I reached Sam before he turned around.
“Hi.”
He pivoted away from the shelf and toward me. Conflicting emotions crossed his face in quick succession: surprise, sadness, suspicion, surrender.
I reached into my knapsack and took out a cassette tape.
“I made this,” I said quickly. “And I want you to have it.”
I didn’t say I made it for him because that wasn’t exactly true. When I was picking out all my favorite songs by all my favorite artists, I thought I was making this mixed tape for myself, to play in my dorm room. I wasn’t trying to impress Simone Levy or anyone else with my tastes—I just wanted ninety minutes worth of music I loved listening to. When I found myself with under seven minutes left of tape on side two, I agonized over the final choices. Two songs ran too long—the second kept getting cut off. One song was too short and left too much dead air. Through trial and error, recordings and rerecordings, I finally struck the perfect melodramatic marathon of a song. Coming in at six minutes and forty-seven seconds, “How Soon Is Now?” left just two seconds of silence. Only after I played it back did I understand who this mixed tape was intended for all along.
Sam opened it up to read the track listing.
“Cassie’s T-shirts,” he said. “That’s a good title.” He paused. “Cassie.”
I had brainstormed many others—Hatchback Jams, Tunes in the Key of Sorry, Parkway Center Blues, Sturm und Drang Songs—before settling on that one.
“I figured if I put my name in the title, you’d never forget who gave it to you.”
Sam tapped the tape to his temple, then his heart.
“I’m not going to forget you,” he said.
I doubted I would ever forget him either. But I still couldn’t look him in the eyes. Is it any wonder Mixed Feelings had come in a very, very close runner-up?
“I should have gotten you a going-away gift,” he said apologetically.
“You can’t feel bad about that,” I reasoned. “You didn’t know I’d show up today.”
“I didn’t know, but I hoped you would,” he said. “And I should’ve prepared myself for the most optimistic outcome. That’s something new I’m trying out. Positive visualization. As an alternative to being mildly, chronically depressed.”
“You don’t strike me as mildly depressed,” I said, before correcting myself. “Well, maybe when we first met, you did. But after that…”
“After that,” he said, “I was trying to make up for what a jerk I was.”
“You’ve more than compensated for that first conversation,” I said. “I swear.”
“Are you sure? Is there anything you want in the store? The new Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch cassingle, perhaps?”
We were joking.
We were okay.
I hugged him. Hard. Pressed my nose into his shaggy sideburns and got a good whiff of lavender. He would make a great boyfriend for someone. Maybe that someone could be me someday. Just not right now.
I would not feel any regret when we let go.
“Thank you, Sam.”
His chest rumbled against mine in silent laughter. Then he pressed his mouth against my ear.
“By the way,” he said, “My name is George.”
48
TREASURE
“Attention, Parkway Center Mall customers. Five minutes to closing. Please make your way to the exits. Come back again soon!”
I had not managed my time very well. I was going against the tide of last-minute shoppers, the only person walking toward the stores and away from the doors. All the security gates were half drawn, the universal signal that you could still be let out of a shop, but would not be let in. I dipped under the shiny golden lattice, hoping Bellarosa Boutique would make an exception to the rule. Gia once told me it been Drea’s idea to spray-paint the dull gray grill to match the store’s opulent interior.
“If it were up to Drea, that gate would be lacquered in twenty-four-carat gold,” Gia had joked.
Drea didn’t deny it. “Doesn’t Bellarosa deserve the best?”
Drea did deserve the best. I didn’t see her, though. Had she left work early? Had I gotten there too late?
Gia was standing behind the register with a made-up, dressed-up brunette I’d never seen before. I guessed she was in her mid-twenties, but in true Bellarosa fashion, she could’ve been a decade older or younger.
“Cassie? What are you doing here?”
Gia practically vaulted over the counter to pull me into a deep, heavily perfumed embrace. Frank and Kathy weren’t huggy people, so Gia’s hands-on affection had taken some getting used to. I was back in my own clothes, so I didn’t look like a Bellarosa anymore. But in her arms, I still felt like family.
“I thought you left for school already.”
“Not until tomorrow.” I gave Gia an extra squeeze before loosening my grip. “I’m so sorry about the fashion show—”
Gia cut me off.
“Don’t worry about that, hon,” she said. “All that free publicity was fantastic for business!”
“Really?”
“Really! We’re up twenty percent!”
I sighed with relief. I never wanted to negatively affect Bellarosa’s bottom line.
The brunette cleared her throat.
“I was just talking to Crystal here about how much easier it will be for her to track receipts with the new computerized system…”
I was so used to her name being preceded by “No-Good” that I almost missed it. But when the momentousness of this introduction fully hit me, I couldn’t hold back.
“You’re Crystal Bellarosa!”
She wrinkled her nose.
“Duh Brooze Zee.”
“My brother’s wife’s brother’s kid,” Gia explained. “The D’Abruzzi cousins.”
The last name sounded familiar, but in the moment I couldn’t place it.
“Ohhhh,” I marveled.
This was historic. I’d finally come face-to-face with No-Good Crystal. If she hadn’t been so terrible at her job, I wouldn’t have gotten hired by Gia, fired by Drea. I wouldn’t be back in the store to bestow a possibly life-changing fortune.
“What are you doing here?”
All heads turned in Drea’s direction. Her words were the same as Gia’s, but her tone could not have been more different.
“I just need five minutes of your time,” I pleaded.
“I’ll give you thirty seconds,” Drea countered. “But only because you’re wearing one of my designs.”
“Three minutes.”
“Forty-five seconds.”
Gia and Crystal watched us go back and forth, like spectators in a tennis match.
“Ninety seconds.”
Drea sighed and rolled her eyes.
“One minute,” she said. “And that’s my final offer.”
“Okay.” I held out my hand and she refused to shake it. “I’ll take it.”
One minute was what I’d been shooting for. One minute was all I needed.
She glanced at the gold bangle on her wrist.
“Clock’s ticking.”
It was not a timepiece, but a bracelet. She was just messing with me.
“Do you insist on making this as difficult as possible?” I asked.
“After the way you disrespected my family? Abso-friggin’-lutely!”
“I didn’t disrespect your fam—”
“Do you not see the name Bellarosa on the sign?”
I struck a conciliatory tone, my only chance at survival.
“You’re right,” I said. “And I’m sorry. And I’ll be able to show you how sorry I am if you follow me to the bathroom.”
“Forty-five seconds.” She shook her fake watch.
I had planned this whole speech, equal parts apology and explanation for my actions leading up to the fashion show. I had practiced it at home and had gotten it down to a tight fifty-five seconds, with five seconds left for the big reveal. But Drea was making me cut throug
h all the bullshit. I’d need to get right to the point if I had any chance of getting her to go along with me.
“That’s long enough,” I said, “to show you the treasure.”
49
EXCHANGES AND RETURNS
Our adventure began in the subbasement. It only seemed fitting for the treasure hunt to culminate on the rooftop.
“Crystal and I used to come up here to sneak cigarettes and work on our tans,” Drea said. “But I’ve never been up here at night.”
The days were noticeably shorter. Only the brightest stars bravely peeked out of the purple sky. Light pollution made stargazing a challenge from the mall, but it would be nearly impossible once I arrived in Manhattan. Even under the best viewing conditions, Cassiopeia was too low on the horizon to be seen from anywhere on the East Coast at this time of year. On a field trip to the planetarium in second grade, I was elated to learn of the constellation with a name that sounded so much like mine. I’d always thought of the queen on her throne as “my” constellation, even though—as the story went—she chained her own daughter to a rock as a sacrificial offering to a ravenous sea serpent.
We sat facing each other on the wide ledge. Drea ceremoniously placed the Reebok shoebox between us and extracted the letter opener from her cleavage. She pointed it right between my eyes.
“I’m still pissed at you.”
“Of course,” I said. “Understood.”
She held the box up to her ear and shook it gently, then giddily.
“Sounds like money!”
I really, really hoped she was right. If hidden treasure provided Drea with the resources to make her dream of starting her own fashion line come true, then I wanted her to have every last cent of it. I watched with eager interest as Drea cut into the lid. Vince had gone a little overboard with the duct tape, so it required more effort and less finesse than opening the Cabbage Patch boxes. After a few final jabs and stabs, the top of the box came free from the bottom. Our voices rang out over the nearly empty parking lot.
“Hooray!”
Drea placed her hands on opposite sides of the shoebox, closed her eyes, and took a deep, bracing breath. What was happening on that rooftop felt almost sacred. Drea brought a profound sense of ritual and reverence to what had started out as a silly diversion for me, but had evolved into something much deeper as we got to know each other again. I knew I might never earn her forgiveness, which is why I considered myself blessed to be the only person in the world with Drea Bellarosa when she lifted the lid and peered inside.
“What in the gawddamn hell?!”
She pulled out a grayish-green stack bound by a rubber band.
It wasn’t money.
“Born in the USA Tour,” read Drea in a slow, stunned voice. “Meadowlands Arena.”
No, Tommy hadn’t hidden thousands of dollars in Bellarosa Boutique’s bathroom ceiling. He’d hidden thousands of dollars’ worth of Springsteen tickets.
“Front row seats…” Drea fanned them out on the concrete. “For all ten nights…”
Our foreheads pressed together to get a better look. We simultaneously gasped at the date of the last show: August 20, 1984. Drea and I locked shocked eyes.
“We’re two days too late!” Drea cried.
“Seven years and two days too late!” I cried.
We threw the useless tickets into the air like confetti. They didn’t get very far in the still air and floated right back down to our feet.
“You were right all along,” Drea said gloomily. “No fortune to be found.”
This pessimistic prediction was the only accurate call I’d made all summer. At least I had prepared for this outcome. After how I’d betrayed her trust, I couldn’t force Drea to be my friend again. But I wouldn’t leave her empty-handed either.
“I have something for you.”
I reached into my knapsack and presented her with the box I’d commissioned from Sylvester. She took it in her hands and stared, saying nothing.
“It’s your own treasure chest,” I explained.
She shook the box and unsuccessfully tried to suppress a grin at the secrets rattling within.
“What’s inside?”
“Open it up to find out.”
Her reluctant smile grew wider and wider as she took inventory of the booty:
Gift certificate to Sew Amazing!
Paperback copy of The Vogue Guide to a Career in Fashion
Prepaid long-distance calling cards
Her eyes lit up when she saw the inscription carved on the inside of the lid. She read it aloud.
“Be the best possible version of yourself.”
“The Bellarosa motto,” I said.
Drea traced her finger across the words before quietly shutting the box. The smile faded, the mood shifted.
“Are you still mad at me?” I asked.
Drea shook her head. “No.”
“Then what is it?”
She gripped the treasure chest, almost like she needed it for support.
“I let my guard down with you, Cassie. I don’t do that with just anyone. I mean, I cried in front of you…”
“I know,” I said. “I…”
She shushed me with a single sharpened fingernail.
“We were getting so close, but I knew it was only temporary. Like, you made it so clear to everyone how you couldn’t wait to get the hell out of Pineville and start your new life in New York, and it pissed me off because I wanted that same dream for myself,” she said.
“I’m sor—”
“Don’t apologize,” Drea interrupted. “You worked your ass off to get into Barnard. You should be proud of yourself.”
I was proud of myself. And I was still excited about Barnard and New York City, about seeing what life beyond Pineville had in store for me. Yet, part of me wondered if everything I really needed to know—about family and friendship and love and loyalty and betrayal and sisterhood, “you know, all the most important shit in life” as Helen had put it—I had already learned that summer at the mall.
“Okay, so I won’t apologize for leaving,” I said. “But I am deeply sorry for making you feel…”
“Left behind?” she asked. “Like I did to you?”
“Exactly.”
“You’re so talented, Drea,” I said, stroking the silk ribbon on the top she’d made me. “Please don’t give up on your own fashion line.”
“Who says I’ve given up on anything?” Drea said resolutely. “I’m going to earn my spot among the best, and that starts by proving myself at OCC this fall.”
“Drea!” I threw my arms around her. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all summer!”
Ocean County College was the local, well-regarded community college. This was the obvious first step for anyone wanting a post–high school academic do-over. It was so obvious that I was upset at myself for not suggesting it to Drea sooner. We could have avoided the fountain catfight and actually enjoyed our last week together.
Yet as Drea energetically rattled on about her schedule, I understood that this ambitious decision was meaningful because it was hers and hers alone. In addition to a figure drawing class, she had registered for core math and English courses that she could transfer to FIT or another four-year program later on. The hardest part, she said, was mustering the courage to tell Gia that she’d have to scale back her hours at the boutique. When she finally shared her short- and long-term plans, her mother burst into tears of pride and joy.
“She was so psyched for me!” Drea enthused.
“I’m psyched for you!”
“I’m psyched for me too!”
Now this goodbye didn’t feel like the ending. It felt like the beginning. For both of us.
I looped my arm through Drea’s.
“You’re the best friend I’ve ever had,” I confessed. “You know what that means?”
Drea cocked her head quizzically. “What?”
“We’re both shitty at picking best friends.”
; Drea unleashed a raucous hawnk. I guffawed from my gut. Our shared laughter echoed for miles and miles and miles, from the mall, across the parking lot, the parkway and the turnpike, over bridges and through tunnels, until it reached the island of Manhattan.
And all the way back again.
ALSO BY MEGAN McCAFFERTY
Sloppy Firsts
Second Helpings
Charmed Thirds
Fourth Comings
Perfect Fifths
Bumped
Thumped
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MEGAN MCCAFFERTY writes fiction for tweens, teens, and teens-at-heart of all ages. The author of eleven novels, she’s best known for Sloppy Firsts and several more books in the New York Times bestselling Jessica Darling series. Described in her first review as “Judy Blume meets Dorothy Parker” (Wall Street Journal), she’s been trying to live up to that high standard ever since. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
1. Most Likely to Succeed
2. Bad Humors
3. Being Alive
4. Unwitting Witness
5. Chicest and Uniquest
6. Nerd Olympics
7. The Cabbage Patch
8. Over and Under
9. Lustig Zeit
The Mall Page 21