It's a Mall World After All (3 page)

When I came back to California at the beginning of my junior year, most of the class didn't even recognize me. A lot of the popular guys tried to hit on me. Like yeah, I was going to forget about the two years of hell they'd put me through.

So am I carrying a grudge? Maybe. Do I have it out for the guys in my school? No. I just have no use for them. Apparently Brianna didn't see the finer points of this philosophy; but still, she ought to know I could tell whether her boyfriend was flirting with another girl or not—after all, he'd been one of the popular boys who'd tried to hit on me.

In calculus class Mr. Hermansky handed back our last test. I got a 96. Colton got a 100. Normally he would have flaunted this fact at me at least once during class, but he didn't even look my way today.

I guess guilt takes all the fun out of gloating.

As I walked out into the hallway after class he came up next to me. "Hey, don't forget about the NHS meeting tomorrow before school."

I didn't turn my head. "Are you speaking to me, Colton? I mean, even though it's obvious, I wouldn't want to be accused of jumping to the wrong conclusions again."

He let out a sigh. "Yes, I'm speaking to you."

"Well, it's too bad then that I'm not speaking to you."

Even though I walked quickly, he kept pace beside me. "Don't be this way, Charlotte. It's not like Bryant and Brianna are married. He's allowed to talk to other girls."

"Is that what you told Brianna—that Bryant is allowed to talk to other girls? Funny, when she told me about the conversation, it sounded more like, 'Charlotte is trying to break Bryant and Brianna up.'"

"Aren't you?" he asked, as though a denial from me would be a surprise.

"No, I just thought she should know the truth about Bryant."

"And you know the truth about him? I'm amazed you could tell that from your vantage point in the cosmetics aisle at Bloomingdale's."

This is what I call Colton's disdainful-intellectual defense. Just the lift of his eyebrow said, I'm thoughtfully considering not only the black and white of the issue but also every spattering of gray in between, while you, my friend, are a conclusion-jumping dolt.

I had seen him act this way too many times during history debates to be intimidated by it now. "Brianna can believe all of your convoluted excuses if she wants, but you and I know what really happened."

He shrugged, and it was the easy shrug of victory. "Yes, but you and I don't decide anything about Bri­anna's relationship with Bryant. She does, and she wants to believe my convoluted excuses." With a parting smile he added, "Try not to be late for tomorrow's NHS meeting. We're forming committees for the winter holidays dance." Then he turned and walked down a different hallway.

I watched him and his smooth underworld spy walk until he disappeared from sight. He thought I had no choice but to accept that he'd won.

Which was just one more thing he was wrong about.

Colton would be at Candice's party on Saturday. I was willing to bet Bryant would be there too. And so, one way or another, I was crashing that party. If a picture is worth a thousand words, one picture from my cell phone had to be worth a whole bucketful of Bryant's excuses.

It's not that I was mad at Candy for dating Greg. We met while my mother was working on an interior design project for Greg's father's office. He liked me because I was tall and pretty. I liked him because he was rich.

That probably sounds wrong. I mean, it wasn't that I thought he would buy me expensive gifts, or marry me, or something. He just seemed so different from me. Stepping into his world was like visiting some exotic country. I wasn't a gold digger. I was a tourist.

Our relationship didn't last long. I discovered rich people aren't a premium version of everybody else. They're the same as everybody else, only with egos that quickly get annoying. He acted like he was doing me a favor to bring me to his club or out sailing with his friends. He would translate parts of their conversations as though I couldn't possibly know what a DeLorean was or why Martha's Vineyard was chic. He actually told me what fork to use at dinner. Is that necessary? I mean, if by chance you use your dessert fork for the salad, does it matter? Forks all do the same thing, don't they?

I usually ignored his instructions, hoping he'd get the hint, but he never did. He tried to change my nonelitist ways right up until he broke up with me. And he didn't even do that well. He brought Candy with him to tell me that—without malice or intent on either of their parts—their lifelong friendship had blossomed into something more. It wasn't anything I did. Greg thought I was a wonderful person and wished me the best in life.

So just like that, I was out of the three-forks-to-eat-one-meal world. I didn't miss it much.

While I got ready for work I vacillated back and forth: first talking myself into calling Candy, then talking myself out of it. She might not be the one throwing the party, and besides, how do you gracefully invite yourself to your ex-boyfriend's current girlfriend's party?

But this was for Brianna.

Finally I looked up Candy's number and called before I could change my mind again. She picked up on the second ring.

"Hi, Candy. It's Charlotte."

"Ohhh, hi." Her voice took on the tone of a person who'd found a lost puppy. "How are you doing, Char?"

"Fine. Really good. Hey, I know this is a request out of the blue, but are you throwing a party any time soon?"

"This Saturday," she said. "I'm having a Christmas party at the club." The club. Bingo.

I moved the phone from one ear to the next, trying to get a better grip. "I heard some guys from my school talking about your party, and I wondered if there was any way I could swing an invite . . ."

There was a pause on the line, then Candy's voice sounding hesitant. "I'd love to have you, of course. I mean, I constantly told Greg how darling I thought you were, but do you think it's wise? Greg will be there, and I wouldn't want any awkward scenes between the two of you . . ."

Awkward scenes? Did she think I was going to beg for him back or something? Maybe throw a goblet at him and tell him he was a swine for leaving me? "Oh, it wouldn't be awkward," I said with forced cheerfulness. "Things are totally cool between Greg and me. I mean, you two are meant to be together, even I can see that. Besides, I'm interested in this other guy now—the one who's going to your party."

Candy's voice perked up. "You are? That's so wonderful. You've moved on with your life. What's his name?"

"His name?" I had to tell her something, and the only two guys I knew who were going to the party were Colton and Bryant. I didn't dare say Bryant. What if it somehow got back to Brianna that I'd told someone I was interested in him? She'd think I was just badmouthing him so they'd break up and I could snatch him. "Colton Taft," I said.

"Colton?" Candy let out a squeal. "I know Colton!" Great. Terrific. I should have said Bryant.

"Colton used to go to the academy with me." She let out a sigh. "He's cute, Char. I'm so happy for you."

"It's not like we're a couple or anything," I said quickly. "I just, you know, kind of like him, but he, um, doesn't really know."

"Well, we can work on letting him know at my party." No, no, no. This was not going at all the way I wanted it to. "Oh, I don't want to do that," I choked out. "I mean, I want to be low-key about the whole thing. You know, just hang out and see if anything interesting happens." Interesting between Shelby and Bryant, that was.

"Do you need something nice to wear? I just bought some pashminas that are to die for."

Pashminas? I was not about to admit I didn't know what part of your body you put a pashmina on. "Thanks," I said, "but I have plenty to wear."

"Are you sure? You know, the right outfit could accentuate your assets while concealing your figure flaws."

Figure flaws? I was afraid to ask what she was referring to. "I'm really okay as far as clothes go." At least I was until two seconds ago, when I started worrying about my figure flaws.

Another pause. "All right." I knew Candy didn't believe me. Still, she gave me directions to the club, told me they would serve hors d'oeuvres at seven, and then would have dancing until midnight.

I thanked her again, said good-bye, and hoped I wouldn't be the only one at the party without a pash­mina draped over my figure flaws.

three

T
hat evening when I walked into the mall, one of the first people I saw was Colton. He stood in front of the jewelry store strapping his watch onto his wrist. He didn't see me. I slunk down the escalator before he could.

He couldn't possibly have known about my conversation with Candy; still, I felt awkward even being in the same building with him—like he might glance at me and see the inner workings of my mind.

I walked to the cosmetics counter; picked up today's sample, Sweet Mystique; and dutifully spritzed people. My gaze kept drifting toward the escalator, just in case Colton appeared. Fifteen minutes passed. Then thirty. He didn't come down. He was either shopping upstairs, had left, or was just spending a really long time at the jewelry counter. With Colton's money, that may have been the case.

Colton's father is a Silicon Valley bigwig. Colton only goes to Hamilton High because we have one of the best wrestling programs in the state. Personally, I don't know why people like the sport. I mean, it's just a bunch of guys dressed up in outfits that could pass for trapeze-wear who roll around and try to push each other through the floor. There are no exciting home runs, no across the court baskets, no holding your breath as you wait to see if the receiver catches the pass. Just two men who look like they're in the middle of cardiac arrest.

Colton's parents must be loaded because they let him drive whatever car he wants as long as he keeps a 4-0 grade point average. So he drives a dark blue BMW convertible.

All 1 get from my parents for straight As is a smile and a "Good job!" I occasionally get to borrow the family minivan. Yeah, I'm cool.

I kept spritzing Sweet Mystique on people. Colton never came downstairs. After a while, Reese showed up with a blond kid.

"Hi, Perfume Lady." He waved a hand at me even though he stood only three feet away.

"Hi, Reese. Who's your friend?"

The blond boy, who was taller, skinnier, and probably a little older than Reese, spoke up. "I'm T.J. We came to pick up trash for you."

"Trash?" I repeated.

Reese tucked his thumbs in his pants pockets as though getting ready to take down a steer. "T.J. needs a pair of jeans, and I need shoes for my mother."

"Wait a minute, Reese. I bought shoes for your mother yesterday. What happened to them?"

His eyebrows furrowed together, and he frowned. "I did just what you told me to do. I put the shoes on the doorstep, box and all. When my mom found them, she was real happy. But then she returned her shoes and went to Wal-Mart and bought me and my sister shoes and stuff." He lifted his running shoe—a fresh black with silver stripes—for my inspection. "See?"

"Very nice," I said.

"So I need to buy her shoes again, but this time without the box." I wished I could buy him more shoes. I really did. But I couldn't keep spending that much money on someone else's feet. I didn't even own a pair of seventy-dollar shoes myself. "I'm sorry guys," I said. "That was a one-time deal." Two faces looked up at me blankly.

"If I keep buying shoes for your mother, I'm not going to have any money left."

"Please," Reese said. "Just one more time?"

T.J. held one leg up for me to see. "My jeans are too small, and when I pull them up, they give me a stomachache."

"Pleeeease," Reese added.

Great. I'd done a good deed and created two miniature panhandlers.

"Have you tried the people at Sears? Maybe they have some trash for you to pick up over there. Ask some nice-looking older woman. They like kids."

Reese and T.J. exchanged a glance. Then they sighed and their shoulders slumped. "Okay," Reese said. "C'mon, T.J." I felt like Scrooge as they slowly walked away.

Chapter two of my dissertation: "You Can Meet All Sorts of Interesting People at the Mall." Don't talk to them though, as this just encourages them to talk back to you. Talking leads to trouble. Most wars, divorces, and political elections happen after a lot of talking. When at the mall, it's best to pretend you're mute. Or from another country. A country of mutes, for example.

Stray children should especially be avoided. Like ducks and seagulls, if you feed one, you will shortly be swarmed by an entire flock. Only children are more expensive to make happy, and also messier.

I continued to spray people with Sweet Mystique. One woman even bought a bottle. I wanted to tell her, "This perfume costs more than a pair of black working shoes and a new pair of jeans. You don't really need it." Never once did I look out into the mall courtyard. If Reese and T.J. were going from store to store asking for help, I didn't want to see it.

An hour later they trudged back into Blooming­dale's. "Hi, Perfume Lady."

"Hi, guys."

Reese thrust his hands in his jacket pockets and sighed. "Sears doesn't have a perfume lady. And the shoe lady said no."

T.J. took a step forward. "The pants lady said no too."

"Really? I'm sorry."

The boys exchanged a glance, as though building courage. T.J. fiddled with the zipper on his coat. "So we picked up trash for you anyway. Did you see us? I kept waving, but you didn't wave back."

"Oh, sorry. I wasn't looking. That's nice of you boys to pick up trash and everything, but—"

"We even threw soda on that guy for you," Reese said brightly. "You know that one from yesterday."

"You . . . you . . . what?"

"He was upstairs buying stuff at Radio Shack," Reese said.

"We waited till he got outside though," T.J. clarified. " 'Cause we didn't want the Radio Shack man to yell at us."

"You followed Colton outside and threw soda at him?"

Both boys nodded happily.

I felt sick one moment and wanted to laugh the next. I couldn't help myself—I wondered if it was a diet root beer.

Hmmm. Maybe I would have to buy Reese and T.J. something.

I shook off the thought as soon as it came to me. I couldn't help every little kid who threw soda on Colton. I mean, weren't there organizations that did that sort of thing—help kids, that is, not throw soda on arrogant teenage boys.

I bent down to be closer to their eye level. "Listen, guys, I'd love to help you, but you're asking the wrong person. Don't you have counselors at school that can help you?"

My question earned blank looks.

I tried again. "Where do you go to school?"

"St. Matthew's Elementary." St. Matthew's. I should have known. It was a Catholic school downtown that took in a lot of poor kids. When I was younger, my elementary school used to do a clothes drive for them every year.

"Have you asked your teacher if there's someone who can help you?"

Reese's brown eyes blinked at me. "I asked Santa."

T.J. swatted his arm. "You know there's no Santa."

"Is too," Reese said. "Last year he brought me UNO cards and underwear." T.J. put his hands on his hips and tilted his head. "That was your mom. Santa don't bring no underwear. Besides, you asked for a remote control car." T.J. turned to me as though to prove the point. "Santa isn't real, is he?"

I stared back at them. My throat felt dry. It broke my heart. All of it. That Reese's mom didn't have work shoes. That T.J. didn't have jeans, and that Christmas would disappoint them again.

Two faces looked up at me, waiting for my answer. "Well, the thing about Santa is . . . you see . . . it's really the spirit of giving that's important. . . and well, you should really talk to your parents about Santa."

Reese's eyebrows drew together. I could tell he didn't understand. "And then will he bring my mom shoes?"

"Yes," I said, because at that moment I couldn't say anything else. "This year your mother is going to get her shoes." I nodded at T.J. "And you're going to get some jeans that fit."

T.J. cocked his head at me. "How do you know?"

"I work at the mall. Santa comes here all the time. Sometimes we talk."

The boys looked at each other, then back at me skeptically. "You know Santa?" T.J. asked.

"Sure. I sold him a bottle of perfume for Mrs. Claus last week. Come back here on the twenty-fourth and see if Santa hasn't left something for you."

"Promise?" Reese asked.

"Promise," I said.

T.J. gave me a hopeful smile, then just as suddenly narrowed his eyes. "Are you just saying that to get rid of us?"

"No. Well, yes. You guys have to leave so I can get back to work. You wouldn't want to get me in trouble, would you?"

Both boys shook their heads.

"Good-bye, Perfume Lady," Reese said, and then they disappeared in the crowd.

For the rest of my shift, I wondered how I was ever going to save up for college if I kept handing over my paycheck to every little kid that came along. I wondered how many children like Reese and T.J. went to St. Matthew's.

The world just seems to be teeming with holes. Needs so big, they can't ever be filled. I couldn't help all of those kids. Not if I worked day and night drenching people with perfume.

And then I thought of NHS. We did service projects a lot. This was partially because Ms. Ellis, our advisor, believed it was our civic responsibility to improve conditions in the world, and partially because we all knew community service looked good on college applications. It was also partially because—okay, I admit it—everyone figured it was just easier to agree to hold a fund-raising car wash than to hear me lecturing about the poor and downtrodden again; but the point is, NHS did service projects.

Why couldn't we do a something for the kids at St. Matthew's Elementary? Granted, we'd sold fruit shakes in the cafeteria at lunch for the past month in order to raise money to put on a winter dance, so probably no amount of lecturing would get the group to agree to another fund-raiser, but perhaps we could do a project for the St. Matthew's kids instead of the dance.

After all, the student body council were really the ones who were supposed to put on the dances. NHS only agreed to hold the winter dance because it was tradition. Years ago, the school hadn't had a winter dance, and then some NHS president decided to have one as a fund-raiser—thus proving smart people aren't necessarily good with finances. The dance never did much more than break even.

Why not put the funds to a better use? Besides, Ms. Ellis would probably jump at the chance to do something that was less work. She'd gotten engaged in October and was trying to throw together some huge wedding in January. She'd done nothing for the last few meetings but flip through bridal magazines and mumble about the cost of embossed napkins and centerpieces.

The longer I thought about it, the more certain I felt it would work. We could go to St. Matthew's principal and ask for a list of a couple dozen of the neediest kids. Then we'd buy them gifts and have Santa deliver them personally. Seeing their faces light up would be much better than paying some overpriced deejay to play dance music. I mean, who needed another dance anyway?

All I had to do was convince the rest of NHS to see it my way.