The Mall - Megan McCafferty Page 0,4

the bulging, bilious organ without the benefit of anesthesia or antiseptic. I know all this because Troy left a copy of Apollo to Zeus: Greek Mythology and Modern Medicine in my mailbox as a get-well gift.

Blame a buildup of bad humor for what happened next.

I grabbed the only weapon within reach—the tray of Fat-Free Fudgies—and chucked it directly at Troy. I only wish I’d felt more satisfaction when it smacked him right between his lying eyes.

3

BEING ALIVE

The Volvo inched toward Macy’s. If my legs weren’t so shaky, I would’ve leapt out the vehicle and run the rest of the way. Anything to escape Mom, Dad, and Barbra Streisand.

“Nothing’s gonna harm you…”

The Broadway Album. Track Four.

“Not while I’m around.”

Too late, Babs, I thought. Too late.

Kathy hit fast forward on the tape deck to get to the up-tempo Sondheim number she preferred.

“Explain to me again why Troy couldn’t drive you to work today?”

I earned top grades, respected curfew, and kept myself too busy with extracurriculars to cause trouble. I’d never had incentive to lie to my parents about anything this big before. Without much practice, I did the best I could.

“He got promoted to seasonal assistant manager and had to, um, attend a meeting?” I answered unconvincingly. “Or something?”

“Hmph.” Frank tapped the steering wheel. “Why does he get to be seasonal assistant manager and not you?”

I should have predicted Dad would be disappointed in me for not getting a nonexistent promotion for a job I didn’t have anymore.

“Because he’s worked there for six weeks and I haven’t started yet?”

“You should have the same opportunities as him,” Dad said. “Your medical condition shouldn’t be held against you.”

“Uh-huh,” I said noncommittally.

The mall wasn’t open to customers yet, but the parking lot was already filling up. Shoppers stayed in their cars, keeping the engines and AC running right up to the moment the doors opened at 10:00 a.m.

“I was surprised when you told us you needed a ride,” Mom said. “Troy assured us that he’d do all the driving this summer. And when Troy says he’s going to do something, he does it.”

“You can’t expect us to drive you every day,” Frank warned.

“I don’t,” I said, though I kind of did.

I didn’t have a license. I took driver’s ed like the rest of my class, but I just hadn’t bothered to take the road test. It wasn’t a priority. Since I was ten years old, I’d fallen asleep with a poster of the five boroughs map above my bed, dreaming of public transit, of attending college, and living the rest of my life in New York City.

Who needed a license when I had Troy? With a September birthday, he was one of the first in our class to turn seventeen. He’d gotten his license early and had chauffeured me around in his hand-me-down Honda Civic ever since. Not that we ventured out very far, very often. By junior year, I was sticking subway tokens in the slots of my penny loafers, a perpetual reminder to prioritize practice tests over parties.

“You can’t spell ‘Saturday’ without SAT,” I’d joke to Troy.

“You can’t spell ‘party’ without AP,” Troy would joke back.

Though he was technically correct, the wordplay wasn’t nearly as funny as mine. Comedy wasn’t his forte. But I laughed anyway because that’s what I did when we were together.

And I hated myself for it now that we weren’t.

“Troy is so reliable, I’m sure he’ll come through.” Kathy pressed play.

Until yesterday I would’ve agreed with her. But not anymore.

“Someone to hold you too close,” sang Barbra Streisand in between sexy sax riffs, “Someone to hurt you too deep…”

From the back seat, I had zero control over the Volvo’s radio/tape deck.

“But alone,” Barbra Streisand sang, “is alone…”

Dad hit stop.

“Frank!” my mother shrieked. “She was just getting to the best part!”

“It’s 9:49.”

“I don’t care what time it is!”

Not even Dad could get away with shutting up Barbra Streisand when she was singing Sondheim. Mom pressed rewind, then play to give justice to her impeccable phrasing.

“Not aliiiiiiiiiiiiiiive…”

“We’re gonna miss it, Kathy!”

Frank stabbed the eject button and another screech filled the car. Only this time, it was the unmistakable sound of The Broadway Album being eaten by the Volvo’s ravenous tape deck.

“Frank!” Mom yanked the unspooled, unplayable tape out of the machine. “I’ve told you a million times that you’ve got to press stop before eject!”

Dad had already hit number one on the radio presets: WOBM-FM. He never missed an opportunity to listen to the local radio station to make sure Worthy