The Mall - Megan McCafferty Page 0,7

any of those things.

“I can learn!”

“I’ll teach her!” Then Slade got close enough that I could smell the coconut tanning oil that gave definition to the muscles in his shoulders, arms, and abdominals. “I’ll teach you everything I know.”

In two years of middle school and four years of high school, Slade had never, ever spoken to me. A peculiar sound escaped my lips that sounded strangely similar to … a giggle?

“Stop thinking with your wang for once,” Bethany snapped. “You’ll forget all about her as soon as the next set of tatas comes bouncing into the store.”

Slade slowly nodded. I couldn’t tell if he was agreeing with her or tracking the up-and-down tata bounce in his imagination. Either way was bad for me.

“Maybe try Sears?” Bethany adjusted the straps on her bikini top. “They look for your kind of knowledge of everything and nothing.”

“Sears?”

How dare she tell me to settle for a Steve Sanders! There were plenty of Dylan McKays that would be happy to have me. At the very least, I’d be willing to accept a solid offer from a Brandon Walsh but absolutely no lower than that. Sears was desperate, but I sure as hell wasn’t.

Not yet anyway.

I knocked over a revolving display of Oakleys on my way out. It was entirely an accident, but I didn’t apologize. I kept moving without looking back.

If I had Greek-myth Cassandra’s clairvoyance, I would’ve foreseen the next humiliating hours of my life. Please forgive me for bullet-pointing my embarrassment.

I couldn’t identify a single brand, shade, or formulation of foundation for sale at the Macy’s cosmetics counter, and I was shown a $25 bronzer highly recommended for brightening my pasty complexion, and perhaps I would be interested in purchasing a seven-piece Face for All Seasons Gift Set, which was on sale for the low, low price of $49.99 including the tote bag that came free with every Lancôme purchase, because with my warm undertones I was categorically a “spring” and I couldn’t help but consider what that meant on, like, an existential level because maybe my best season in life was already behind me.

The General Cinemas ticket-taker couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen a single film all summer, and when I blamed mono and tried to prove my love for the art form by recalling the last movie I’d watched in the theater, the first one that came to mind was Hudson Hawk, which was a piece of shit that I’d only agreed to see because Troy bribed me with popcorn and Jujyfruits and promised to come with me to see Thelma & Louise, which he never did and obviously never would.

When asked of my dishwashing experience, I very earnestly replied that I sometimes emptied the Kenmore at home without being asked and quickly followed up by inquiring about a hostess position that kept me far, far away from the kitchen and was therefore a better fit for my vegetarian lifestyle, and I was curtly informed that half a dozen shift leaders were already in line for that cushy job, and I’d have to work my way up the Ponderosa Steak & Ale organizational hierarchy from dishwasher to busser to food runner to server to shift leader, which could take years and I did not have that kind of time and also I was already nauseated by the smell of roasting animal flesh.

After the Ponderosa rejection, I circled back to the music store to worship at the altar of Morrissey. This, for anyone who knows anything about The Smiths front man turned solo artist, was counterintuitive at best and suicidal at worst. With legendarily morose songs like “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now,” the Moz was the go-to artist for wallowing in pain, not overcoming it. Perhaps it was for the best that the poster I had admired earlier had been removed from the display.

“You’re loitering.”

The Asian guy in the Sam Goody tee was technically correct. I was standing aimlessly with no intention to buy. But I also wasn’t bothering anybody either. Except, evidently, him.

“You’re loitering,” Sam Goody repeated. “If you step inside, another one of our sales associates can provide you with all the Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch merchandise your heart desires.”

With his pompadour, rockabilly boots, and black jeans rolled just so, there was no question who had put the Morrissey poster in the window. Maybe he knew why it had been removed.

“For your information,” I said, “I came here looking for Morrissey…”

Sam Goody spasmed with laughter.

“Oh, because you’re so deep?”