Part 8 (1/2)

Inside the Mall I can't help but go on a weirdo watch. Paige is right. Potential freaks loiter everywhere, and they come in all shapes, sizes, genders, and ages. ”Hey, Paige.

Check that out.” I point to a boy, maybe six, staring, drop-jawed, through the window of Victoria's Secret. ”Future weirdo, for sure.”

We crack up, but when we're well down the aisle I glance back over my shoulder. He's still there.

Paige doesn't notice, could care less anyway. Let's go to the Gap. I need some jeans.

Her focus s.h.i.+ft is immediate, intense.

Mind on her goal, she picks up her pace. So much for people watching. Faces, bodies, and packages blur. Motion sickness threatens.

Finally, Gap in sight, she slows a little. Enough for me to notice a really cute guy sitting outside the door, waiting for someone, at least that's my guess. As we approach, he notices us, too, and the smile he gives me could melt an entire iceberg in two seconds flat.

Weirdo? Maybe. I mean, he's at least ten years older than me, and he's def taken an interest. Do weirdos come this hot? My guess is no, but I'm not here to pick up a guy (yeah, Lucas, remember him?), especially one who could be my-what? Big brother?

Wow, it might be cool to have a big brother hot enough to be a rock star.

No, wait. All my friends would want me to introduce them. Then they wouldn't be my friends any more, because they'd be doing it with my brother. Scratch all that. Don't want a hot brother, or any brother at all.

Don't even want my sister, and why the heck am I thinking all this, anyway, just because some pervert guy sitting outside the Gap might or might not have checked me out?

Warped But who's warped, him or me?

Okay, I'm pretty sure I know the answer. Pretty sure I've gone from appreciating some nice-looking (hot) older guy to imagining I have some fictional brother who is doing unmentionable things with my best friends. I steal a covert glance at Paige, who is def not noticing the guy (who is def not my brother) at all, let alone having s.e.x with him.

I need food. Haven't eaten today.

As Paige and I go inside, I can feel not-brother's eyes crawling all over my back. I nudge Paige. ”Psst. Did you see that cute guy checking us out?”

What guy? She turns, and I follow her eyes, only to find his eyes locked on me. Well, he's def checking you out. Talk about robbing the cradle, or wanting to.

Like, totally tasteless. C'mon. There's a pair of skinny jeans with my name on them right over there.

Someone Should Tell Paige that ”skinny jeans” are most def not her best friend.

She and I are the same age, and about the same height.

But she's got a lot more curves. In a way, I envy that.

Paige looks more like a woman.

I, on the other hand, look like a girl.

Skinny jeans work better for girls.

Still, Paige manages to pour herself into a pair. Do they make my b.u.t.t look big?

Well, duh. But I'm not about to say so. Friends don't tell friends they look fat. Or even curvy. ”Nah.”

Cool. So what are you waiting for? Try some on. Check it out: Thirty percent off. She stands, hands punctuating well-defined hips.

Debate is useless. I slip into a pair and have to admit they look pretty good. Oh, why not?

What's a trip to the mall for?

Shopping with Paige Reminds me of that TV show: TLC's What Not to Wear.

Paige has spent big bucks, and what does she have to show for it?

A couple of pairs of too-tight jeans, three blouses guaranteed to show too much tummy and/or cleavage, and a pair of hot pink sneakers with soles as thick as six hundred-page novels.

Now we're leaving Claire's, where I'm pretty sure Paige took advantage of a five-finger discount. Not that she can't afford a cheap pair of earrings. But ripping them off gives her a total rush.

Hurry up, she urges, glancing nervously over her shoulder as we hustle toward the food court. Talk about obvious!

Still, by the time yummy scents of fat-laden foods entice our noses, we see no sign of security on our tail. Way to ”borrow,” Paige.

What do you want to eat? asks Paige, sniffing the air. Subway?

Pizza? Hey, you know what sounds delish? A hot dog on a stick.

The built-in joke is just too good to pa.s.s up! ”d.a.m.n, girl. You really do need a boyfriend, you know?” We both snort into gut-busting, pee-your-pants laughter. ”Oh ... my ... G.o.d!”

I stutter. ”I have so got to pee.”

I turn, ready to run. And who's sitting at a table nearby, grinning like an orangutan-a very hot orangutan? The guy. The cute not-my-brother weirdo. And he's checking me out again. Is he, like, stalking me?

I Still Have to Pee But before I do, I have to say something to the hot monkey.

Ooh. That was a very bad thought.

Wonder how hot his monkey is.

Okay. Way worse thought.

What's up with me? ”That guy is over there, staring,” I tell Paige. ”Let's go talk to him.”

She pulls her eyes away from the Hot Dog on a Stick sign.

What? Hey. No. That's stupid.

He might get the wrong idea.

Or exactly the right idea. ”Yeah, maybe. But don't you want to know where he's coming from?”

I don't wait for her to answer.