The Mall - Megan McCafferty Page 0,44
someone for dropping out, but…”
“Cassie!” Drea rattled the box so hard, ribbons shook loose from the doll’s pigtails. “I’m not listening!”
Drea’s lack of interest was disappointing. Worse, her dismissal made me feel silly for wanting to discuss these latest developments in the first place. And the more I thought about it—and I had plenty of time to think about it as I monotonously opened and closed box after box and box—she was right. This wasn’t hot gossip. Sam and I weren’t hooking up—we were barely even friends. We were two fans of Morrissey and low-level anarchy who’d spoken for a grand total of maybe an hour over two weeks.
And yet …
I kept going back every day. I didn’t want to spend my breaks with anyone else. Then again, there weren’t any better options within 900,000 square feet to choose from. Was I drawn to Sam Goody for who he was? Or for who he wasn’t?
“Can we at least put on some music or something?” I asked. “I’m pretty sure I saw a boom box back there.”
“What about not attracting any attention don’t you understand? If someone finds us down here, they could snatch the treasure right out from under us.”
“That can only happen if we find the next clue…”
“Exactly!” Drea tapped her letter opener twice against my temple. Not so hard it hurt, but just enough to make a point. “Now get to work!”
I didn’t understand why Drea was so fixated on this quest. I saw the numbers: Drea wasn’t hurting for cash. Her weekly earnings tripled mine and not for nepotistic reasons either. Her mother had an uncanny knack for choosing inventory—the store turned a profit because it never had too little or too much merchandise—but it was still up to Drea to sell it. And she earned an impressive commission doing just that.
With that money, Drea invested in an endless wardrobe, an unrivaled collection of makeup and hair products, and standing appointments for tanning, highlights, and manicures at Casino Full Service Beauty Salon. Since sophomore year, she’d been living rent-free in what was essentially her own apartment—with its own separate side entrance—on the ground floor of Gia’s three-story bayfront condo. Within days of getting her license, she was screeching through the Pineville High parking lot, gleefully terrorizing pedestrians in a shiny Mazda Miata.
I had to admit, when she picked me up in her cherry-red convertible that morning—top up because the wind would wreck her hair—I felt all caught up on the summer I missed out on because of mono. I finally got my 90210 moment, albeit an unaired episode in which rad Dylan McKay takes pity on sad, sad Scott Scanlon and takes him for a spin. But unlike those Beverly Hills brats, Drea wasn’t spoiled. I knew for a fact that she had started saving for that car when she was ten years old. What other fifth-grade girl taped a poster of a red convertible above her bed?
“Putting it near my pillow makes dreams come true,” she had explained.
“Because that’s where you sleep?”
She smiled, showing off several thousand dollars’ worth of Worthy Orthodontia.
“I knew you’d get it.”
Inspired by that conversation, I hung my NYC subway map in the same prime spot, where it had remained to that very day. Drea, on the other hand, kept new dreams coming. The summer before sixth grade, she replaced the convertible with a color newspaper photo of a wunderkind in short shorts who’d shocked the world at Wimbledon.
“Boris Becker?” I asked. “You don’t even like tennis.”
“I like him.”
It was the first time I’d seen Drea go all googly-eyed over a guy. At seventeen, he was the youngest male singles player to win that or any other Grand Slam tournament. Boris was replaced by New Jersey’s second most famous rocker, Jon Bon Jovi. After JBJ came Kirk Cameron and a string of even more forgettable boys from even worse sitcoms, followed by whoever happened to be BOP magazine’s Hunk of the Month. I don’t know who she traded up for after the Coreys because that’s when I stopped being invited over to her house.
I was still contemplating all this two tedious hours later. Only after every box had been opened and all 120 birth certificates verified did Drea finally speak.
“This blows.”
No maps. No clue. No treasure.
“Are you ready to call it off?” I asked.
“No.”
“Why do you need this money?” I asked.
Drea cracked her gum. “Who doesn’t want money?”
Money was never that important to me. This was the privilege of always growing up