The Mall - Megan McCafferty Page 0,42

demon was less grotesque.

“You’re rebelling against your corporate overlords by sticking subversive reading material among the glossies?”

Sam arched a mischievous eyebrow. “Wanna help?”

“Of course!”

I stood lookout while Sam shuffled the magazines around on the racks. Grammar Police—featuring a doctored cover photo of First Lady Barbara Bush flipping the bird—caught my eye. I skimmed an article about the worst words.

“Says here ‘panties’ tops the list.”

“Really?” Sam asked. “What do people have against ‘panties’?”

“It’s just a word that makes people feel icky when they say it,” I said. “Here’s another. Get ready for it. Are you ready?”

“Am I ready?” Sam shook out his arms and legs, jumped up and down, smacked himself in the head a few times, and whooped. “I am ready!”

I took a step toward him, cupped my hand to his ear, and channeled Zoe’s creepy, creaky whisper.

“Mooooooiiiiiiiiiiisssssst.”

Sam shivered. I threw back my head and cackled. In that moment, I reminded myself of Drea.

“Moist Panties would make a great band name,” Sam joked.

“I loved their debut single.” I consulted the worst words list and put two of the grossest together. “‘Fetal Smear.’”

Sam grimaced, then grinned.

“Hmmm…” He tapped a finger to his temple. “I don’t know that one. How does it go?”

I batted my eyelashes in a most sarcastically flirtatious manner.

“Oh no, darlin’,” I demurred in a fake southern drawl. “Ah couldn’t possibly.”

Sam clasped his hands and got down on the floor.

“Pleeeeaase,” he begged. “I must hear ‘Fetal Smear’ by Moist Panties.”

“Okay,” I said, barely containing how thrilled I was to have brought this boy to his knees. “If you insist.”

I closed my eyes and started bobbing my head to the booming drumbeat in my head.

“Fetal Smear!” I shout-sang. “Clogged Slacks!”

I was loud, but not loud enough for anyone but Sam Goody to hear me over the classic rock blasting from the sound system.

“Curdle Slurp! Bulbous Maggots!”

I pogoed up and down.

“Queasy Phlegm! Chunky Roaches!”

The heinous word pairings flowed one into the next, like the best poetry should. The song ended with one last bit of thrashing and a final, primal scream.

“Munch! Munch! Muuuuuuunch!”

I threw my body into a nearby clearance rack, a mosh pit for one causing a tiny avalanche of half-priced cassingles. It was very punk rock. And yet, no one but Sam Goody even noticed.

“That was incredible,” he said, applauding. “I’m officially Moist Panties’ number-one fan.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d exerted myself like that. But I felt more exhilarated than exhausted.

“Too bad they broke up,” I said breathlessly. “Creative differences.”

This made Sam Goody laugh so hard, his glasses fell right off his face.

“So,” he said.

“So,” I said.

I had no idea what to say next. I mean, how do you follow up an act like that?

“Why are you here?” he asked.

It was a good question. This was the first time I’d dropped by the store without a specific purpose other than wanting to see him again. But I couldn’t come right out and say that, could I?

“Why am I here?” I mused. “Why are you here? Why are any of us here?”

Sam Goody smiled but didn’t take the pseudo-philosophical bait.

“Well, whatever the reason,” he said, “I’m glad we’re here together.”

And for the very first time all summer, the mall was exactly where I wanted to be.

24

MASTER MULTITASKER

Drea and I were stuck.

Literally and figuratively stuck.

It had been two weeks since making the connection between One Potato Twenty and ABC and we weren’t any closer to getting the next clue. This was the treasure hunt’s biggest setback by far. I didn’t see how we could possibly continue, but she refused to officially call off our quest. Drea’s unrelenting determination led us to the Cabbage Patch catacombs before breakfast.

“We are so close!” she insisted. “I can feel it!”

All I felt was glued to the floor. My loafers and Drea’s stilettos were equally ill-equipped to navigate the gummy, scummy linoleum. Moist sucking sounds followed us with every step, a nauseating noise I hadn’t noticed over the blare of Vanilla Ice the last time I was down here. And had it reeked so strongly of stale beer and body odor?

“Let’s get some lights on down here,” Drea said.

She hit the switch. Full fluorescent illumination did not do the Cabbage Patch any architectural or aesthetic favors.

“Ewwww.”

Drea took a wide berth around the couch of dubious hygiene. Each cushion showcased a different stomach-turning mosaic of smudges, smears, and stains. I took small comfort in knowing there was no way Troy or his ex had come away from their dry hump without contracting a highly contagious