JC guided Mickey down a long alleyway in the East Village to a small storefront with no sign or awning. Black shades covered the windows.

“What is this place?” Mickey asked nervously. “Is it safe? It looks a little sketchy…”

“Of course it’s safe, silly,” JC said, ringing the front bell. “Madge is a good friend and an expert when it comes to designeritis.”

“Madge? Who’s Madge?” Mickey said.

A woman dressed in an eighties-style hot-pink jumpsuit with huge padded shoulders opened the door. Well, at least she doesn’t look dangerous, Mickey thought. Just a little retro…

“That’s my name—don’t wear it out!” the woman said, ushering them inside. Her platinum-blond hair was tied in a huge, pink lace bow on top of her head, and she had stacks of rubber bracelets on both arms. Mickey noticed that this was no doctor’s office. In fact, it looked like an eighties memorabilia store. Hanging from the ceiling were several disco balls, and on the walls were old record album covers and posters of eighties pop stars. An autographed Pat Benatar picture hung over the cash register.

“I don’t get it. How is this gonna help?” Mickey asked, confused.

“Give it a chance, Mick. It always works for me,” JC assured her.

Madge cleared her throat. “Don’t be rude, JC. Introduce me to your friend.”

“Madge, Mickey…Mickey, Madge,” JC said.

Mickey smiled shyly. “Hiya.”

“I like your pink highlights,” Madge said, noticing Mickey’s hair. “And the pink combat boots—nice touch.”

“Mickey’s one of a kind,” JC said proudly. “But right now, we have a grave situation. She has an extreme case of designeritis.”

“You don’t say,” Madge said, looking concerned. “That bad, eh?”

“The worst I’ve ever seen,” JC replied.

Madge disappeared into the back of the store and returned with a huge carton of what looked like old records. “Debbie Gibson? Tiffany? Joan Jett? No, wait! Annie Lennox!”

JC shook his head. “I said this is serious.”

Madge blew a huge pink bubble with the gum she was chewing. “I hear ya. Step back…”

She placed a record on an old turntable and gently rested the needle on the vinyl disc. “Dress You Up” began blasting.

“Early Madonna—good for whatever ails you!” Madge said and started singing along to the tune with JC.

Mickey rolled her eyes. “JC, this is ridiculous. How is this going to cure my designeritis?”

“Let yourself go,” Madge advised her. “Feel the music and let it inspire you!”

JC grabbed Mickey and gave her a spin. “Come on, Mick. Have you forgotten that fashion is supposed to be fun? Exciting? Uplifting?”

“I’m sorry,” Mickey said. “It’s just not doing it for me.”

“Then try this,” Madge said, pulling another disc out of her carton. “This one never fails.”

As soon as the song started playing, JC’s face lit up. “My fave! ‘Causing a Commotion’ from Madonna’s classic movie Who’s That Girl. Crank it up, Madge!”

“Just let it fill your heart,” Madge said, taking Mickey by the hands. “Doesn’t the music make you feel happy?”

Mickey squeezed her eyes closed and tried to focus on the beat. “Um, no, not really. I just keep thinking of that incomplete on my homework.”

JC sighed when the song ended. “Mickey, you’re not trying.” He held out his hand for Madge to give him a piece of bubble gum. “Seriously, I think you’re contagious. You’re making me feel sad and uninspired now.”

“Tutti-frutti, Berry Bubble, or Watermelon Blast?” Madge asked, producing a fishbowl filled with wrapped pieces of gum that she kept beneath the counter.

“Lemme see that,” Mickey said suddenly, grabbing the bowl away from JC.

“Gee, if you want a piece of gum, just say so.” JC sniffed. “Pushy, pushy.”

“This…” Mickey began. “This is it.”

JC and Madge looked at each other, puzzled.

“Ya lost me there, Mick,” JC said. “What’s it?”

“Bubble gum,” Mickey exclaimed. “I’m cured!”