“No, no, no! There’s no way it will fit! I’ve gained all my mono weight back!” I protested. “If it gets stuck on my head, I could asphyxiate myself! If it cuts off my circulation at the knees, I could bust a blood clot!”
I looked to Drea for backup, but she was on the opposite side of the store pulling looks for a customer in the dressing room. Gia placed a hand on each shoulder and brought her face so close to mine, our noses touched.
“If you don’t put that dress on right now,” she said in the calmest possible voice, “I will choke you myself.”
Like mother, like daughter.
I took the infamous dress into the changing room. Without thinking too hard about it, I stepped into the tube feet first, figuring I could always shout for help if I got stuck.
But I didn’t get stuck.
“Come on out, Cassie!” Gia shook the curtain. “I don’t have all day.”
With one tug, the slippery fabric slid right past my knees, over my hips, and up to my bust. Again. But this time felt different than before. Now the tube dress fit like a second skin and I was not sure how I felt about it.
Gia was far less ambivalent when I finally emerged.
“Why have we been hiding you all summer?”
She slapped her cheeks. Then she slapped mine.
“Whaaa—?”
“A body like yours in a dress like that should not be wasted in the back office is what I’m saying!”
Drea and her mom exchanged superficial compliments all the time, constantly reminding each other how hot they were and how their hotness was great for sales. But Gia had never so blatantly objectified my body before. I was definitely not used to my ass being a business asset.
“Now you’re just being silly.”
“I am not being silly,” Gia insisted, shoving me in front of a mirror.
Gia was right. This was not an outfit for a behind-the-scenes bookkeeper paid to track inventory, income, and expenses. I looked like a heavy metal video bimbo whose only responsibility was getting doused by the singer’s phallic fire hose. It was the same exact dress I didn’t have the soul for earlier in the summer. And now that I was back to my pre-mono weight, I shouldn’t have had the body for it either.
And yet.
Now.
It fit?
Perfectly?
Gia held out a pair of strappy flat sandals in gold leather.
“You’re ready for the dress, but you aren’t ready for stilettos,” she said. “Not yet.”
“I don’t think I’m ready for any of it,” I said.
Gia ignored this and buckled me into the shoes as Drea made her approach. She made a very deliberate show of fluffing her bangs in the mirror instead of saying good morning to me.
“Ma, you know I’d never question your brain for business or eye for style,” she began. “But are you aware that our back office accountant is leaving for college in less than a week? I doubt she wants to waste her energy by putting in some actual hard work on the Bellarosa sales floor.”
Drea was only reinforcing my own argument. And yet, it didn’t feel like she was backing me up. It felt like she was putting me down. I managed to withstand a few seconds of Drea’s unrelenting glare before grasping why she was so irritated with me.
“The library!” I slapped my forehead.
In my postcoital haze, I’d forgotten all about our plans to work on her doomed FIT application last night.
“What’s she talking about?” Gia asked.
“Absolutely nothing of any importance,” Drea replied. “Right, Cassandra?”
Her snappish reaction took me by surprise. And maybe her too. Because she quickly changed her tone and the subject.
“Relax,” Drea said. “I’m just joking.”
“Right.” I laughed uneasily. “Of course.”
Here’s the thing: I knew Drea wasn’t joking. But she wasn’t 100 percent serious either. Her tone was pitched at the crossroads, and I honestly couldn’t tell which was closer to the truth. One thing I knew for sure: Now definitely wasn’t the right time to tell Drea about what happened in the hatchback.
“I’m already in the dress,” I said. “I might as well help you on the floor!” And then without thinking I added, “I mean, how hard can it be?”
Drea opened her mouth, then quickly and very uncharacteristically shut it.
If she had spoken up, I might have defied Gia and stayed in the back of the store where I belonged. I might have returned to my blanket igloo and hibernated for the last week of summer. Instead, I sat and let Gia fix my naked face and unstyled hair. There was no way she would let me out on the sales floor without a seasonal makeover.
“No offense,” Gia said, spackling my face with what I think was bronzer.
At least she agreed with Drea. I was a summer. This was supposedly the most subtle of all the cosmetic color palettes, and yet Gia had applied no less than four shades of eye shadow, three coats of mascara, two layers of foundation and one very, very purple lip color she swore up and down was “plum.” How did any girl smile under the weight of so much subtlety? When she was finished, the three of us stood in front of the mirror and marveled at what Gia was already calling her “five-minute miracle.”
Gia, Drea, and I looked like …
Family.
“Don’t forget! You need to get yourselves to the food court no later than eleven thirty, do you hear me? Eleven thirty!”
Then she kissed us both and left, passing an incoming customer on the way out. I waited for Drea to say something complimentary about my new look.
“Make yourself look busy,” she said coldly.
I sighed. There was no way Drea could maintain this level of irritation for long. I was certain she’d come to her senses before the fashion show and laugh the whole thing off as a particularly powerful bout of premenstrual bitchiness or hypoglycemic hysteria, both conditions quickly cured by a complimentary Orange Julius. I’d tell her about Sam and my devirginization and we’d be back to being BFFs.
I was wrong.
39
FEROCIOUS AND FIRED
For the next hour, I stayed out of Drea’s way and did a solid job of making myself look busy. I took the same half dozen halter tops on and off their hangers and successfully managed to avoid making contact with any of the customers. Drea was preoccupied with a plastic wife of a plastic surgeon who was shopping for a full calendar of benefits and charity balls.
“Can this neckline go any lower?” she asked, presumably to show off her husband’s pneumatic handiwork.
“You ask, we alter,” Drea cooed. “Your look will be as chic and unique as you are!”
I assumed she’d totally forgotten that I was technically supposed to be helping her on the sales floor. As it turned out, Drea was just waiting for the right opportunity to test my nascent customer service skills.
“Aha!”
Drea excused herself from the face-lifted philanthropist and pulled me away from the halter tops.
“Here she comes! The White Whale is back!”
Mona Troccola.
By that point, I was very familiar with Mona Troccola’s American Express account number. She lived in Toms River, a few zip and income tax codes over from Pineville. Toms River boasted its own country club with tennis courts, an Olympic-sized pool, and a golf course. Only nine holes you had to play twice, but still. Fancy. Mona also owned a thirty-two-foot motorboat that she often referred to as her “starter yacht” in a way that was supposed to sound like she was joking when in fact she was deadly serious. Divorced for two years, she was one year and eleven months behind on locking down husband number two. Decades at the club and on the open water had left Mona’s skin the color and consistency of beef jerky.
“You take Mona,” Drea said. “Earn your final paycheck.”
There it was again. That tone. If I were more confrontational, more like Drea herself, I might have called her out right then and there.
“Just tell her every third lo
ok is slimming and she’ll buy it.”
Mona paused at the entrance to take a last, long drag on her cigarette. Regulars knew Gia didn’t allow smoking in the store out of respect for the delicate fabrics and luxurious materials Bellarosa Boutique was famous for.
“Every third look?”
“You can’t tell her everything she tries on is slimming because she won’t believe it,” Drea said. “Only recommending certain looks—and not the most expensive ones—builds up a sense of trust. She thinks I’m the only one who tells the truth.”
“You’re not telling the truth?”
What a dumb question. Of course Drea wasn’t telling the truth to a woman who looked like the Crypt Keeper in everything she tried on. Mona flicked her butt into the ashtray. Without missing a single beat, Drea went in for the nicotine-tinged air-kiss.
“Mona! Darling! MWAH!”
“Drea! Darling! MWAH! Who is this gorgeous new girl you got working for you now?”
I was the only person standing there, and yet it still took us both a moment to realize whom Mona was referring to. In the silence, an orchestral cover of Lionel Ritchie’s “All Night Long” ended, followed by a jazzy take on Stevie Wonder’s “Part-Time Lover.” Bellarosa Boutique’s soundtrack was familiar and comforting by design. And yet it did little to ease the tension.
“Um, I’m Cassie?” I said, as if I were in doubt of that fact. “I’ve worked here all summer?”
Mona couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
“Cassie?” She blinked her spidery lashes. “Cassie?”
I couldn’t blame Mona for not recognizing me.
“I can’t believe this is Cassie!”
I have to 20/20 vision but, I could hardly recognize my own reflection in the mirror. Based on the blurry blobs of color I could make out, it was probably better that way.
“It’s me,” I said, “in the flesh.”
“You better watch out, Drea! You’ve got some competition!”
Drea and I gawked at Mona with incredulity. No one had ever said I was in the same league as Drea looks-wise. Makeover or not, her position as “the hot one” was undisputed. It would’ve been equally absurd to suggest Drea was “the smart one.” Mona obviously consumed too much vodka and not enough lettuce for breakfast that morning.
“We already pulled perfect looks that have your name all over them,” Drea said. “You’ll find them waiting for you in dressing room number one.”
I, of course, had no part in this.
“Perfect,” I repeated.
I threw a panicked look at Drea, but she just shrugged and used my own words against me.
“How hard can it be?”
I had a few minutes to center myself as Mona tried on her first outfit.
“Taaa-daaa!”
Mona struck a pose in a yellow drop-waist off-the-shoulder sweater and graffiti-print stirrup pants. It was an obnoxious outfit in every way.
“Whaddya think?”
It suited her perfectly. But then I remembered, Every third look.
“Hmm. It doesn’t do much for you,” I said as tactfully as possible. “Let me see you in something else.”
Mona smiled and went back behind the pink curtain. Gia claimed the color threw off a creamy glow that complemented all shoppers’ skin tones, though Mona’s charred complexion was more challenging than most. Fortunately, Gia also insisted on installing top-notch lighting all around the store, especially in the dressing area. The investment had paid off. Customers were always saying they felt more beautiful at Bellarosa than anywhere else in the whole mall, which in this tiny corner of New Jersey meant the whole friggin’ world. That’s what I was thinking about when Mona asked the fateful question.
“Working here full-time now, sweetheart?”
“No! NO! NO! I leave for college next week!”
The horrified escalation of each “no” was as true-to-heart-and-soul as anything that had ever come out of my mouth. It was one thing to look like a lifer at the mall, but to actually be one was an entirely different matter. I was insulted by the assumption.
And by the ferocious look on Drea’s face, I wasn’t the only one who was insulted.
With a sudden, stomach-turning clarity, I realized how I must have sounded to Drea. Her ample chest visibly heaved beneath her leopard-print bustier. Appropriately enough, her eyes flashed white like a jungle cat before it lunged for the kill. I’d seen Drea lash out with animal rage countless times before. But never, ever at me. It was terrifying.
“I can’t take it anymore!” Drea roared. “You’re fired!”
“Fired? You can’t fire me! I’ve only got…”
“Six days left! We know! Everyone knows you can’t wait to get the hell out of here. I’m just making it easy for you!”
“Drea, calm down,” I said. “You’re being overdramatic.”
“And you’re being an asshole,” Drea shot back.
This rejoinder thrilled her audience. Mona and Madame Plastic applauded, and I swear Drea took a bow because she thrived on this kind of attention. She wanted me to skitter away timidly, to wait until she decided she wasn’t mad anymore. But what would happen if I didn’t play along like she wanted me to? What if I decided to call the shots in this drama? I was dressed and made-up to look like Drea. Maybe I’d take a cue from my makeover and act like her too. Let her be on the receiving end of over-the-top histrionics for a change.
“Fine! Fire me!” I shouted back. “Good luck balancing the books without me!”
I didn’t really mean it. But I must have been convincing enough because Drea’s expression went unnervingly calm. Cool. And when she spoke, it was in a low rasp that was all the more chilling for its utter lack of heat.
“We were just fine for seven years, we’ll be fine now,” she said icily. “And we’ll be fine after you leave.”
Then she turned her back on me to receive hugs from Mona and Madame Plastic. This wasn’t really happening, was it?
“Drea…”
“Just go!”
Now it was my turn for guilt-free bad behavior. I’d never outdo her in the art of highly choreographed not-giving-a-shit, but I could try. So I intentionally knocked over a carousel of costume jewelry on my way out to make my exit more dramatic in a Dynasty kind of way. I thought I would feel exhilarated by my liberation, by the anticipation of Drea’s inevitable apology for overreacting. But when I looked back to see Drea on her hands and knees, scrambling across the gold marble floor to pick up every overpriced, faux stone bauble, I didn’t feel victorious. I just felt confused. And sad.
Very, very sad.
Alexis Carrington never looked back. Drea never looked back. And next time neither would I.
Correction: There wouldn’t be a next time.
40
GOOD LUCK
I made the best of a sucky situation by heading straight to Sam Goody.
Now that we’d done it, I thought it would be kind of fun for him to see me dressed like a Cosmo cover model. Like, maybe I could lure him away from the sales floor to try out some sexy role play or something. Just a few minutes alone in the stockroom would be sufficient to erase what had just gone down at Bellarosa.
I was ecstatic to see him stacking cassettes near the cash registers. I sauntered over to the counter and elbow pressed my boobs together until my cups nearly runneth over. It was one of Drea’s classic moves.
“Did you miss me?” I purred.
“Bellarosa!” Sam Goody gaped at my cleavage for a few seconds. “Whoa!”
“Do you like my new look?”
“I like you,” he answered.
He propped himself up over the counter and kissed me. For a few idyllic seconds, all ill feelings toward my ex–best friend melted into dreamy oblivion. Sam pulled away before I did, his mouth smudged purple.
“Well, I’m glad you like me,” I said, wiping the wayward gloss from his lips with my thumb. “Because Drea hates my guts…”
I wanted to sound like I
couldn’t care less. Unfortunately, I failed hard at flippancy. The analgesic effects of Sam’s kiss had already worn off, and I felt as hurt by Drea as I had when I stormed out of the boutique. Before I could stop myself, my eyes were welling up.
“Hey, there,” Sam said with alarm. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
I brushed away my tears and pretended Drea’s dismissal had no effect on me.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I croaked. “I’m fine.”
I was relieved when Sam silently took my hand and led me to the stockroom. Less crying, more kissing. Yes! That was exactly what I needed! I wrapped my arms around him, but he limply returned the hug. This was a crueler rejection than a stiff-armed rebuff.
“I like you,” he repeated.
It sure didn’t feel like he liked me.
“I like you too,” I said.
“But this”—he broke from me and swiped a hand in the space that separated us—“is weird.”
“It’s just hairspray and about ten pounds of bronzer!” I insisted. “I can take it off if you want.” Then I lowered my voice to my best approximation of a sultry rasp. “I can take it all off if you want.”
I didn’t wait for an answer before launching myself at him for a lusty kiss. But without my glasses, I misjudged the blurry inches between us and clocked Sam in the chin with my forehead instead.
“Whoa!” he cried out. “Let’s slow down here!”
“Slow down?” I objected. “We don’t have time to slow down!”
“Seriously,” Sam said in a watchful tone, “before one of us gets hurt.”
He was rubbing his jaw, but that wasn’t the pain he was referring to. This stockroom seduction was not going at all the way I had planned.
“You sure know how to ruin a mood,” I griped.
Sam took off his glasses, wiped the lenses on the bottom of his T-shirt, then put them back on again, as if to double-check that the girl he was talking to was really me.
“Look, I don’t know what sex means to you, but it’s special to me,” he said. “Before you, I’d only ever done it with my ex, and we dated for two years first.”
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