back into the now-still recliner. No, I would not be shelling out for the Miracle At-Home Massage Chair. What I really needed was another trip to bliss in Sam Goody’s Chevette. All week I’d found myself wandering past the music store, even though I knew he wouldn’t be there. He wouldn’t be back for another day, but signs of him were all around the store if you knew where to look. The zines hidden in the magazine rack or the Pixies CD he’d snuck into the Billboard Top 40 window display. I nearly swooned at the sight of red clearance tags on soundtracks no one wanted to listen to from sequels no one wanted to see: Ghostbusters II. Short Circuit 2. Caddyshack II.
Sam Goody could be anywhere between Pineville and Cambridge. And even if he were home, I couldn’t call him anyway because I didn’t have his phone number. That’s right. I was officially the type of girl who made out with someone I didn’t know well enough to exchange digits.
My eyes were still closed, but I sensed someone standing over me. For the briefest, most beautiful moment I believed it was Sam Goody. He’d come to the mall a day early to surprise me, to put this vibrating recliner to its most arousing use …
“Cassandra!”
I got the exact opposite of what I wanted. I kept my eyes closed, though I knew it would do me little good.
“I told you to stop calling me that, Troy.”
“Fine, Cassie,” he huffed. “Why do you want my SAT prep book?”
“Our SAT prep book,” I corrected.
“You want a joint-custody agreement?”
Even with my eyes shut, I knew he had a shit-eating grin, the one smeared across his face whenever he thought he was being particularly witty.
“No,” I said. “I don’t want it at all. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then why did Drea Bellarosa of all people come to my workplace and demand that I hand it over?”
Whoa. A trip to the library and an SAT prep book? Drea was even more serious about FIT than I could have ever imagined. I clutched the arms of the massage chair and held on for dear life. But I would not give him the satisfaction of opening my eyes.
“She’s applying to the Fashion Institute of Technology,” I said, “and I’m helping her.”
Troy was overcome by piggish snorts of laughter.
“Drea Bellarosa? In college?”
Another round of bovine hilarity.
“Didn’t she fail gym? I mean, fashion school isn’t even real school, but I don’t think they would lower their standards that far.”
It should be noted that some of the “lesser Ivies” didn’t meet Troy’s definition of a “real school.” If pressed, I’m sure he had chauvinistic opinions of Barnard as “okay for a girl school.” And yet, he wasn’t wrong about Drea’s prospects. It was that thin-envelope inevitability that had led me to this massage chair nightmare in the first place.
“Drea Bellarosa is a Pineville lifer,” Troy said definitively. “She’ll never be college material. The mall is her pitiful destiny.”
I wouldn’t have used those exact words. But Troy was saying out loud what I’d kept to myself since agreeing to help her. I squeezed my eyes even tighter as if to prevent—and protect—me from seeing the truth of this situation I’d put myself in.
“Look,” Troy continued. “You can pretend all you want that you’re not interested in talking to me…”
“I’m not pretending.”
It was true. But it suddenly seemed very silly to keep my eyes closed. So I opened them slowly. And when my vision adjusted to the light, I was rewarded with the sight of Troy kneeling at my footrest. And he actually looked … apologetic?
“Okay, Cassie, here’s the truth: I’m sorry for how much I hurt you. Both you and I know that we are the only high-IQ intellectuals this lowbrow town has ever produced. There is an unbreakable bond between us.”
Troy intoned this with great gravity. I pictured him rehearsing in the mirror at home. Was there any truth to it?
“I know you feel totally lost without the plan.” His voice was escalating. He was building up to his final argument. “Let’s get back to building our future. We are a power couple, stronger together than we are apart.”
Troy took my hand in his. His touch felt cold and rubbery and lifeless, reminding me of the fetal pig we dissected in AP Biology. As a vegetarian, I should have refused to experiment on animals for ethical reasons. Instead, I picked up the scalpel without complaint. Why? Because