“Maaaaaa,” Drea objected. “We’ve got a reputation to uphold…”
Gia shushed her.
“Let’s help each other out, Cassie.” Gia extended her palm. “I need a temporary bookkeeper and you need a job.”
Could this handshake get my life back on track? I highly doubted it. But I couldn’t go home until I had somewhere to be every day for the rest of the summer. And what other options did I have?
Drea rolled her eyes as I took her mother’s hand.
“Just show up when the mall opens at ten tomorrow wearing whatever makes you feel comfortable and confident,” Gia instructed. “At Bellarosa Boutique, we encourage all women to be the best possible versions of themselves.”
“Riiiiight,” Drea said. “Which is why Mona Troccola fuels her workouts with vodka, lettuce, and cigarettes.”
We turned to look through the opened door at the opposite side of the store, where one of Bellarosa’s most dedicated customers rotated in front of a three-way mirror. In a brown suede halter top and matching pants, Mona resembled an anatomy skeleton draped in deli meat.
“If that new outfit brings Mona a moment of peace,” Gia whispered, “mission accomplished.”
Gia built a successful business on a simple philosophy: Purchases equal empowerment. Bellarosa customers found fulfillment through fashion, achieved self-actualization through accessorization. I’d take the job. But other than a paycheck, I was beyond Bellarosa’s help. No article of clothing could transform me into the best possible version of myself. How could it? After the past two days, I didn’t have a clue who I even was anymore.
Or if I ever did.
6
NERD OLYMPICS
As much as I looked forward to a carless existence in Manhattan, not all mass transportation systems were created equal. The thought of taking Pineville public transit to and from work every day was downright depressing. A ten-minute drive by car took nearly an hour by bus, so hitching rides with my parents was still by far the best option.
“When does Troy’s seasonal assistant management training come to an end?” asked Kathy.
“Soon?”
“You should attend those meetings with him,” said Frank. “Show them you’re seasonal assistant management material.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
The air was already swampy, and I was pretty much soaked by the time I walked all the way around the parking lot and reached the automatic doors to J. C. Penney. The thermostat was set to Christmas, and I was not at all prepared for the drastic drop in temperature. I shivered in the arctic air conditioning—more of a full-blown seizure than an ordinary chill—and vowed to bring a sweatshirt from then on.
One advantage to working at Bellarosa? It was the last place my ex or Helen or anyone would think to find me. Unfortunately, the food court was the congested heart of the mall, located in Concourse D in the dead center of the map. The most direct path to Bellarosa—a straight line from Sears via Concourse C—was not an option because I couldn’t risk running into Troy on his way to America’s Best Cookie. Instead, I went in through J. C. Penney, took an escalator, traversed Upper Level Concourse B, and came back down in an elevator that deposited me right in front of Unz Unz Alley. And I wasn’t above ducking behind mannequins and peeking around potted plants whenever I thought I caught a glimpse of the kind of overbleached hair that was, unfortunately, all too popular among Jersey girls in the summer of 1991. I was so focused on avoiding Helen (mostly) and Troy (somewhat) that I was blind to anyone who didn’t fit their specific descriptions. So that’s why I didn’t realize I was being followed until it was already too late.
“Hey, you!” Sam Goody ran up alongside me.
I was annoyed by his face and the interruption. In that order.
“You’re the opposite of loitering this morning,” he said breathlessly. “I could hardly keep up.”
“So?”
It was 10:05. I literally did not have time for this. I wasn’t psyched to start my new job, but at the very least I could avoid unfavorable comparisons to No-Good Crystal by being punctual.
Sam Goody swept a hand through his impressive upswell of hair. Then he gestured toward the words VIVA HATE written across my chest. It was the title of my favorite Morrissey album.
“I guess this proves you’re a fan after all.” He raised an eyebrow like he expected me to be grateful for his approval. Where did he get off thinking his opinion mattered to me at all?
“I didn’t wear this shirt to prove anything to you.”
Then I walked away without waiting for a response. This bizarre and unwanted interaction was my first hint that 900,000 square feet was not nearly big enough to avoid all the people I never wanted to see again.
Gia was too preoccupied with a busty silver-haired lady to notice my arrival at Bellarosa Boutique. The client posed on a raised platform in front of the three-way mirror, lifting a red-and-black ball gown up to mid-thigh like a can-can dancer.
“Can you make it short in the front but keep it long in the back?”
The mullet of dresses, I thought. Classy.
“You ask, we alter,” Gia cooed. “Your mother-of-the-bride look will be as chic and unique as you are!”
Drea emerged from behind a rack of zip-front corsets to share her opinion.
“YAAAAWWWWNNNNNNNNNNNNAAAAHHHH.”
And it wasn’t a subtle yawn either, but the kind that required full over-the-head arm extension and at least three distinct stages of throaty vocalization.
Today’s ensemble was even more incredible than yesterday’s catsuit. And by incredible, I mean the true definition of the word, as in impossible to believe. It was literally impossible for me to believe that someone my age could get away with wearing a rhinestone-encrusted military jacket and matching micro mini. And yet, there Drea was, wearing the hell out of it.
“Cassie! You made it!” Gia trotted over to give me a hug. “Drea will show you the books while I assist Francine here.”
“Ma! How about I handle Francine while you show her the books?”
Gia gritted her teeth while Francine watched with gossipy interest.
“How about you do what I say for a change?” She turned to Francine. “Does your daughter give you such headaches?”
“A more ungrateful bride the world has never seen.” Francine hoisted her cleavage. “After all the dough her father and I are sinking into this wedding…”
Drea cracked her gum and turned toward the back office. I took this as my cue to follow.
“I didn’t mention this yesterday, but I’m already familiar with accounting software because I was the treasurer for…”
Drea didn’t even pretend to listen to my credentials. She dug elbow-deep into the bottom drawer of a file cabinet and scooped out a jumbled armload of loose-leaf paper, unopened envelopes, crumpled receipts, assorted candy bar wrappers, and who knew what else.
“The books,” Drea said dryly. “Good luck.”
She brusquely dropped the mess on the desk and was out the door before I could let out a gasp of dissent. No-Good Crystal was even worse at her job than I’d imagined. How could I turn this disorganized pile into data I could put into a spreadsheet? I’d have to tell Gia that this was a formidable task for a professional accounting firm, let alone a recent high school graduate with minimal bookkeeping experience.