The Mall - Megan McCafferty Page 0,24

yet still managed to qualify as a shirt.

“Yeah.” Slade ran a hand through his sun-bleached tresses. “It will be fun.” When he followed that up by touching my arm, I had about a split second to register these as the same exact moves Drea had instructed me to make. Did Slade also subscribe to Cosmo?

Without another word, Slade slung his arm around my shoulder and led me across Upper Level Concourse A toward the service elevator that would take us down to the Cabbage Patch. No negotiation or conversation. Just like that. Slade was as easy on the brain as he was on the eyes. So, so, so easy.

His arm was also so, so, so much heavier than Troy’s. Meaty was the word that came to mind, but that might have been influenced by the collective aroma hovering around the dozen or so members of Ponderosa Steak & Ale’s dinner crew who were also ready to party at the Cabbage Patch. My body leaned into Slade’s at an angle that was awkward for walking but—based on the startled looks we were getting—awesome for gawking.

“Yo.” Foot Locker Boy high-fived Slade.

“Yo.” Slade low-fived Foot Locker Boy.

Foot Locker Girl showed no interest in introducing herself to me. The doors to the service elevator opened, and the crowd surged forward. There were far too many of us to fit comfortably.

“Maybe we should take the next—”

When Slade squeezed himself in the last bit of available space, I assumed he was ditching me. I was a joke to him all along, and he’d just been waiting for the best opportunity to humiliate me in front of an audience. Of course. Now this was making more sense.

“Come on, Cassie!”

Just as the doors started to close, he grabbed my hand and pulled me to him.

“Crowded,” Slade accurately observed.

“Mmph.”

My mouth smushed against his upper pectoral. Troy and I dated for six months before I’d even come close to making similarly intimate physical contact. But there I was, with my lips on Slade’s chest, and my God, I didn’t know if it was the coconut oil or what but he tasted friggin’ delicious. I might have worried we were exceeding the elevator’s 2,500-pound weight limit, but I was far too focused on my crotch, which rubbed against Slade’s thigh in a not-unpleasant way as the elevator rattled in its descent. As the partygoers chattered about getting wasted, I was already feeling pretty wasted myself. Or, more accurately, what I thought it felt like to be drunk—warm from the inside out, woozy, wobbly—because I’d never actually been drunk before.

“Almost there,” Slade said.

He had no idea.

The car convulsed when we hit bottom, and I unintentionally let out a little gasp that sounded more sexual than any noise I had ever made with Troy. So it was a dizzying irony when the doors opened to none other than my ex and his new girlfriend waiting to get on as Slade and I—ahem—got off.

“You’ve disrespected me for the last time, Troy!”

Troy and Helen were obviously in mid-fight, which explained why they were already leaving the party before it had really started.

“I—”

His defense was cut short when Slade and I literally collided into them to avoid being stampeded to death.

“CABBAGE PATCH! CABBAGE PATCH! CABBAGE PATCH!”

The rowdy Ponderosa crew must have pre-partied pretty hard with pilfered bottles from the restaurant bar. Foot Locker Couple followed close behind, leaving just the four of us to reckon with the awkwardness.

“Yo.” Slade held up his hand for a high-five. “I’m Slade.”

Compared to Slade, Troy was as pale and soft as a mixing bowl of America’s Best Cookie dough.

“I know who you are!” Troy squeaked. “We graduated from the same high school!”

“Ohhhh, yeah?” Slade shrugged. “Sorry, dude.”

“We were in the same homeroom for four years!”

Jarvis, Troy. Johnson, Slade.

“Hey,” Slade said, holding up his hands. “Chill, dude.”

“Chiiiiiiiilllllll, duuuuuuuuuude,” Troy said mockingly.

The icy looks we were getting from Helen could chill us all back to the Pleistocene epoch.

“You?” Troy pointed a shaky finger at me. “Came here with him?” Troy thumbed toward Slade.

“Actually, I came here with her.”

Slade rested his hands between my neck and shoulders. The elevator door opened, releasing another wave of Cabbage Patchers representing Jo-Ann’s Nut House, Woolworths, and other businesses I couldn’t identify because they didn’t require uniforms. The last to exit was none other than Ghost Girl—Zoe—herself. I hadn’t seen her since she’d offered me Fat-Free Fudgies, but she was as wraithlike as ever in all black.

“Ms. Gomez,” Troy said nervously.

He was probably paranoid that his boss