The Mall - Megan McCafferty Page 0,21
pulled halfway.
“They’re closed!” I said.
“They’re open!” Drea said.
As the optimist ducked under, the pessimist had no choice but to follow.
Drea went straight for the Skee-Ball ramps while I stood lookout. The arcade was nearly empty—just a shoulder-length mullet behind the wheel of a stationary Daytona race car—but you wouldn’t know it from the noise. A cacophony of screeching tires, gun shots, and laser blasts vied with Guns N’ Roses in eardrum-shattering competition.
“Welcome to the jungle, we’ve got fun and games…”
It was way worse than the record store. I didn’t know how anyone could spend more than a minute in there without going totally insane. I’d lost all sight of Drea when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Heeeeeeey.”
It was
Sonny
friggin’
Sexton.
“Heeeeeeey,” he repeated.
He didn’t give any signs of kicking me out. In fact, he was already drinking something aromatically alcoholic out of a red Solo cup. This certainly contributed to his untroubled reaction to my presence in the arcade past closing. We’d never spoken before. Why would he start now? Maybe he was coming over to apologize on behalf of his diabolical gerbil of an ex-girlfriend?
“Oh … um … hey.”
Even in a slouch, Sonny Sexton stood taller than expected. He had to bend over to talk to me, so he must have towered over Helen when they were together. My gut twisted at the thought of whatever kinky contortions had made their sex fests possible on, like, an anatomical level. Over his shoulder, I glimpsed Drea perilously climbing a stepladder in stilettos to reach the upper prize shelves. I just had to stall long enough for her to steal the doll and get away.
“Never seen you in here before,” he said.
His eyes were so heavy lidded, it was a wonder he could see anything, which would definitely work to our advantage if he suddenly decided to turn around in time to catch Drea sliding open the glass case. She’d told me to flirt with Sonny. But I decided to go in a different distraction direction.
“Your ex tried to kill me the other day.”
It was fascinating to watch the effort put forth by the single functioning brain cell that comprised the entirety of Sonny Sexton’s intellect.
“Mono Bitch?” he said slowly. “That’s you?”
“That’s me.”
He took a long drink from his Solo cup, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Well, holy shit.”
“I thought you might want to apologize,” I said.
“Apologize?” He looked into his cup. “For what?”
Did he not remember me just telling him that his ex-girlfriend had tried to murder me?
“For Helen!”
Blank stare.
“She stole my boyfriend and tried to kill me!”
Drea carefully descended the ladder with the familiar box tucked under her arm.
“You think I got any control over Helen?” Sonny Sexton let out a long, low whistle. “Helen is the wildest girl I’ve ever been with. And I’ve been with a lot of girls.”
He wasn’t bragging. He was merely stating a fact.
“That girl keyed my Mustang and burned my entire record collection in a bonfire on my front lawn! Last week she kidnapped Pink Floyd! Then she mailed me a picture of him in pajamas just to piss me off!”
“Pink Floyd?”
Was Sonny Sexton high on ’shrooms? What did the psychedelic British band have to do with anything?
“My cat! Cats shouldn’t wear clothes! It’s not natural.”
I was far more surprised to discover Sonny Sexton was a cat person than I was to hear Helen had taken his beloved pet hostage.
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” I said, surprised by how genuinely I meant it.
“She’s got some anger issues.” Sonny shuddered. “Cookie Boy doesn’t know what he’s in for.”
I couldn’t help but laugh when he called Troy “Cookie Boy.” A lock of lank black hair fell across Sonny’s brow, and he grinned like a kindergartener who just learned to tie his big-boy shoes. That smile ruled out the possibility that Sonny Sexton was suffering from post-breakup devastation. Also, what he said next:
“We should have sex.”
I nearly fell over. It felt like a lifetime ago that I’d used those same exact words in my failed attempt to seduce Troy. But what else should I have expected from a twenty-year-old Fun Tyme Arcade employee whose God-given name literally couldn’t be spelled without S-E-X?
“You know,” Sonny continued, “to get back at them.”
Drea tiptoed between Ms. Pac-Man and Street Fighter II.
“Like … like…” I stammered, “some sexual quid pro quo?”
This didn’t make sense. But I doubted Sonny Sexton would call me out on my misuse of legal terminology.
“I don’t know what that is,” he said, “but