The Mall - Megan McCafferty Page 0,18

paper covered in Crystal’s scribbles, “just not this cokehead’s secret code.”

“Let’s hit the food court,” Drea suggested. “Feed that brain of yours.”

“I already ate my lunch.”

I didn’t want to remind Drea why the food court was off-limits. It was simply easier to say I preferred brown-bagging it for vague, post-mononucleosian nutritional reasons.

“A change of scenery, then,” she suggested. “Could be just what your brain needs.”

As Frank reminded me on the drive that morning, I still had to replace Kathy’s copy of The Broadway Album. The record store was located on the same floor as America’s Best Cookie, but hopefully at a safe enough distance to avoid being spotted by Troy and Helen. While I was in no mood to run into the lusty couple, that possibility was still more pleasant than sticking around Bellarosa’s back office and getting harangued by Drea for a half hour.

“I need to go to the record store,” I said.

“I’m in!” she said. “I want to hear the new Mantronix remix.”

I knew as much about Mantronix as Drea knew about Morrissey.

“Who?”

“House music pioneers, that’s who,” she answered.

Drea was really into house music—electronic bass-heavy beats that weren’t so popular on the radio but played in all the hottest dance clubs in New York City. According to Drea, all the Jersey Shore DJs were “trash.”

“Do you go clubbing in the city a lot?” I asked.

“Not as much as I want to.” Drea shrugged. “And Crystal was the one on all the VIP lists. Now that she’s on the outs, I’ll have a tougher time getting past the bouncers.”

Right at that moment, a zitty boy in a Bart Simpson T-shirt walked into a potted palm tree because he was too preoccupied by Drea’s cleavage to watch where he was going.

“I find it hard to believe you’d have trouble getting in anywhere,” I said.

“Well, shit,” she deadpanned. “I knew I should’ve applied to the Ivy League.”

By the time I’d decided it was okay to laugh, the joke had hung in the air between us for too long. It was already too late.

Awkward jokes aside, I was grateful for Drea’s company. She’d be a good person to have by my side if we did run into Troy and Helen. I imagined her removing her door-knocker earrings and getting ready to throw down with a stiletto in each fist.

I slowed down as we approached the record store. The brightly lit shop had a wide-open entrance and glass window displays, so I could stop to check if Sam Goody was working the floor before going in. I breathed a sigh of relief when I didn’t see him, and headed straight to S for Streisand. I didn’t want to spend any more time in there than I had to. If he weren’t so annoying, I might have actually worried about Sam Goody’s inevitable hearing loss. The sound system blasted a bouncy adult contemporary hit at an assaultive volume.

“Looooooove is a wonderful thing…”

Fuck you, Michael Bolton. Seriously.

“What’s up with you?” Drea asked just loud enough to be heard above the music.

“Nothing,” I lied. “Why?”

“You’re acting sneaky,” she says. “Like, conspicuously so.”

“I am not!”

“Okay, whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “You better work on your stealth skills if you’re going to be any help to me on the treasure hunt.”

I ran my finger along the rows of cassettes, searching for Streisand.

“Lustig Zeit,” Drea said. “How is anyone supposed to know what that means?”

“It probably doesn’t mean anything,” I replied. “Lustig Zeit sounds like nonsense to me.”

“Why would Tommy go to all the trouble of making a map if Lustig Zeit didn’t mean anything?”

“Cocaine,” I answered.

Drea arched an eyebrow. “Touché.”

“Looooooove is a wonderful, wonderful thing…”

“Aha!” I called out.

“You figured out what Lustig Zeit means?”

“No,” I replied, showing off The Broadway Album. “I found what I was looking for.”

Drea scowled, equally bothered by my purchase as my lack of treasure-hunting purpose. I took two steps toward the register when none other than my pompous pompadoured nemesis emerged from behind a larger-than-life-size cardboard cutout of Paula Abdul.

“Lustig Zeit is German,” said Sam Goody matter-of-factly.

Drea didn’t waste a second. “What does it mean?”

“Lustig Zeit.” He took in Drea for a moment before returning his attention to me. “Means ‘Fun Time.’”

“Fun Time!” Drea whooped. “Fun Tyme Arcade! I told you it meant something!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, she gave Sam Goody a wet kiss on the cheek.

“Thanks, Elvis!”

Like I said, Drea knew nothing about Morrissey. She had no way of knowing he idolized Elvis or that The Smiths had used one of the