pride of coliseum lions,
all rolled into one
and
taking the form of an ex–best friend hell-bent on revenge.
42
THE DUMPER
I had to credit mall security for how swiftly they got the situation under control.
It took four full-grown men to stop Drea from trying to drown me in the Wishing Well. In their defense, their training course hadn’t covered common protocol for two teenage girls wrestling each other to the death, so it must have been challenging for them to separate victim from perpetrator. If Gia hadn’t intervened, Drea probably would have been hauled off kicking and screaming to the county jail. Only someone with years of experience in breaking up domestic disturbances could have successfully herded the two of us back to Bellarosa.
“What the hell has gotten into you?” Gia screeched at her daughter.
We shook in silence, sopping wet and still in shock. Rivulets of black mascara ran down Drea’s face, as I imagined it must’ve run down mine.
“WHAT. THE. HELL. HAS. GOTTEN. INTO. YOU?”
Gia hadn’t touched her, but Drea rebounded as if she’d been smacked in the back of the head.
“I was defending Bellarosa’s reputation!”
“By making us look like trash?” Gia asked. “Do you have any idea how close you were to getting arrested? You’re lucky I keep up with my annual donations to the Policemen’s Benevolent Association!”
“That rat”—Drea thrust a talon in my direction—“has no respect for our store and did not deserve to represent our family on the runway.”
I was still livid with Drea. I only felt guilty about Gia. She worked too hard to get all caught up in our drama.
“Gia,” I began, “I’m so sorry—”
Drea shut me up with a lethal look.
“Where’s my apology? For using me to get what you wanted when you knew you’d never help me get what I wanted? For leading me on about FIT?”
“FIT?” Gia asked. “As in the Fashion Institute of Technology? In the city?”
Judging by her puzzled expression, this was the first Gia had heard of her daughter’s ambitions beyond the boutique.
“Don’t worry about it, Ma, I’m not going anywhere,” Drea said. “Some of us, like Cassandra here, are college material. But I’m a Pineville lifer. The mall is my pitiful destiny.”
College material …
Pineville lifer …
Pitiful destiny …
My insides twisted in delayed recognition of Troy’s words.
“Your boyfriend’s voice carries,” Drea explained without me having to ask. “Doug heard you all the way across Electronics Universe. He recorded you two lovebirds on his portable tape recorder and played it back for me.”
“Troy is not my boyfriend,” I replied defensively. “And I didn’t say any of those things about you.”
“That’s right! You didn’t say anything! You didn’t defend me against his attacks because you agree with him. Just admit it. You knew all along FIT would never lower its standards to accept a lowbrow townie like me.” She used more of Troy’s words as weapons. “And that’s why you didn’t show up at the library. You couldn’t bother pretending anymore but didn’t have the balls to tell me to my face.”
Drea stared me down for a few interminable seconds. Water dripped from her gloppy bangs onto her nose, but she didn’t flinch. Even when she was more bedraggled than bedazzled, there was still no fiercer force to be reckoned with.
“I’m—”
“You know what? Keep your apologies,” Drea said. “Because the only thing you regret is wasting your summer slumming with a slutty dummy who will never do any better than the Parkway Center Mall.”
When she turned and walked away, I felt in my gut it would be the last time I’d watch her go. Drea Bellarosa was the undisputed queen of dramatic exits and always would be.
It was impossible to meet Gia’s gaze.
“When you let my daughter down,” she said frankly, “you let me down.”
Then she handed me a clean towel and left me alone.
I dragged myself into the bathroom. I needed to get out of these wet clothes, but I couldn’t muster the energy to undress. When I felt brave enough to look in the mirror, I gasped at my own reflection, which was far worse than I could have even imagined. At some point during my near-death experience, I must’ve smacked my mouth against the concrete. My upper right front tooth was beyond chipped—roughly half of it was gone, presumably swallowed or sitting among the pennies at the bottom of the fountain. I ran my tongue along the jagged diagonal. It was a bloodless—but traumatic—injury.
I put the lid down on the toilet, sat, and sobbed.
Why did it matter if Drea hated me?