The Mall - Megan McCafferty

1

MOST LIKELY TO SUCCEED

Less than five minutes into my triumphant return to the mall, I was targeted for assassination by a rabid spritzer from Bath & Body Works.

Before the ambush, I was as happy as anyone making minimum wage could possibly be. It was by far the best mood I’d been in since the night in late May when I’d landed in the ER with a teeth-chattering, bone-rattling case of mono. After six weeks of quarantine, I was finally reunited with my boyfriend, Troy. We had gone from seeing each other every day to not at all, and I could tell Troy was a bit discomfited by the space forcibly put between us. Luckily for him, I’d spent that time at home alone convalescing and contemplating the state of our relationship. By the end of my confinement, I’d come to a course-altering conclusion:

Troy and I absolutely needed to have sex.

The sooner, the better.

I was barely keeping it together on the short walk from the parking lot to our jobs at the food court.

“I missed you so much!”

I angled for a kiss as Troy turned his head to check his watch. I got a mouthful of earlobe instead of lips.

“Not now, Cassandra,” Troy said without slowing down. “I’m late for my shift.”

“We’re late for our shift!”

The Parkway Center Mall was home to 105 specialty shops, three department stores, and two movie screens. This 900,000 square foot monument to consumerism was Pineville, New Jersey’s, de facto downtown. Never referred to by its full name—always and only “the mall”—this capitalist mecca wasn’t the biggest or the best or the newest our state had to offer, but it was the closest. For that reason alone, the mall was the center of the universe for bored hordes of suburban teens with limited spending money and infinite time to waste.

The mall also provided summer employment for roughly half of our high school’s working class. The rest took their chances at Casino Pier in Seaside Heights. The pay was slightly better on the boardwalk, as were the odds that you’d lose a finger while operating the Tilt-A-Whirl because that’s what happened when hungover minors helmed heavy machinery. Troy and I had taken the safer route by getting hired by America’s Best Cookie: “Where home-baked goodness is as easy as ABC!” The recession had hit other businesses hard, but in times of trouble, Americans evidently comforted themselves with Chocolate Chippers and Fat-Free Fudgies. Troy and I had just completed our new employee training when I got sick.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep my hands off you when I see you in that sexy apron.”

I was half kidding. My boyfriend of two years was wholly mortified.

Troy was not an obvious target for lusty objectification. He was my cherry-cheeked cherub, whose angelic face often caused opponents in Mock Trial and Odyssey of the Mind to underestimate his devilishly clever brain. Also, I’d never been, like, an excessively horny girlfriend. When Troy and I made out, my mind often wandered. Would the collapse of the Soviet Union end the Cold War? Why did anyone think Urkel was funny? But forty-three days of social isolation and physical deprivation had taken a major toll. From the moment he had picked me up at my house in his Honda Civic, I’d wanted to grab him by the popped collar of his America’s Best Cookie polo shirt, press his body against mine, and break every rule we’d ever set against public displays of affection.

We passed Spencer Gifts, a store that sold smutty merchandise alongside kitschy novelties.

“Pity the naive child who enters Spencer Gifts for fake poop,” I joked, “and exits with cinnamon-flavored lube.”

Troy said nothing.

“Pity the pure babe who enters Spencer Gifts for a lava lamp,” I tried again, “and exits with glow-in-the-dark condoms.”

The mall had three main entrances, each located in front of a major department store. My family always entered the mall through Macy’s, but the first time Troy drove me to the mall, I discovered his preferred entrance was through Sears.

“If we’d parked at Macy’s, we’d be there already,” I teased, leaning in for a kiss.

He ducked, deftly dodging my mouth for the second time.

“Are you sure you aren’t contagious anymore?”

I almost couldn’t blame him for being so paranoid. He was more traumatized by the extremity of my illness than I was, if only because he could actually remember the details. Troy was the one who took me to the ER. He was there when Dr. Barry Baumann said my