And yet, as I sifted through the pile, I thought about my Odyssey of the Mind training. Whenever we were perplexed by a particular problem, we were encouraged to take a small, doable step instead of just sitting around and thinking so hard. Ironically, by doing and not thinking, our brains got all stimulated and came up with ideas we wouldn’t have thought of otherwise. At least that was the theory.
In this case, I started by isolating and disposing of all the candy bar wrappers. Evidently, Crystal favored Snickers bars (twenty-eight wrappers) but also enjoyed Baby Ruths (thirteen) and PayDays (six) now and then. Tossing them out made a significant dent in the pile.
Next, I moved on to separating bills and receipts from the loose-leaf papers covered in Crystal’s scrawls. At a glance, all those numbers and letters and symbols looked like gibberish. Making sense of it was the most daunting task and the one I’d tackle last. It was much easier to track the invoices because they were usually printed on yellow or pink attention-getting paper and, okay, I won’t bore you with any more of my methods except to say that I was pretty proud of myself for sorting it all out.
The process took hours, an entire shift in fact, only interrupted by a brief lunch break spent eating a cheese-and-tomato sandwich out of a paper bag in Bellarosa’s back office. But I didn’t mind the work. I hadn’t exercised my brain in six weeks, and it felt really good to get it working again. I was sort of disappointed when Gia and Drea came in around six to tell me my shift was over.
“Oh really? I hoped I’d have time to play around with the Mac.” I pointed to the beige computer in the corner. “By the way, did you get the memory expansion card?”
“Oh my gawd,” Drea said. “You’re an even bigger nerd than I thought.”
Gia smacked Drea in the back of the head.
“Manners, Drea!” Gia turned to me. “You know how to use this thing?”
“Sure,” I said. “You don’t?”
“Nah,” Gia said. “It was a gift from the manager of Electronics Universe.”
“A gift?” This computer must have been worth more than two thousand dollars.
“Drea dated him for a while,” Gia explained.
Drea picked at nonexistent lint on her sleeve. “He was trying to impress me.”
“Did it work?” I ask.
Gia arched an eyebrow.
“Nothing impresses my daughter.”
Drea inspected her cuticles.
“Ma made me keep the thing ’cause she thinks it makes the office look more professional.”
“You’d be surprised how many people don’t take me seriously,” Gia said.
I nearly laughed out loud before realizing they weren’t kidding.
“I guess I can start a spreadsheet tomorrow.” I shrugged.
“You really made sense of this mess?” Drea asked incredulously.
“Crystal created her own code.”
“A code?” Drea pulled a face. “It was a bunch of scribbles.”
“I thought so at first,” I said. “But then I realized Crystal’s code had an internal logic to it. Like, once I figured out that the smiley faces meant receivables and the upside-down crosses meant payables, it all kind of came together.”
“Why would she make up this wacky code?” Gia asked.
“Cocaine,” Drea answered.
“To make herself invaluable to the organization,” I replied. “If she was the only one who understood the finances, she thought she could never be fired.”
“It also helped make it easier for her to steal from us,” Gia remarked.
“Exactly,” I replied.
“And you can put all of Crystal’s mess into the computer?” She rapped the monitor with the gold rings on her knuckles.
“Sure, that’s what it’s made for,” I said. “Once I enter all the data, you’ll be able to use the same template from month to month.”
“Fate!” Gia threw her arms around me. “I knew I was right to hire you!”
Then she hustled out of the office to greet an incoming customer. I expected Drea to follow her mother, but she stayed behind instead.
“Your team did good at that Nerd Olympics, huh?”
“You mean Odyssey of the Mind?”
Drea crossed her eyes as a way of saying, Yes, nerd.
I cleared my throat and kept going.
“Well, this year’s team should have qualified for state but…”
“Ahhh!” She waved her hands wildly. “I don’t care!”
Drea’s reaction wasn’t unusual. Very few people were interested in a detailed rundown of the interscholastic power rankings for Odyssey of the Mind.
“I just need to know if you’re really good at solving riddles and stuff.”
“I guess so.”
She broke out into a stunning smile, the kind that could turn any crush into a conquest. Drea Bellarosa was a Worthy Orthodontics and Pediatric Dentistry success story if there ever was one.
“You and I should spend some quality time together,” she said. “Like, after I’m finished up here.”
“Um, okay,” I said. “I think I’m available.”
“I know you are,” she said.
If she weren’t right, I might have been offended.
7
THE CABBAGE PATCH
We took the service elevator down, down, down to the second basement. This was a level I didn’t know existed. A level not listed on the mall’s directory. Level Z.
“Are we allowed to use this elevator?” I asked.
The doors slid open, and Drea took the lead through the narrow underground passageway.
“Are we allowed to go down here?”
She ignored this question too, ducked under a pipe, and pressed onward in the direction of a bassline bump-bump-bumping somewhere in the near distance. We were in the catacombs of the mall, and we weren’t alone. Someone had strung up Christmas lights along the ceiling to guide the way, but it was definitely not up to code down there.
“What if there’s a fire? How do we get out?”
The music was getting louder and clearer.
“Come on, come on.”
Marky Mark and the friggin’ Funky Bunch.
“Feel the vibration.”
I did. Literally, through the rattling ductwork. And I was close enough to make out the hum of conversation and bursts of laughter too.
“Is there really a party going on down here?”
I had barely finished asking this latest question when the skinny corridor opened wide.
“Welcome,” said Drea with a sweep of her hand, “to the Cabbage Patch.”
A couple in Foot Locker stripes made out on a low-slung tweed couch of dubious hygiene. Packs of Marlboros were being passed around what I assumed was the smoking section, as designated by the cinderblock wall decorated with photos of Naomi, Cindy, Linda, Claudia, and Christy—only the highest echelon of supermodel—posing sexily with cigarettes. Another small crowd gathered around a trash can from which Slade Johnson—yes, that Slade Johnson—ladled a questionable beverage into red Solo cups.
“Can ya feel it, baby?”
There was a party going on down here. Drea slipped away, and now, here I was, by myself, in the bowels of the mall, being offered a purple drink by Slade Johnson.