserved.
“You really haven’t heard?”
I shook my head. And I could tell from Drea’s rapturous expression that this story was just getting started and my misplaced sympathy would sort itself out soon enough.
“He’s got hypercarotenosis!”
Drea barely gave me enough time to recall the AP Bio definition.
“He OD’d on Brazilian tanning pills and turned orange!”
Yep, that’s what I thought it meant: a temporary change in skin tone caused by excessive levels of beta-carotene, the photosynthetic pigment that gives carrots their color. And, apparently, egomaniacal tanning addicts who think if a daily dose is good, then a dozen doses in a single day is even better.
“It’s been three days, and he still looks like a radioactive Oompa Loompa!”
Then Drea lost all composure and started hawnking her ass off. I found Slade’s predicament a lot less funny than she did.
“Why aren’t you laughing?” she said breathlessly. “Can you think of a better punishment for such a narcissistic prick?”
No. I couldn’t. And that’s exactly why I wasn’t laughing. It was a little too perfect for comfort. What had Zoe said when she snuck up on me in B. Dalton?
He will pay.
Did she do this to him?
Drea addressed the concerns written all over my face.
“If you’re worried about this getting back to Ghost Girl, you can relax,” Drea said. “Slade is already on probation for underage drinking. He can’t tell the cops he bought a batch of sketchy drugs or he’d get in as much trouble as she would.”
I doubted the “Brazilian tanning pills” were even illegal. More likely, they were over-the-counter megavitamins from General Nutrition Center, making this the perfect not crime. I just didn’t understand why Zoe would go out of her way to exact revenge on my behalf. She barely even knew me. But I had no time to consider her motivation because Gia poked her head into the back office.
“I hate to interrupt all your hard work,” she said with sarcastic emphasis, “but you have a visitor out front.”
“Who is it?” I asked.
“See for yourself,” Gia replied.
Sylvester stood under the crystal chandelier, studying a display of silk scarves as intently as I imagined he’d inspect the grain in a plank of purpleheart. In his coveralls and flannel, he could not have looked more out of place amid Bellarosa’s bedazzlery. And yet, he didn’t look the slightest bit unnerved by the confused looks he was getting from boutique regulars.
“When you didn’t come back to the shop, I thought I’d come to you,” Sylvester said, holly jolly as ever. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course we don’t mind!” Drea said. “What have you got for us? What’s the next clue?”
Sylvester looked at me. “Is she always such a straight shooter?”
I nodded.
“I like that in a woman.” Then he ho-ho-hoed.
“Let’s get right to it,” Sylvester said. “En Tatws Ugain means—” He paused just long enough to build suspense but in a charming way that didn’t feel like he was holding the information hostage. “One Potato Twenty.”
“One Potato Twenty?” Drea asked. “What the hell is that?”
I also had never heard of anything called One Potato Twenty.
“That was the baked potato place,” Gia replied as she passed by with an array of statement necklaces looped over her arm. “It offered twenty different toppings. Bacon, sour cream, chili, cheese…”
“That’s right,” Sylvester confirmed. “Closed up a few years back.”
“So One Potato Twenty isn’t around anymore,” I clarified. “Where was it located? Do you remember?”
“Of course I remember,” Sylvester said good-naturedly.
And before he even spoke, I had the answer to my own question:
“America’s Best Cookie.”
22
STRUTTERS
The Silver Strutters were putting on one hell of a show.
“Just look at those jazz squares,” I observed. “They must have gotten a new choreographer.”
“Stop stalling,” Drea said.
“Same old Glenn Miller big band songs, though. They could really use a new musical director if they want to maintain their status as Ocean County’s premiere senior citizen aerobic dance troupe…”
“Stop stalling.”
Then she nudged me in the general direction of America’s Best Cookie.
“Check one more time to make sure she’s really alone,” I said.
“Fine,” Drea agreed huffily.
Conundrum: I couldn’t get close enough to see who was working this shift without also getting close enough to be spotted by whoever was working this shift. Best case? Zoe was working alone. All other scenarios involved Troy or Helen or both and were automatically worst cases.
Drea came back from her reconnaissance flashing two thumbs up.
“Why are you making me do this?” I asked.
“You have a connection with Ghost Girl, not me,” she said. “She can give us the lowdown on Slade and help us with the next clue.”
“What makes you think she’ll tell me the truth about whatever she gave him?”
“The wink.” Drea used every muscle in her face to close her left eye, looking almost as ridiculous as Zoe had when she’d done the same. “She wanted you to know.”
Okay. There was no denying the wink. But I had one last line of defense.
“America’s Best Cookie totally renovated the potato place, so I highly doubt the next doll is even there anymore.”
“Maybe,” Drea conceded. “But we won’t know unless we try, right?”
“Unless I try.”
“Exactly.” Drea gave me a firmer push. “Now go!”
The Silver Strutters were marching in a V-formation now, waving American flags to the beat of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
For these World War II vets, Fourth of July wasn’t simply a date on the calendar, it was a patriotic state of mind that lasted all month long. I tried to find inspiration in the music, girding myself like a soldier about to enter a war zone. Because despite Drea’s promise—that Zoe was by herself at America’s Best Cookie—this summer had taught me to expect the worst case even when the best case was supposed to be a guarantee.
I rounded the corner and learned that lesson in real time.
“Cassandra!”
Troy.
Friggin’.
Troy.
And nothing but open, empty space between us. Where was a crowd of pink tracksuits and little girls on leashes when I needed it?
“Cassandra!”
He was waving his arms in the air now, like a Silver Strutter without a flag. There was no way I could pretend I didn’t see and hear him calling for my attention. If Zoe had been there thirty seconds ago, she wasn’t there now. On the upside, Helen wasn’t there either. I turned back to where Drea stood and flipped her the bird.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
My truth was marching on.
“Cassandra!” Troy said warmly.
“Troy,” I said coolly.
“You look great,” he said.
He looked exactly the same.
“I mean, you look healthy. That’s what I mean. I mean, you don’t look sick anymore. I mean…” He grabbed a Chocolate Chipper with a sleeve of wax paper. “Want a cookie?”
Troy was nervous. And his nervousness gave me confidence to admit that my ex actually looked worse than I remembered. The American flag apron tied unflatteri
ngly high on his waist, giving him an hourglass shape that did not do any favors for his masculinity.
“No, thanks,” I said. “And I feel great. Better than ever…”
“I heard about you and Slade,” Troy said quickly.
Aha. Here it comes, I thought. The humiliation.
“Are you two still together?” His full cheeks flushed redder than communism itself. “I mean, are you still hooking up?”
It suddenly struck me: Troy didn’t care if I’d botched Slade’s blowjob. Good or bad, the quality didn’t matter. It only mattered that he thoroughly believed I’d gotten more intimate with Slade in one night than I’d ever gotten with him in two years.
Only it wasn’t true.
I turned the question back on him.
“Are you still hooking up with…?”
I stopped short of saying Helen’s name out loud, as if it were an evil incantation that would make her materialize from thin air.
“Her?” Troy also seemed reluctant to invoke her name. “No. That’s over.”
I wasn’t at all shocked by the breakup itself. I was surprised by how little I cared. Shouldn’t I have been more emotionally invested in my ex’s relationships? But short of her threats to my own health and well-being, Helen meant absolutely nothing to me. And Troy just an infinitesimal smidge more than that. My indifference felt, well, a little messed up. Was something fundamentally wrong with me? Had I inherited my drastic romantic detachment from my equally messed-up parents?
“She’s not working here anymore either. She got a job on Casino Pier,” Troy continued. “I know it’s late in the season, and we’re leaving for New York in a few weeks…”
“I’m leaving for New York in thirty-two days.”
Troy had lost the privilege of using the collective pronoun “we.” My correction was totally lost on him, though.
“Right. Orientation starts August twenty-third. But if you’re still looking for a job…”
His presumptuousness on all levels was almost too much for me to take.
“Why would I work here for minimum wage when I’m making twice that much doing the books for Bellarosa Boutique?”
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