“Really?”
It was a magenta skirt and a cream-colored blouse, with a turquoise blazer that had massive shoulder pads. “Yes, really.”
I tried them on. “I look like Jo from Facts of Life.”
“Better that than looking like a scary punk rock girl.”
“I am a scary punk rock girl.”
“One, you’re not scary, and two, the stores in the mall don’t hire scary punk rock girls.”
“Not even the record store?”
“It’s the mall, Cheyenne.”
“What do you think?” I asked Theresa. She had been quiet, and even though I don’t think she knew any more about this stuff than I did, I figured a second opinion wouldn’t hurt.
“I think Mrs. Garrett is going to love it.”
Agnes laughed and I groaned. I don’t know why I bothered.
Anyway, I didn’t see any other options. I put on the most sensible pair of shoes I owned (the Easter dress Mary Janes), took my bag, checked to make sure I had a pen—someone once told me to always have a pen when you’re applying for jobs—and left.
The Cross County Shopping Center isn’t really a mall in the way a mall is a mall. For one thing, it’s outdoors. There’s no enclosed building, no food court, none of the things more modern malls—like the Galleria in White Plains—have. It’s just a few intersecting walkways lined with scrubby trees and tacky stores.
It was late afternoon, so all of the high school girls were out shopping. I swear to God, not one of them was taller than five feet, but with their shoes each one was closer to six, especially when you factored in the tower of hair. At least the weather had turned colder, so they were wearing jackets and I didn’t have to look at their belly buttons. Between May first and September thirtieth, not one girl in Yonkers ever wore a shirt that covered her belly button. It’s like it was a local law or something. I think it was true on Long Island and in New Jersey, too. I don’t know why, but belly buttons kind of freak me out. They’re weird, you know?
Anyway, my first stop was Sam Goody’s. I’d been buying records there for years, so I recognized a lot of the sales staff. Most of them listened to different kinds of music than me—they were more of an arena rock crowd, Journey, Kansas, Starship—but they were usually nice.
I had seen the guy behind the counter a bunch of times. He was tall and thin, with pale skin and hair so blond it was almost white. He looked like a Q-tip.
“Hi,” I said.
“Can I help you?”
“I was wondering if you’re hiring?”
“Oh, sweetie,” the Q-tip said, almost laughing. “This place isn’t for you.”
“Huh?”
Then, I swear to God, the guy looked me up and down from my head to my toes, taking in the whole package. I felt naked.
And do you know what he said?
“Facts of Life doesn’t really fit in around here.”
I could’ve killed Agnes.
“Try the bookstore,” the Q-tip told me.
So I did.
HARBINGER JONES
Cheyenne’s announcement at rehearsal that she had a job caught us off guard. I was too stunned to speak, and Johnny just looked dejected. Wait, strike that. He looked rejected. Like Chey getting a job without his knowledge was a personal affront. Only Richie spoke.
“Fucking A, short stuff. What’re you gonna be doing?”
She explained that she was going to be working at the bookstore in Cross County Shopping Center.
I knew that store well.
When I was younger and going through the long and tortured recovery from the lightning strike, books became some of my best friends.
I remember this one day, I was sitting in the science-fiction section reading a Robert Heinlein book, when all of a sudden there was a big commotion coming from the other side of the stacks. I must’ve been twelve and had convinced my mom it was okay to leave me there while she went shopping at Gimbels.
The bookstore was usually a quiet place, library quiet, so the noise was startling. My first reaction was to shrink and hide, to make myself disappear. The more raucous something was, the more I wanted to avoid being seen. Commotions almost never ended well for me.
But this was a happy noise; I ignored my inner voice and peered around the corner.
A man in priest’s clothes stood in the center of a small entourage as the store manager—a guy named Guy—was setting up a table for a book signing. I’d only ever seen a signing here once before, and almost no one came. Already, seven or eight people were on line for this priest.