Jex Malone (24 page)

“He totally creeps me out,” Nat says, shuddering a bit. Almost as if he can sense her fear from about 20 feet away, Scrooge himself suddenly stops in his tracks and turns around to stare at the five of us.

I can feel his chilling glare—and it sinks deeply into my being. I'm not sure if you can really sense evil, but there is something sinister about this man that turns my blood cold.

Then I remember where I come from, which is the great state of New Jersey. It's a place where old coots don't scare you because there are so many other, scarier criminals everywhere.

I'm not sure what comes over me, but soon my hands are on my hips, which I cock a bit to the side. What else can I do, but stare right back at him in the most defiant way I can muster.

Where I'm from most cab drivers and lunch ladies are tougher than this old wacko. Vowing not to let him get the better of me, I make a silent promise that I'll stay there all night if that's what it takes not to break the stare.

Mr. Foster holds his ground and stares right back, his eyes narrowing into two nasty slits.

And that's when he does something so chilling that I get goose bumps in the 95-degree night air.

Mr. Foster takes his long, thin pointer finger, raises it to his throat, and drags it across the area.

Fast.

His message is simple. He could slit your throat.

I can see Cooper ball his tanned hands into fists. At that moment, a large group of kids come running out of the theater. I can't help but look at the young girl who runs right into me like a human missile. “Sorry, my bad,” she says in a laughing voice. Quickly, I snap back to where Mr. Foster was standing. But he's gone. Vanished.

“What a total jerk,” I say to Cooper. “How can you stand living by that weirdo?”

“Okay, Jex. Remind me to move to a mansion in a better neighborhood,” he replies, but his attempt at humor gives way to a grumbling sound he knows only too well. I can't really focus on it too much because the sound of his deep voice saying my name gives me a little thrill.

In the near distance, I finally hear the almost deafening sound of a car muffler that should have been serviced about a decade ago, but nobody bothered because the car was so old, rusted out, and broken.

I see Cooper close his eyes for a second as if he's really mortified.

“It's my always interesting mother,” he mutters under his breath as a blue Trans Am roars up to the curb. Slowly, the window comes down.

With a cigarette dangling from her lips, Ricki looks upset.

“Gotta go. My ma is here,” Cooper whispers to me. He turns quickly to the rest of the group and mutters a quick, “Bye, girls.”

From the looks of it, Ricki isn't about to let him say long good-byes.

“Cooper, get your butt in the freakin' car. I just got off my shift and I could drop dead right now from exhaustion, plus I seriously gotta pee,” she yells. If she had a megaphone, she couldn't be any louder.

“How do I know you?” she says to no one in particular. “Hello! You. Hey, Red. Do you speak, girl? How do I know you?”

My head snaps in her direction. I'm not usually called Red and it takes me a moment to process. “Isn't your daddy that cop?” Ricki inquires. “I saw him standing on the driveway with you the other day. I wondered what his kid looked like after all of these years.”

“Yes, he's a police detective,” I say in my best talking-to-the-parents voice. “Hello, Mrs. … Matthews.”

“You're the daughter of that cop who couldn't help Cooper's sister,” Ricki blurts out.

“Get in the car, Cooper!” she snaps. “Do ya hear me, Cooper? Get in the freakin' car. And don't talk to her.”

With a quick wave, Cooper is off the curb and into the smoke-filled Trans Am, which spurts some awful smell. Ricki pauses, gives all of us girls a quick glance, and lights another cigarette.

“What in the heck is that?” I say in a low voice.

“That's the mom,” Nat says, shuddering. “She's a real piece of work.”

Settled into the cushy black leather of Deva's father's Mercedes, my mind is racing as Deva's nanny drives us back to the mansion for the sleepover.

What was it about that Mr. Foster that made him hate kids so much? What was it like for poor Patty to grow up next door to such a monster? What about Cooper and those dreamy eyes and nice smile? Why was his mom such a psycho? Does he like me? Wait, no fair mixing business with Cooper.
I feel my heart race just thinking about how his calloused hand brushed mine when we both reached for the armrest.

“You look like you have a million things on your mind,” whispers Cissy.

“Well, I … ” I begin, but stop when I notice something as we pull into our quaint suburban development.

It's a simple white sign that someone lettered by hand with words I can barely make out in the dark. Luckily, the sign is under a streetlight and the nanny hits the brakes at the corner while two elderly bikers take their sweet time crossing the road.

The words are clear and plain:
Annual Block Party. 7
P.M.
Saturday night July 3. Bring Your Favorite Dish.

Nat sees me reading the sign and shrugs. “Big whoop,” she says. “It's just the annual … ”

Then she stops, too, because it dawns on her.

It's time for the annual block party where thirteen years ago, the block became one person less because a young girl disappeared into the night.

Later that night at Deva's house for the sleepover, I can't sleep.

Mr. Foster. Mr. Foster.
Those words race through my mind.

At that moment, I know what we have to do. Next Wednesday night when he's at the movies which Cooper said was part of his routine, we need to break into Mr. Foster's house and search for clues. We need to do this before the block party.

The next morning, I get a little message on Facebook and it has nothing to do with Mr. Foster. But it's still pulse-pounding all the way. It's Cooper Matthews.

“Jex,” he writes. “Want to hang out tonight? Not on the block either. Too complicated.”

Smart boy.

He. Just. Asked. Me. To. Hang. Out!
It's not a date. It's a hang. Remember, it's a hang.

Mid-afternoon, I text Dad.
Going
to hang out at Nat's house tonight. That okay?

He seems a little bummed and I feel bad for lying.

Haven't seen enough of you this week,
he writes.

Promise to make it up to you,
I write. Then I add a little smile symbol to soften him up. What is it they say about the bigger they are, the harder they fall for stuff?

Sure. But no sleeping over. Come home. Miss U, Jex
, he texts back.

One thing I like about Dad is he seems to trust me.

Instantly, I feel even worse.

“Don't be too nice to me, okay?”

—Erin Brockovich

I check the bus route schedule; it stops right at the wax museum. Not exactly what I'd pick for a first date—is this a date? That isn't clear, is it? Cooper seemed pretty certain this was something I must see. No problem, a little bit of Vegas culture would be good for me to experience, right?

The bus pulls up to the front of a brightly lit swath of sidewalk, the garish purple and gold lights of the wax museum flashing at me. Before I even stand up to get off the bus, I see Cooper hovering, looking, dare I say it, nervous. He also looks amazing in what I calculate to be his same jeans, but washed, and a nice dark blue polo shirt. Maybe he should be in a movie about Thor, replacing what's-his-name.

I wave at him. He waves back, looking relieved. As if I was going to not show.
I would never.

“Wow, this is some place,” I tell him as I step off the bus in that original white gauze skirt that Deva gave me last night and the baby pink T-shirt with a thin white shirt over it. “Not sure I've ever seen anything like it—unless you count Times Square. And Atlantic City. I guess we do garish pretty good too where I'm from,” I ramble.
Why don't I just rattle off every attraction in the tri-state area?

Cooper laughs out loud. Wow, he has a nice laugh. Deep and husky, but sweet and musical at the same time.

He hands me a ticket and has an annual pass clutched in his hand.

“You have an annual pass to a wax museum?” I couldn't help but ask. “You must come here a lot.”

“Uh yeah, well my mom does. It's a family pass. She loves this place, always comes when they have a new celebrity unveiling. She met Eva Longoria here at her unveiling, got kind of hooked on it.”

“Eva Longoria?” I ask.

“Yeah, you know, she's on television … ” he starts to explain.

We enter the lobby and it is packed. I can handle crowds and I love crowds, but I'm used to pushy New York City crowds. Crowds at Macy's during Christmas shopping and crowds around the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree kind of crowds are my thing. Crowds where it's cold and crisp outside and not so stifling hot are fine. In this place, I feel like I am going to faint. If I breathe in deeply enough, I wonder if I'll suck someone else's DNA into mine.

Cooper looks at me with concern; I must not look good, but at least he has the good sense to not say, “God, you look awful.”

Oh this is bad; not looking good while alone with Cooper Matthews is not good at all. I smile weakly at him.

“Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. It does get really crowded in here,” he says. Impressive powers of observation there, possible future boyfriend or friend. Friend.

Boyfriend.

The jury is out.

“Maybe we should come back later when it's not so crowded,” he offers. I briefly consider whether I could earn potential girlfriend points by refusing to leave until we see Celine Dion carved out of wax, but I am overcome by good sense and eagerly accept his offer.

Luckily, the air on the sidewalk outside is refreshingly cooler, even if it is just the air conditioning blasting through the doors of casinos and souvenir stores that line the sidewalk. The blinking and flashing lights are almost blinding, but are weirdly comforting in the way that Times Square can make you feel warm and alive at the same time.

We walk a couple of blocks not saying much to each other beyond a few comments about the tourists and the hot weather.

A group of women walking five across is coming towards us—a bachelorette party, which I know because one of them is wearing a beauty queen–style sash that says “Bride to Be” and they are really, really intoxicated. They wobble on their exceedingly high stripper heels and are woohoo-ing in that loud, screechy way that suggests they aren't having half as much fun as they hope people think they are having.

As they approach within a few strides of us, they lock eyes on Cooper. “Oh, look at this one! Soooo cute!” the bride hollers. “Straight off the cover of
GQ
magazine! Where were you when I was single!”

“A decade away from being born,” I mutter under my breath, so only I can hear. Or so I think.

Cooper laughs out loud and grabs my hand to pull me past the bridesmaids ladies.

Thank you, ladies. If not for you, there would not be palm-to-palm contact.

“I know where we need to go—it's perfect. Follow me!” he shouts and breaks into a slight jog, pulling me down the sidewalk with him.

Cooper Matthews is holding my hand as we run into our uncertain future! This is a hang … plus. Maybe not a date just yet … or maybe it is.

He pulls me up to a ticket booth and I look up and see the biggest lighted Ferris wheel I've ever seen anywhere. It is rotating slowly and dreamily in pink, blue, and green neon swirls of light. It truly is beautiful, so I'm thrilled when Cooper buys us two tickets and pulls me into one of the little pod-like cars. The attendant makes sure we're buckled in and the wheel starts to move.

“Are you afraid of heights?” he asks.