The Mall by Megan McCafferty

Author:Megan McCafferty
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

22

STRUTTERS

The Silver Strutters were putting on one hell of a show.

“Just look at those jazz squares,” I observed. “They must have gotten a new choreographer.”

“Stop stalling,” Drea said.

“Same old Glenn Miller big band songs, though. They could really use a new musical director if they want to maintain their status as Ocean County’s premiere senior citizen aerobic dance troupe…”

“Stop stalling.”

Then she nudged me in the general direction of America’s Best Cookie.

“Check one more time to make sure she’s really alone,” I said.

“Fine,” Drea agreed huffily.

Conundrum: I couldn’t get close enough to see who was working this shift without also getting close enough to be spotted by whoever was working this shift. Best case? Zoe was working alone. All other scenarios involved Troy or Helen or both and were automatically worst cases.

Drea came back from her reconnaissance flashing two thumbs up.

“Why are you making me do this?” I asked.

“You have a connection with Ghost Girl, not me,” she said. “She can give us the lowdown on Slade and help us with the next clue.”

“What makes you think she’ll tell me the truth about whatever she gave him?”

“The wink.” Drea used every muscle in her face to close her left eye, looking almost as ridiculous as Zoe had when she’d done the same. “She wanted you to know.”

Okay. There was no denying the wink. But I had one last line of defense.

“America’s Best Cookie totally renovated the potato place, so I highly doubt the next doll is even there anymore.”

“Maybe,” Drea conceded. “But we won’t know unless we try, right?”

“Unless I try.”

“Exactly.” Drea gave me a firmer push. “Now go!”

The Silver Strutters were marching in a V-formation now, waving American flags to the beat of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!

For these World War II vets, Fourth of July wasn’t simply a date on the calendar, it was a patriotic state of mind that lasted all month long. I tried to find inspiration in the music, girding myself like a soldier about to enter a war zone. Because despite Drea’s promise—that Zoe was by herself at America’s Best Cookie—this summer had taught me to expect the worst case even when the best case was supposed to be a guarantee.

I rounded the corner and learned that lesson in real time.

“Cassandra!”

Troy.

Friggin’.

Troy.

And nothing but open, empty space between us. Where was a crowd of pink tracksuits and little girls on leashes when I needed it?

“Cassandra!”

He was waving his arms in the air now, like a Silver Strutter without a flag. There was no way I could pretend I didn’t see and hear him calling for my attention. If Zoe had been there thirty seconds ago, she wasn’t there now. On the upside, Helen wasn’t there either. I turned back to where Drea stood and flipped her the bird.

Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!

My truth was marching on.

“Cassandra!” Troy said warmly.

“Troy,” I said coolly.

“You look great,” he said.

He looked exactly the same.

“I mean, you look healthy. That’s what I mean. I mean, you don’t look sick anymore. I mean…” He grabbed a Chocolate Chipper with a sleeve of wax paper.

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