“What are you hiding in that shed?” I elevate my brows. “A dead body or something?”

“Stay out of the shed,” he warns. “I have to check on the store. The grand opening is next week, and we still have a ton of stuff to do.”

“How can you have a grand opening for a store that’s been open for almost thirty years?” I ask as he collects a set of keys from off the counter and heads for the front door.

“Oh, they closed that, like, six months ago,” Carrie Lynn answers for him. “They’re turning it into a bakery, which I so can’t wait for. Cakes beat books any day.”

“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” I tell her then fist pump the air. “Brain power beats cupcakes all the way, baby.”

She fakes an off-pitch laugh that sounds like a hyena. “Oh, my God, I forgot how funny you are. Seriously. You so have to come to my party and entertain us.”

I wasn’t trying to be funny, but okay. “I wish I could, but like I said, I have lots and lots of stuff to do.” I shrug, like what are you gonna do? “If you want entertainment, I do know a male stripper who might be willing to drive down here for the weekend. I have to warn you, though, he’s a little well-aged. But he does have some great squatting skills.”

Carrie Lynn’s eyes practically bulge out of the sockets. “Oh … I don’t think we’ll need any strippers, but thanks for the offer.”

“Lexi, I’m sure you can unpack next week,” my mom interrupts, opening up the fridge. “You should go to the party. Have some fun for once in your life.”

“Mom, I promise I have tons of fun all the time. Last weekend, I partied way too hard and then went out with a friend and did all these crazy tasks on her list,” I say, which is technically the truth.

Last week, I spent Saturday night with Miss F. getting high, and then we walked around and did stuff on her errand list while eating a bunch of cheese and wearing paper crowns we made.

“And I’ve been jobless for almost a month now. I need to get out and find a job, not go to a party.”

My mom grabs a bottle of pinkish-looking goo and bumps the fridge shut with her hip. “Okay, I was trying to be nice about this, but we’re having people sleeping over tomorrow night, and I’d really appreciate it if you weren’t here.”

I gape at her. “You have people sleeping over?”

“Yeah, for my wildcat party.” She unscrews the cap off the bottle of goo.

“Is wildcat code for orgy?” I question with skepticism.

She shakes her head in all seriousness. “No, it’s the annual wildcat fundraiser party.” She nods her head toward a pile of flyers stacked on the bed.

I grab one and read it. “Annual Wildcat fundraiser. Come join the yarn fun. Spend all night working until your body aches then join us for waffles in the morning.” Still sounds kind of like an orgy to me, but whatever.

“This year, we’re making scarves, and we’re going to raffle them off at the bake sale next Friday.” She dips her finger into the bottle, digs out a blob of goo, and tastes it before wiping it on her cheek. “I’d invite you to come, but I know how much you hate sewing and wildcats.”

“I don’t hate wildcats,” I protest. “Why would you think that?”

“Hmmm … Maybe I was thinking of wild turkeys,” she replies with her head slanted to the side. “It was wild something …”

“See, now you have an excuse to come to my party,” Carrie Lynn interrupts, startling me.

Jesus. I forgot she was standing there.

“Um …” Before I can come up with another excuse, she starts blabbing off the details.

“And make sure to bring a change of clothes,” she presses. “We’ll be spending the night in Vegas and who knows what kind of trouble we’ll get into.”

I perk up slightly. “Wait … Your party’s in Vegas?”

She bobs her head up and down. “It’s only about a six hour drive, so we’re carpooling there.” She lets out an ear-splitting squeal then throws her arms around me. “I’m so excited you’re coming. I can’t wait to tell the girls.”

I awkwardly pat her back. “Yeah … me, too…”

She pulls away, bouncing with energy, as she skips toward the door. “And make sure to bring your favorite wine coolers.” Her excitement goes up a thousand notches. “We have a driver, so we’re going to get wasted on the drive there.”

Wine coolers? Yeah, that’ll work if by wine coolers she means tequila shots.

“This is going to be so much fun. Just no hard alcohol, okay. We don’t want to get too crazy.” She whisks out the door, wiggling her fingers at me.

“You know, I never would’ve thought it was possible, but I think she got even more peppy than when she was a cheerleader,” I say to Mom after Carrie Lynn leaves the loft.

“She seems nice, though.” My mom continues to wipe the goo all over her face, smearing it over her cheeks and eyelids.

“Mom, what is that?”

“It’s a face mask. It’s supposed to give my skin a glittery glow and make me look fifty years younger.”

“You’re only fifty, Mom, so how can you look fifty years younger?” I point out, leaning against the counter. “And it looks like Ghostbusters slime. Where’d you even get it?”

“This lovely young man was going door to door, selling it out of his van.” She eyeballs the bottle. “It does kind of look like the slime, doesn’t it?” She smiles and then breaks out into an off-key version of the movie’s theme song as she continues to lather goo all over her face.

I sit down on the edge of their bed and dig the invitation out of the bag. Despite the heavy amounts of glitter on it—seriously, it looks like a faerie pooped on it—I decide the party might not be too bad. I’ll be back by Sunday and can unpack then start looking for a job first thing Monday morning. Half the stores in the town aren’t open on weekends, anyway.

And Vegas sounds fun. What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter 9

That night, while sleeping in a sleeping bag on the floor of my parents’ loft, I dream of sexy strangers with green eyes, dinging slot machines, clouds that rain glitter, crazy-ass zombie gnomes eating my flesh, and baby marshmallow men sprouting from my mom’s zero day old skin. By the time I wake up, I’ve vowed to throw away my mom’s face cream and to start my investigation on Evan Mackay.

The next morning, before I head off to Carrie Lynn’s, I circle some potential jobs in the newspaper and then ask my mom if she still has any of my old yearbooks.

“I think I kept a couple.” She tears her attention away from color coordinating her yawn just long enough to point over at the kitchen. “Check the top drawer by the fridge.”

I dig through the drawer filled with random junk until I find my sophomore yearbook and fan through the pages until I find where Evan Mackay’s photo should be, but he was MIA for picture day. I check the clubs and the index, but nope. Nothing.

“The dude’s a ghost,” I mutter, shutting the book.

My mom starts humming the Ghostbusters theme again. “That reminds me. I need to put on my mask.”

Not wanting to hear her chew my butt off because I threw the mask away the moment I woke up, I grab my bag and bolt out the door, even though it’s early. I have to make a quick stop by Mrs. Timpler’s, anyway, because she’s letting me store my stuff in her garage.

It takes me a total of three minutes to drive there and two more minutes to pile my stuff into the corner of the garage.

“That’s all your stuff?” Mrs. Timpler questions, eyeing over my boxes and bags.

“I’m a minimalist,” I lie.

The truth is I suck with money and planning my future. I’ve just never thought about it that much until recently. I’m a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants sort of gal, and while it’s been a fun ride, it’s depressing seeing your life crammed in a total of six boxes and two bags.

“Thanks for letting me keep it here.” I wave to Mrs. Timpler as I open my car door.