The Mall - Megan McCafferty Page 0,17

Rey Ajedrez had been joined by a girl with red braids and a daisy-print pinafore.

“Where have you been?”

I looked at my watch. I wasn’t even late.

“I’ll tell you where I’ve been.” She exhaled theatrically. “I was in the stock room of Chess King, risking life and limb and allergic reactions as I made my way through a treacherous maze of the chintziest rayon-polyester-blend suits I’ve ever had the misfortune to rub up against.”

If Drea saw herself as Indiana Jones, Chess King was her Temple of Doom. When we had opened Rey Ajedrez’s box, we discovered that the flipside of the counterfeit birth certificate was, in fact, a map. Crudely drawn in Sharpie and definitely not to any recognizable scale, I’d had my doubts that it would lead to another clue. Drea insisted otherwise.

“The map was legit?” I asked. “You actually found her in a panel behind the shelves?”

“No,” Drea replied drily. “I went to Babyland General Hospital in Cleveland, Georgia, and asked Xavier Roberts himself for permission to adopt a sister for Rey Ajedrez because I didn’t want him to be a maladjusted only child.”

“I’m an only child,” I replied. Then, more to the point, “You’re an only child.”

“Exactly! And look how maladjusted we both are! I was up all night searching through old People magazines trying to find out everything I could about Cabbage Patch Kids!”

And before I could question whether she was kidding—about the research and our mutual maladjustment—she set the boy and girl aside with more care than I would have expected.

“That map was legit,” she said, hopping off the desk. “And so is this one.”

She waved another forged birth certificate in my face. When I reached for the document, she snatched it away.

“Oh, so now you’re all in on the treasure hunt because you know it’s for real…”

“I told you I was all in last night!”

“But are you allllllllllllllll in?” she asked teasingly. “Because it won’t always be as easy as me flirting my way into the Chess King stockroom.”

The entire staff at Chess King was madly in love with her. According to Drea, the store was doomed to go under because Joey and Pauly and Mikey spent more time flexing for her attention across Unz Unz Alley than pushing two-for-one mock turtlenecks. Despite the horny gullibility of her first marks, I thought she was vastly underselling her flirtatious powers.

“Quit messing around,” I said. “Just tell me the next name.”

I sensed that Drea would respect me more if I demanded rather than asked. And I was right. She smiled that devastating smile of hers for the first time all morning.

“Does Loo-steeg Zite mean anything to you?”

At first I assumed it was a matter of mispronunciation. But when she showed me the fake birth certificate, I conceded that she’d sounded it out in exactly the same way I would have. Unfortunately, Lustig Zeit meant absolutely nothing to me.

“It’s definitely not Spanish,” I replied.

Drea opened her mouth to rightfully inform me just how unhelpful I was being when her mother popped her head through the door.

“Drea! Playtime’s over! We’ve got a banker’s third wife out there who somehow made it to thirty without learning the first thing about resort wear.” Then to me, “Morning, Cassie! Don’t let my daughter be a distraction!”

“I won’t!” I promised. “I’m excited to get started on these spreadsheets…”

“Thank you, Jesus”—Drea did the sign of the cross—“for bringing us the right nerd at the right time.”

“Manners, Drea!” Gia smacked the air because her daughter was out of reach.

“It’s not an insult! I’m truly grateful for her expertise,” Drea insisted as she followed Gia onto the sales floor.

“You ought to be! A few more months of No-Good Crystal and we could’ve gone out of business.”

Drea nodded at Gia, then surreptitiously turned to remind me of my priorities.

“Lustig Zeit!” she whisper-shouted. “Figure it out before our lunch break!”

* * *

I did not figure it out before our lunch break.

“What was the point of taking all those smarty-pants classes if you can’t even crack a cokehead’s secret code?” Drea demanded to know.

I could’ve shot back with something about getting into the most competitive all-women’s school in the country. But then I would’ve had to deal with Drea’s inevitably horrified reaction to my decision to separate myself from the opposite sex for four years, pretty much guaranteeing that I would die a virgin unless I took her advice and got it on before it was too late.

“I cracked a cokehead’s secret code,” I said instead, pointing to a