The Mall - Megan McCafferty Page 0,58

of sun and fun. Zoe looked like she wandered away from a mausoleum.

“Not Slade, but close enough,” she explained. “See, I wasn’t always like this.”

She withdrew a photo from the inner pocket of her cloak. In it, a beaming french-braided girl posed with pom-poms on her hips in the green-and-yellow cheerleading uniform for Eastland High, Pineville’s crosstown rival. Drea and I examined the picture, then Zoe. The picture. Then Zoe again. A quadruple take was absolutely necessary.

“That’s who I was before.”

“Before what?” Drea and I asked.

“Before I was hurt by a boy just like Slade,” she said simply. “They’re all the same.”

I was instantly incensed. “What did he say about you?”

Zoe lifted her chin, literally holding her head high.

“It’s not what he said,” she said. “It’s what he did.”

Her words knocked me right off my feet.

Until that moment, I hadn’t considered the possibility that maybe I’d gotten off easy with just a rumor. Lots of girls have dealt with a lot worse at parties just like that one.

“From that point on, I vowed not to let any boys fuck with me,” Zoe continued. “Or anyone else.”

Drea literally bowed down in worship.

“Amen!”

She, too, was now fully indoctrinated in the Cult of Zoe, a new religion for feminist vigilantes.

“Don’t go anywhere!” Drea hustled out of the office.

Once we were alone, Zoe beckoned me forward.

“Next time you’re down in the dumper,” she whispered, “take time to look up.”

Was this a joke? Had Zoe gotten this koan off a greeting card? I almost laughed in her face. But when I looked into her tranquil, kohl-rimmed eyes, I knew she wasn’t messing around. Despite sounding awfully close to a Hallmark store cliché, her word choice was just strange and specific enough—the dumper?—to be persuasive. Zoe knew what she was saying. I just hadn’t, like, evolved to the point of understanding what she meant.

“Okay,” I said, trusting her words would make sense in time. “I’ll do that.”

Drea rushed back in with a crushed velvet scarf draped over her arm. It was extra-long and all black save for an interlocking vine design along the edge. The embroidery shimmered in a silvery thread that matched Zoe’s piercings.

“I want you to have this,” Drea said. “It’s from our fall collection.”

Zoe accepted Drea’s offering without protest.

“Thank you.”

She wrapped the scarf around her shoulders and pulled the ends tight across her body. This sumptuous embrace was so much worthier of a warrior goddess than the pathetic hug she would have received from me.

“I knew it was perfect for you.”

As always, Drea was right.

After Zoe glided away, Drea turned to me.

“Your mom’s out front.”

“Actually! I’m right here!” Kathy swept into the room and gasped at the sight of me. “Cassandra! You cut your hair! When did you cut your hair? Why did you cut your hair?”

We lived together, but hardly saw each other. If she hadn’t invaded my workspace, it’s possible Kathy wouldn’t have found out about my haircut until she drove me and my belongings to Barnard for orientation.

“I think it’s chic,” Drea said. “Don’t you?”

“It’s just…” Kathy forced a weak smile. “Different.”

I could’ve said the same about the brassy highlights in her hair, but I didn’t.

“Mo-om.” My tone was whinier than intended. “What are you doing here?”

She held up a Bellarosa Boutique shopping bag.

“Unfortunately, I need to make a return.”

She’d finally come to her senses. Mom was returning the bimbo dress because she was a sensible middle-aged dentist, not a horny divorcée …

Kathy held up a cashmere sweater in a pumpkin-orange shade known locally as “Slade.”

“Thankfully, Frank didn’t cut the tags,” Kathy said. “And kept the receipt.”

Wholesale, Gia got it for $150. It sold for $240. Fifty percent markup was the industry standard. Leave it to the Bellarosa ladies to push it up by ten percent—and convince shoppers they were getting a bargain.

“I knew this would happen,” said Drea. “I tried telling Frank that you’re a summer, like Cassie here, but he insisted on buying that sweater in orange.”

Because orange is her favorite color, I thought.

“Because he thinks orange is my favorite color,” Kathy said.

“It isn’t?” I asked.

Orange is your mother’s favorite color. I thought back to all the orange gifts I’d given her over the years: coffee mugs and beaded necklaces and potted marigolds …

“Nope,” Kathy answered. “Never has been. My favorite color is blue.”

Blue and orange are opposites on the color wheel. Like, you can’t get more different than blue and orange.

“I think we’ve got one in your size in cerulean…” Drea said.

For the first time since they