with just enough—but not too much—of it. New York City was home to some of the worst rich people on the planet. And yet, with a few thousand dollars, I could live large in ways otherwise unaffordable to a college student on the budget. Like taking a cab downtown instead of the 1 train. Or seeing Broadway shows that were still too popular for half-priced matinees. Maybe even renting an apartment near campus next summer, getting an unpaid internship at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, and never going back to work at the mall. But it hardly seemed worth even fantasizing about a treasure I didn’t believe in.
But Drea very clearly did.
“You must have big plans for the money,” I insisted, “or the treasure hunt wouldn’t matter so much to you.”
Another spearmint snap. I’d struck a nerve.
“You dragged me into this,” I said. “The least you can do is tell me why.”
Drea nervously drummed her fingernails on a shelf. The ping-ping-ping of acrylics on metal was the only sound.
“The witch knows more than she’s letting on. She’s avoiding us.”
Just like you’re avoiding the truth about the treasure hunt, I thought.
“Zoe’s probably avoiding arrest,” I replied instead.
After running into Zoe at seemingly every turn, she had all but vanished from the mall recently.
“If I were her, I’d want full credit,” Drea said.
Zoe’s role in Slade Johnson’s hospitalization was purely speculative on our part. Without a confession from the man himself, there wasn’t any proof that she had anything to do with it. Physically, Slade was fine. He was never at risk of dying from too much beta-carotene—only embarrassment. After calling out sick for two weeks, he grudgingly returned to work with a complexion best described as “Dorito dust.”
“Speaking of orange,” Drea said, hooking her arm through mine and leading me toward the exit. “You should swing by Orange Julius on your break. Buy one for Sam Goody. Surprise him at work…”
“Waaaaaait!” Now I was the one shaking Drea’s shoulders. “I thought you weren’t listening to me!”
“Of course I was listening to you,” Drea replied. “Bellarosas are master multitaskers.”
“Then why couldn’t we talk about him and hunt treasure?” I asked. “Why did we work in silence?”
“Because I am a master multitasker,” Drea said, stepping into the elevator. “You are not.”
Was Drea being insulting? Or insightful?
I was so stymied by the question that I barely got inside the elevator before the doors shut on me.
25
ROMANTIC AND TRAGIC
Bellarosa Boutique was busier than ever in the weeks leading up to the Back-to-School Fashion Show. This was the mall’s biggest event of the summer and a very lucrative day for the store. I thought Bellarosa’s participation was kind of ridiculous, though. The boutique was a popular destination for homecoming dresses and prom gowns, but Drea was the only girl at Pineville High who’d actually worn its clothes to school. That she was voted Best Dressed in a landslide only reinforced how Bellarosa’s aesthetic was far more aspirational than practical.
Running the Back-to-School Fashion Show was a huge deal. Gia had to find models who’d walk the runway for free—mostly from the deep pool of Bellarosa cousins, but still, a time-consuming job—pull, style, and make alterations to their looks; choose the music; massage egos (“I’m not trying to make you look uglier than your sister, so put on those jodhpurs and shut your gawddamn mouth!”); and do it all in six-inch stilettos. While Gia focused on these logistics, Drea covered the appointment-only fittings and pop-in business from regulars. As hectic as it got, I never imagined I’d be of any use outside the back office until Gia commanded me to action.
“Cassie! I need you on the floor right now!”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you,” Gia said, taking me by the arm. “By special request.”
“Special request? Who would special request me? I’m not even a salesgirl.”
“This gentleman thinks you are,” Gia replied, dragging me away from the computer.
From the tiniest seed of desire, hope half bloomed in my heart. Sam Goody?
“Cassandra!”
All hope shriveled in my chest. I was humiliated by my own imagination.
“Frank.”
My father was wearing his typical off-duty attire: plaid shorts and a golf shirt with an embroidered tooth where a Polo pony would normally be. I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks. What was he doing here?
“Shouldn’t you be at work right now?” I asked.
“My eleven o’clock canceled,” he said. “Which gave me the perfect opportunity to slip out to go shopping.”
Oh, no no no. I was not getting involved with building another parent’s post-divorce wardrobe. No way would I help him