Don't Fail Me Now(46)

To my surprise, Leah volunteers to go first, citing the mall as her target. “I can do way better than leftovers,” she says confidently.

Malls are a goldmine for scavengers, a glittering oasis full of free samples, public restrooms that actually get cleaned on the regular, and dressing rooms where you can change clothes in private. Picking through Cass’s and my luggage (which is really just a garbage bag stuffed haphazardly with wrinkled clothes), Leah finds a gray T-shirt she deems “not horrible” and a pair of dark jeans that ride loosely on her hips. (She seems very excited about the brand, which is apparently high-end, and I don’t want to burst her bubble by telling her I got them for $20 at Marshalls’ on-fire sale.) We put it all in Cass’s backpack along with dry underwear and a clean shirt for Denny and walk through the automatic doors into the blast of Cinnabon-scented air conditioning and streams of midday shoppers.

We head straight for the bathrooms, and while Tim helps Denny de-lake himself in the men’s room, Cass, Leah, and I take over a bank of sinks in the ladies’ and start scrubbing our faces, arms, and any other exposed skin we can reach. I show Leah how to put a blob of dispenser soap on a paper towel and rub it under her arms for “deodorant” (Devereaux rule #7: Be prepared to improvise), and she helps me restore some bounce to my curls with an application of soapy water and a few minutes under the hand dryer.

“If there’s a Sephora, we can even do our makeup!” Leah says enthusiastically, and Cass retreats into a stall, either to administer a shot or just to hide. Much to Leah’s disappointment, there is no Sephora, but there is a Bath & Body Works, and she’s able to find a pot of clear lip gloss with a TRY ME! sticker that she insists on applying to both my lips and eyelids. “Trust me, you look really pretty,” she says, and when I turn to Tim to crack a joke, I catch him looking at me in a way that makes my stomach flip.

Leah leads us to the food court—your typical brightly lit, abundantly littered square of fragrant chaos—and starts to tentatively case the joint, pretending to look for a table. I see her pass by perfectly good half-full sleeves of fries and lonely, untouched broccoli spears left on greasy Chinese-food trays, and it’s all I can do not to jump in and show her the ropes. Finally, she homes in on a half-eaten burger. She stands over it, looking around nervously, combing her hair with her fingers, before finally snatching the tray. Even though it’s not what I would have chosen (I try to pick things that haven’t touched anyone’s mouth if possible—stuff you eat with a fork), I’m weirdly proud of her. But then, instead of coming back over to us, Leah makes a beeline for the Burger King register and starts talking animatedly to the cashier. Almost instantly, she’s holding a tray with a brand-new, uneaten burger and a side of large fries.

“Ta-da!” she says, smiling broadly even though her hands are visibly shaking.

“What did you say?” I ask, plucking a golden, still-grease-hot fry from the top of the pile. The taste of warm, fatty food after thirty-six hours of dry crackers is positively transcendent.

“I said I found a hair in it,” she says with an innocent shrug.

“So you lied,” Tim says.

“That’s not a rule!” Leah protests. “Right, Michelle?” She hands the burger to Denny, who takes a bite much larger than he can chew.

“It’s not a rule,” I say, cramming another fry in my mouth and swallowing it nearly whole. “If it means the difference between starving and eating, it’s allowed. Plus, it’s Burger King, not a mom-and-pop shop. They can swing a freebie.”

“If you say so, coach,” Tim says with a little smile.

Leah’s con is quickly forgotten as we pass the tray around, demolishing the meal in what seems like seconds. Only Cass doesn’t eat much, claiming she feels sick. But somehow the rest of us are all even hungrier after getting some real food in our stomachs, so Leah repeats her trick at Wok ’n’ Roll with a plate of General Tso’s chicken.

“You have officially earned your scout badge,” I say, and she does a little curtsy.

It’s after school hours by the time we tear ourselves away from the buffet, and as we pass a Chuck E. Cheese’s on our way to the exit, Denny spots a bunch of balloons inside.

“My turn, please?” he begs. “Max has an idea.”

“We’ll never see him again,” I joke as he sprints into the noisy restaurant.

“On the bright side, maybe Max will fall in the ball pit,” Tim says, and we high-five.

But the meatball comes through, dashing out ten minutes later with a cupcake clenched in one hand and a slice of pepperoni pizza in the other.

“Hey,” I say gently, kneeling down to meet his eyes, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Did you take that stuff off someone’s table?”

“Nope,” he grins. “There was a birthday party, so I just sat down and someone gave me food.”

I give him a big, wet kiss on the forehead. “Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not a genius,” I say, and he takes a victorious lick of blue frosting. He hands the pizza to Cass.

“I know it’s your favorite,” he says.

“Thanks, buddy.” She takes a small bite from the end but grimaces a little as she swallows. I hope she doesn’t have a stomach bug or something. If Goldie gets vomited in, we’ll have to spend my last $61 at the car wash. That, or set her on fire and walk away in slow motion like cool action-movie heroes. Right now I could go either way.