Jex Malone (4 page)

“We?” I ask.
Who is this “we” who's suddenly interested in my presence here?

“Yeah, my friends and me,” she responds. “We heard you were in town.”

Must be a slow news day
.

I continue sizing up the stranger.

“Well, yes I am here,” I respond. “But you knew that already.”

“Well, okay, then. Nice to meet you,” Cissy stammers. “We heard you existed, but—uh—I guess I am the first to ever see you. That's really sort of scary, but my friends triple dared me to do it. And you know, I never take on dares, historically speaking, but for once in my boring life I thought, ‘This is the summer where you face your fears, Cissy. You can't be a total wuss forever.'

“Do you mind if I take a picture on my phone? For proof? So I can get the shirt? My friend Deva said she would buy me a new shirt, an expensive one, if I could prove I did find you.”

“I'm not the yeti,” I respond in my defense, feeling suddenly big, furry, and legendary. “And who cares if I'm in town anyway?”

“Well, pretty much everyone who lives around here cares!” Cissy exclaims, a bit too enthusiastically. The girl is a walking punctuation mark. “I mean, we heard you might come spend some time with Det. Malone, but gosh, no one ever believed you'd ever actually come visit. This is so exciting!”

“Really?” I respond with exaggerated confusion. “Exciting? Maybe for you, but not for me. For the record, I am here under duress. And threat of court order, too.”

“Oh really, wow, that sounds serious,” Cissy says in breathless response, not at all exaggerating the serious look that has now crossed her round face.

Her black curls are in contrast with gorgeous and flawless skin. Dark eyes are framed by eyelashes as long as my arms. Her chubby cheeks are punctuated with dimples. It's a bit odd that she's wearing an old pink T-shirt decorated with frilly ruffle on the bottom. It's not exactly the wardrobe of your typical home invader. And no wonder she's out to get that new shirt from her friend.

“Do you want to come in?” I finally say, beckoning her inside with my hand.

She nods furiously, and before I can blink, she has rushed inside the house, pulling the sliding glass door shut behind her.

“I've been literally dying to get a look inside this house for years!” she exclaims with more genuine enthusiasm. “No one is going to believe this! It's SO nice!”

I look around the wood-paneled room to see if she's seeing what I'm seeing. “Uh, thanks—I'll let my dad and Martha Stewart know you thought so,” I mutter.

“What did you say your name was again?” I ask, genuinely forgetting in the sheer weirdness that is this incident.

“Cissy. Cissy Gutierrez. I live next door. I've lived there all my life,” she answers. “You and I would have been neighbors if you hadn't moved away. Classmates. Probably friends. Maybe even best friends. That would have been cool!”

Okay, for the record, I have never met anyone peeping into a house who is so genuinely friendly. She's making it hard to be suspicious.

“So, who are these people that sent you over here to look in the window?” I ask.

“Absolutely valid question,” she answers. “That would be my actual best friends, Nat and Deva. They dared me to come over here. They said I'd be too scaredy-cat to actually come check you out, and Deva promised to buy that top and help pick out some back-to-school clothes for me if I'd actually do it.

“And, you don't know this, but I could really use her help because this year I swear I am wearing really cool clothes to school. And no ruffles. No lace either,” she blathers on, smooshing down the ruffles on her pink T-shirt as she talks.

“Okay, that's a little odd—but I'll go with it,” I respond. “Why does everyone care about me being here? I mean, don't people here have lives or something?”

“Are you kidding?” Cissy responds, her eyes growing wider. “This is HUGE in this neighborhood. You're back. The long-lost daughter. Plus, It's a hundred and ten degrees in the shade here. People don't even leave their homes in this heat. I left my house. This is a big freaking deal!”

Before I know it, Cissy is at our fake-oak kitchen table slurping full-sugar cola and telling me the complete run-down of her life. In a nutshell, she's the youngest of three daughters and her parents own a restaurant-supply company, which means they work all the time. They are also super strict, which has made her super nervous as she avoids constant threats of groundings and other such fun.

Oh, that's not the entire book on Cissy.

She's going to be a junior in high school, but the p's won't let her drive because they're worried about their insurance rates vs. her nerves on the road. Her older sisters are already in college. They are super pretty and have boyfriends.

I sigh as my brain almost implodes thanks to her overwhelming spewing of detail. She keeps chattering on. All I can think is,
Gee, I hope there isn't a quiz at the end of this because I'm flunking out of Cissy 101.

“My name isn't really Cissy,” she blurts.

Okay, now there's a confession I didn't see coming. Before I can ask, she starts to explain.

“It's really Cassandra—but everyone calls me Cissy because, well, they think I am afraid of everything. But I am not afraid of you!” she says in a way that makes this sound like an Olympic victory dance.

“Uh, well thanks—I appreciate that because at home in New Jersey there aren't many people quaking in fear from me either,” I respond, not quite knowing what to say to this extremely weird but insanely likable girl.

“So, Jessica, do you like your dad's girlfriend?” Cissy question bombs me, again abruptly changing the subject in a way that gives me mental whiplash.

“Jex,” I state in a glum voice.

“I've never known anyone whose name ends with an
x
. Is that a family name?” she begins and then sobers.

In her glee, I guess she missed the expression on my face as the topic of “The Girlfriend” is introduced. My mom vaguely mentioned someone allegedly named Sandy.

“She's very bouncy,” Cissy says. “She teaches Zumba down at the gym.”

“So, what else do you know about her?” I ask Cissy with perfectly feigned innocence. She nods enthusiastically, of course, and starts to chatter faster. “My mom hates her and her nonexistent thighs,” she rambles. “She says Sandy exists to make you feel bad about yourself.”

It's a done deal. Signed. Sealed. Delivered. I like this girl. We have a bond. We hate The Girlfriend.

“So do you hate it here—or what?” she asks me while loudly slurping her last sip.

“Or what. TBD,” I say with a smile, slurping mine.

This is where we begin.

“I am not here to pry.”

—Cherry Ames

An hour, more soda, and a half bag of Chips Ahoy later, Cissy has told me everything about her world here in Green Valley. Her school is fine, but the boys are immature (same as in Jersey). The cheerleaders are stuck up (same as in Jersey).

The teachers are dull (same as in Jersey). And no one who is going into their junior year will admit to wanting to go to the prom, but they are already thinking about what kind of dress they would wear if the one cute boy in the senior class asked them (funny—same as in Jersey).

She looks around the room nervously, trying to think of the next thing to say when her phone buzzes, startling her and nearly propelling her out of her chair. I hear a voice barking orders at her through the phone—I will presume the “she” the barking voice is inquiring about is me.

“She's awesome, Deva, really!” Cissy answers enthusiastically.

“Come over and meet her!” She looks at me wide-eyed and nodding, seeking approval at the same time she has just invited her friend, the complete stranger, over to my house without actually asking permission. It's nervy, but in a completely unassuming and unthreatening way.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Cissy answers as the voice barks at her more. “Just come over. You'll see for yourself.”

What am I, the newest animal on display at the zoo? It reminds me of that weird thing I once read about some zoo in Europe where they put people on display. Or better yet, it's like one of those early-human dioramas at the Museum of Natural History.

Maybe I should put a little sign up:
Jessicus Snarkosaurus
. Yeah, sure, everybody step right up. See the girl with the most messed-up family living the most messed-up life ever. No need for shoving, folks, she'll be here all summer.

Cissy clicks off her phone and heaves a big sigh. “Great, they are on their way over.”

“They?” I ask slowly. “Who are these ‘they' of which you speak?”

“Nat and Deva, my best friends,” she answers. “I told you all about them. Remember, we've all lived in this neighborhood all our lives and we've been best friends the whole time and do everything together. Remember?”

Yes, yes, of course. I've met you just an hour ago and I've got all the details of your life committed to memory. Exactly.

I hear the low purr of a car pull into the driveway, and a split second later, two heavy car doors slam and then the car is backing out. I wait for a knock on the front door, but nothing happens.

The sudden sound of rapping knuckles on the glass door behind me startles me. Doesn't anyone use the front door in this neighborhood? Then I see two figures standing on the other side, peering in the same way Cissy did, hands cupped around their eyes to block out the glare. It's too bad these girls are so, uh,
shy
.

I wave meekly at the two newest girls in front of me as they step inside. No need for me to open the door. They just rush in.

Both are tall. The first one immediately flips her long, almost blue-black hair over her shoulder. She is wearing a white tank top that shows off her long, toned arms and a purple miniskirt that skims the top of her long brown legs.

The flip of her hair—a move I've seen a million times in the halls of my high school—is almost regal as she lifts her chin and tilts her head back in one smooth swooping motion. Her height is exaggerated by strappy heels. They're not exactly running-around-the-neighborhood kind of shoes, but I can't imagine a girl like that wearing anything but heels—all the time.

The second girl, also tall and towering over me, is wearing a long-sleeve XXL sweatshirt thingy (in this weather?) and jeans. Her soft brown curls are pulled into two pigtails, one on either side of her head, and her hands are tucked into the middle pocket of her pale gray hoodie that hangs off her like a big baggy sack. She smiles warmly at me before releasing a hand briefly to wave a quick greeting.

Cissy steps in between them and wraps an arm around each of their necks, and they smile at me in unison—I've never felt so pale and awkward and alone standing with a group of girls, and it's not like Jersey is devoid of diversity.

“Deva, Nat—this is Jex. Jex Malone!” Cissy announces very formally. “She is Detective Malone's daughter!”

Cissy smiles proudly as if she's conjured me up with some spell.

Yes, yes it is I, Jex Malone!
I think to myself, but what comes out of my mouth is, “Hi. It's really nice to meet you guys. I've heard a lot about you.”
In the last hour.

“Oh, not as much as we've heard about you,” the beauty queen answers. “I'm Devalekha Patel, but call me Deva. We heard you were on your way.”

“You did? Where did you hear that from? The CNN crawl?” I answer suspiciously, but she waves off my question with her hand, brushing it back like she did with her hair just a few minutes ago.

“And I'm Nat. Natalie Mordecai,” the other girl says, stepping forward and offering her hand in a firm handshake. “Welcome to the neighborhood!”

“Uh, thanks, guys,” I answer hesitantly. “Great to be here—uh, not really, but it's a long story.”

“So THIS is Detective Malone's house. Very nice,” Nat says perfunctorily. “Very nice. He's very clean, your father, the detective. I can see that.”

“Uh, yes,” I answer. “He's a tidy, tidy man. Would you guys like something to drink? Cissy and I were having sodas. Want some?”

“Do you have any Perrier?” Deva asks. “If not, just water. But not tap. Bottled still would be fine. But not flavored. Unless it's with a fresh lime—that would be fine, too.”

Without waiting for an invitation, they all pull up a chair and make themselves comfortable. I know they are waiting for me to get out of earshot so they can talk about me, so I hurry toward the kitchen.

I carefully collect the four glasses and walk slowly back to the den, trying not to spill and yet still trying to make enough noise so they know I am coming back and they can stop whispering about me.

As I set the glass down for Deva, I notice her black patent leather sandals that crisscross up the front of her feet and zipper up the back have red bottoms as she elegantly uncrosses her legs. They are what my mother would refer to as “dancing shoes”—and I've never known for sure if she means dancing like at a school dancing, or dancing like around a pole. Anything that doesn't look like it would be worn by serfs in the Middle Ages pretty much qualifies as “dancing shoes” in Elizabeth's book anyway.