Troy and I slowed down in front of a pyramid of Billboard Hot 100 CDs displayed in the window of Sam Goody. Among all the usual, commercially successful but terrible suspects—Color Me Badd, Poison, Wilson Phillips—I was pleased and quite surprised to see a poster promoting Morrissey’s newest release. The shot was taken from below, the photographer on his knees, the Moz all in black, rising up against the backdrop of a cloud, arms outstretched in a way that, for me—and I wasn’t religious at all—evoked a priest performing a benediction.
“I’ll drown myself in the Wishing Well if we don’t get tickets,” I said solemnly, referring to the chlorinated fountain where shoppers literally threw their money away. Pennies, mostly. But still.
Troy picked up the pace, easily overtaking a pack of power walkers. My wobbly legs struggled to keep up.
“It would be fun for us to see his show in New York City,” I said. “Not, like, fun fun, because, you know, Morrissey, but, like, depressing fun.”
Troy stopped so abruptly, his curls quivered. He looked to the Piercing Pagoda’s lone employee for reinforcement, but she was too preoccupied with a paperback Danielle Steel novel to take any interest in the teen relationship drama playing out right in front of her.
At last, his innocent blue eyes met mine.
“Let’s just get through the summer.”
Those were the final words I heard before taking a violent blast of cucumber-melon body spray
right
to
the
friggin’
face.
2
BAD HUMORS
In the immediate aftermath of the assault, I expected an apology.
Of course, I assumed it was an accident, an honest mistake made by a trigger-happy Bath & Body Works newbie who would thank me profusely for not bitching to her boss because she really, really needed this job. But I was wrong. Oh, so wrong. There would be no apology, no gratitude from the itty-bitty blonde with the crispy bangs. Only this unmistakable battle cry:
“Die, Mono Bitch!”
Followed by two more shots to the face and one to the chest.
The tiny sniper struck all my important orifices—eyes, mouth, nostrils, ears—leaving me gagging and gasping for air.
“Hell, no!” Troy yelled. “Hell, no!”
At least that’s what I thought he was saying, but who could tell for certain with all my senses clogged by a cucumber-melon fog. Troy took me by the arm to the relative safety of the break room at America’s Best Cookie. I splashed cold water on my face at the Employees Only sink.
“Did you get a good look at the wild animal that did this to me?”
I wiped my nose and blotted my eyes with a rough paper towel. My sight slowly adjusted to the break room’s patriotic décor, a kaleidoscopic riot of red, white, and blue. Troy’s face was still too blurry to read.
I wish I could say I had figured it out at that point. But this was Troy. My trustworthy boyfriend, Troy, who had dependably called me every day, twice a day, during my quarantine. One call before work and a second call after. Like clockwork. Literally. The phone rang at 9:45 a.m. and 6:15 p.m., and Troy gave me a rundown of his day, regardless of whether he had anything interesting to share or not.
“So random, right?”
“It didn’t seem random,” I said. “She screamed, ‘Die, Mono Bitch.’”
“What?” Troy asked. “Are you sure?”
I held my head under the faucet, swished water around my mouth, and spit it out.
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
“No, it was definitely: ‘Try Melon Spritz,’” Troy replied. “Maybe the mono damaged your eardrums.”
I doubted very much that mononucleosis had damaged my eardrums. And that became obvious enough when I very clearly heard the killer right outside the door.
“I know you’re in there, Mono Bitch!” And then, most significantly, “I know you’re in there, Troy!”
“Troy?”
“Open the door, Mono Bitch!” She pounded furiously on the door. “Open the door, Troy!”
I still hoped against hope that Dr. Barry Baumann had misjudged my recovery. Perhaps I was still gravely ill, unable to distinguish fantasy from reality. An aural hallucination had to be the only explanation for what was happening.
“You thought you could sneak around with Mono Bitch, and I wouldn’t find out? Well, guess what, Troy? I’m everywhere!”
“Just give me a second, okay?” Troy pleaded. “I can explain everything.”
Before I could process or protest his request, he slipped out the door to face the madwoman on the other side. There were a few seconds of incoherent shrieking, followed by sudden silence. Against my better judgment, I crept to the door and peeked out the small window. I half expected to see a cucumber-melon spritz murder-suicide crime scene. What I saw was worse.
Way worse.
My boyfriend of two years had subdued my executioner by shoving his tongue in her mouth.
My head got hot and fuzzy, like I was coming down with mono for the second time this summer. I definitely would’ve chosen another trip to the emergency room over this. Okay, maybe I had actually died from the mono and was now living in my own personal hell? Appropriately enough, that was when I heard the creepiest whisper in the underworld.
“Fat-Free Fudgie.”
I turned around and would’ve screamed if I’d had the ability to scream. I was apparently being haunted by a female poltergeist pierced at the eyebrow, nose, and lip.
“Fat-Free Fudgie.”
The monotone was equal parts talking calculator and the teacher futilely taking Ferris Bueller … Bueller … Bueller’s attendance on his titular day off. Her haunted appearance and affect were so at odds with her rah, rah, rah America’s Best Cookie apron that I laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of what my life had become. But Ghost Girl didn’t flinch. She kept her tray steady, right under my nose.
“They’re fat-free. And fudgie.” She swirled the tray beneath my nostrils. “Fat-free. And fudgie.”
Her tongue was pierced too. And her ink-black hair was swept up in a hairnet, which somehow enhanced the overall creepy occult vibe.
“Fat-free…” Swirl … swirl … swirl. “And fudgie.”
Troy reentered the room. And he wasn’t alone.
“Cassandra, we need to talk.”
He and the miniature murderess were holding hands. And by that, I mean all four hands, all twenty fingers tightly interlocked in a way that didn’t seem at all romantic, but more like an improvised form of restraint. The assassin smiled at me menacingly, but at least I could see that she was unarmed.
Troy turned to Ghost Girl.
“Zoe, can you give us some privacy?”
“Ms. Gomez,” Ghost Girl corrected.
Troy sighed. “Ms. Gomez, can you give us some privacy?”
Without further acknowledging Troy, Ghost Girl—aka Zoe, aka Ms. Gomez—set down the tray of samples on a nearby table. Then she floated toward me, pressed a cold hand on my shoulder, and whispered what I’d hoped would be words of wisdom from beyond the grave.
“Fat-Free Fudgie.”
I don’t know why I expected anything different.
“Cassandra.” Troy stood straight and tall, projecting the matter-of-fact confidence I’d seen him use to great advantage as the lead attorney for the Legal Seagulls. “Meet Helen.”