Jex Malone Read online

  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.

  Chapter 3

  Famous Girl Detective Quote:

  “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 h
er 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.

  I’ve never known anyone who has worn shoes like Deva’s for real, but I have no doubt this girl would never put fake anything on her feet.

  “So,” I say and pause dramatically. “You all seem to know a lot about me. I know nothing about you. What’s your story?”

  “Oh, I like how you phrased that,” Deva responds. “I’ve always liked the idea that everyone has a story.”

  “We don’t have a story,” Nat counters. “We live in the most boring neighborhood in Green Valley. Vegas is a few miles away. It’s interesting; we’re not. People don’t even think people actually live near Vegas. They actually just think people come here to gamble.”

  “That’s true,” I back her up. “When I told my friends in New Jersey I was coming out to Vegas, they all said: ‘I didn’t know people actually lived in Vegas.’ Stupid, right?”

  “So back to my story,” Deva interjects. “We—I mean I—was, of course, born here. My parents are from India and came here for medical school and never went back. My dad is a cardiologist and my mom is an anesthesiologist, but they don’t practice anymore because they are very busy running a business that runs doctors’ offices.”

  “What Deva is trying to tell you is that she’s rich,” Nat adds with a sly smile.

  “Correction, Nat, I am very rich—and unsupervised,” Deva adds with a sly smile. “It’s the best of both worlds; wouldn’t want to be one without the other.”

  I turn to Nat, somewhat astounded at the ease of Deva introducing herself.

  “Uh, I’m Nat—but you knew that already,” she says. “I’ve lived here all my life too. My parents are educators. My family is Jamaican. I like school and I guess that’s about it.”

  “Well, that wasn’t very impressive, Nat,” Deva scolds her. “Pretend like Jex is a college admissions officer and you’re trying to impress her. This will be good practice for next year when you’re out there trying to wow people with your brilliance. Tell her about your freakish math ability and that you’ve aced every science class on the planet, that you are gifted in everything. Nat’s probably my parents’ secret child—or at least the one they should have had. Or at least that’s what they tell me.”

  I look at them a bit horrified at the bluntness of their back-and-forth and then realize they are all smiling and that their little shtick with each other appears to be perfectly normal—for them.

  I suddenly feel sad and a little left out—except the three of them are sitting there eagerly smiling at me like they are waiting for me to tell them some big secret that they don’t already know about me.

  We compare notes on school and teachers and boys. Their parents seem normal—cooler than mine because they are, well, not mine. They tell me that they have been friends since some Mommy and Me class when they were all toddlers and, as the story goes, Cissy was given a cookie and burst into tears when it broke into pieces and Nat and Deva rescued the crumbs to give back to her. This was much to Deva’s mother’s horror since she went to med school and knows there is no five-second rule in the world of microbiology.

  I notice they finish each other’s sentences at times and have perfectly seamless memories of everything about their lives. Even as we start to run out of things to talk about, they are fine just being with each other when it’s quiet.

  Not me. I hate lulls in the conversation.

  I pause for a second. They seem trustworthy, don’t they? Before I know what I am doing, I turn to the computer sitting on the desk there in the den and ask them: “Hey, you guys want to see something cool?”

  A few taps of the keys and I am back in my dad’s electronic case files.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Nat asks. “Is that the Vegas Police Department’s case management system? You gotta be kidding me—how’d you get into it?”

  “I break into police computers all the time,” I answer in a casual, offhand way. Where’d that come from? Did that sound cool or is Cissy going to think I’m some kind of juvenile delinquent? Why did I even say that?

  “My dad would kill me if he knew we were doing this,” I warn them. The second I say “kill,” Cissy takes a major step back and sits her butt down in a chair away from us.

  “Cissy, shhh,” Nat says, now hovering so close over my shoulder, I can see a light misting of sweat glistening on her brow. Why is she wearing a hoodie in the middle of the summer anyway? “I’ve been a Police Explorer for two years and did two summers in forensic camp, but I’ve never see the actual case management system.”

  “I had no idea it was so … special,” I answer, somewhat absurdly. Mom calls it my whimsical voice.

  “Are you kidding? They put everything in there: all the details, all the witness statements, all the forensics, all the evidence,” Nat answers. “They can put cold cases in there. The computer database scans
every detail and makes connections between crimes humans can’t detect. It’s a powerful tool.”

  Wow, they are way more interested in this than I realized they would be, and I’m getting second thoughts on whether this is a good idea. Nat elbows me out of the chair and wiggles her butt into my place, her fingers flying over the keyboard—impressive, I think. And then I realize how much trouble I am going to be in if I get caught in this major Malone-family security breach. This is exactly what Dad said not to do.

  Keeping one nervous ear on the front door, I focus on that loudly ticking clock down the hall that makes my heart jump every time the minute hand moves.

  “What are we looking for?” yawns a bored Deva, who has now moved towards the computer and, out of nowhere, whips out a nail file to do a quick fix on a jagged end.

  “What are we looking for, you asked?” I respond. “Well, my dad investigates murders.”

  Big blunder. When am I going to learn how to keep my mouth shut?

  From the corner of my eye, I can see Cissy actually putting one full finger into her mouth and then nibbling on the entire thing like it’s a pretzel. She’s like James Franco in that mountain-climbing movie where he has to give up one good arm in order to live.

  Good thing she has nine more fingers to go, because it is going to be a long afternoon. I have turned my back just long enough on Nat that when she speaks up, I realize she’s tapped into an actual case file.

  “Oh, this is interesting,” she says to no one in particular. “Pool of blood—now there’s a phrase you don’t see spelled out every single day. Pool. Of. Blood. And if I click here, that will take me to the forensics on said pool of blood.”

  Her long brown fingers click the mouse and a new screen flashes on with digital images that mean nothing to me, but to Nat it’s like reading a fourth-grade math card. “That’s the DNA signature on the suspected perp. They did a mouth swab,” she informs me.

  “Do you even know how to administer a DNA test? You can use saliva. Swab the cheek—one and done,” Nat goes on gleefully.