Jex Malone (29 page)

Dear Diary:

I somehow managed to get Dad to still agree to let me go to the block party. The last few days have been horrible. Mom is still talking about leaving Dad. He told her again if she leaves, she will absolutely and SERIOUSLY regret it. He says it like he means it.

At least he was sober long enough for me to ask about the block party thing, and he just sort of nodded and waved his hand at me. I'm going to take that as a yes. It will be the first time I've been able to be out with Billy in I don't know how long. I am beyond excited because Billy gave up and said he would come to the big shindig!

Historically speaking, the block party is a good time. They block off the street so no cars can come through and then everyone brings hot dogs and hamburgers and ice cream and soda and has a good old time. It's the best day of the year next to Christmas. I'm the only one from my family who ever goes to it. The coolest thing is when they set off the fireworks. I love all the colors and patterns. I could just sit there and watch them forever.

Anyway, the party is tomorrow, so finally I've got something to look forward to in my crazy life. I finally called Melissa and asked her to come with me and she said she would. Billy is going to come, too. So, maybe the three of us can just hang out.

I put the notebook down. “There is only one more entry,” I announce dramatically, and the other three remain totally silent.

Dear Diary:

I can't even believe I have to write this because I'm totally and absolutely freaking out!!!! I don't even know who else to tell. I ran to the 7-11 to get some soda for the party and I saw Billy's car in the parking lot. That's really weird because unless he's coming to see me, he doesn't come this way at all. And then guess what?

There's someone in the car with him and I get closer to it and I can see it's a girl. It's not his sister either and so I knocked on the window and the two of them looked up in a real guilty, “we just got caught” kind of way. It's Melissa, my best friend!!!! They're in the car making out! Kissing. Touching. Her shirt pulled out of her shorts. Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! I can't believe this!!!!!!!

I didn't even know enough bad words to call them. I screamed that I never wanted to see either of them ever again and just ran hard all the way home. Melissa hates Billy!! That's rich! She said all this mean stuff about him. How could she kiss him? Maybe she never really hated him and just wanted me to break up with him so it could all come out. Oh my God!

I slammed my front door so hard that I knew Dad would want to kill me. But I just don't care anymore. For once, Dad wasn't home (thank God). Maybe he was having beers down the street and getting a head start on tonight's personal pass-out-drunk fest. It was real weird because Mom was standing in the hallway with two overstuffed suitcases—hers and a little one for Cooper. I did a double take. How come no one packed anything for me?

Mom was the weirdest ever. She said, “Pats, I can't take it anymore. Cooper shouldn't have to take it. No one should.” Then Mom did something she never ever did before even on my birthday or Christmas. She took her rough hand and put it on my cheek. It was like a real and forever goodbye.

Then she screamed for Cooper, who was practically falling down the stairs crying when she tugged him by the arm out to the Trans Am. In like two seconds, they were peeling out of the driveway.

Was she gone for good? Why didn't she take me with her? Where is my dad? What is going on tonight?!!!!!!!!!!

What else could I do but go back to my room and write all of this stuff to you while I sit on my bed and wait for the next bad thing to happen?

I hear him opening the back door of our house, so I guess I should hide you. I should hide me! I might not be able to write for a few days if Dad is really mad about Mom leaving with Cooper. He might just go off the deep end and …

Now someone is banging on our back door. He's screaming my name and racing up the stairs. no … no!

I don't sleep at all that night because terrible thoughts kept floating through my brain. I imagine creepy Mr. Foster killing poor Patty in her own bedroom when nobody was home, stuffing the body in his old white Chevy Impala, and then driving her across the desert to get rid of the evidence. He knew the coast was clear that night. Mom and little boy, gone with suitcases. Dad, checked out drunk. Patty, all alone and vulnerable. He probably spent countless nights staring out his window at the Matthews' house just waiting for such a ripe opportunity.

In his spare time afterwards, he would obviously go into his dilapidated old shed and remember his crimes by drawing pictures of what he had done. His wife, Lillian, was into art and the sketches were easy to hide amongst her things. Plus, he could always pin the drawings on her and explain them away as meaningless.

It was the old “I didn't do it” defense.

The next morning, I have another mess on my hands. Crazy hunger from missing dinner last night forces me to actually go and eat breakfast, although I desperately want to wait until my father leaves the house. But, alas, my Pop-Tarts in a flavor known as luscious S'mores call out to me.

I eat silently while my father reads the sports pages in the newspaper. Without making a sound, he gets up from the table and without saying a word shoots me a look to remind me that I'm under house arrest.

Lovely
.

The moment I hear him rev up his car, I call my mom and tell her everything is fine but I can't wait to get home and, yes, I'm eating organically, even if it's not entirely true. I try to make things sound normal because the last thing I need is for her to elevate this into World War III. As much as she wants to trust him taking care of me for the whole summer, I have a sneaking suspicion that she really doesn't.

Doesn't … as in she's still sure he will get me shot.

He clearly hasn't called to rat me out—doing so would be admitting defeat, and he would never cop to the fact that he couldn't get me to follow his well-thought-out parental instructions. That would mean he failed again at being a family man. The truth sometimes stings and Det. Malone must have been feeling the pain.

Finally, it's Saturday, the day of the big block party, and my father has the morning off because he has to work tonight just to make sure nothing gets out of hand. I only know this because I overhear him tell Miss Bouncy Sandy that he's unavailable. For what? I don't want to know.

I'm in despair because I can't stay in the den all day long with the dog as my only companion.

“Well, I'm a person in this house and I'm not in jail,” I decide, tossing on some white shorts and a light blue tank top. After brushing my teeth and blow-drying the new hair into the more striking version of me, I make my way into the kitchen.

Once again, Dad is at the table reading the paper. In khaki shorts and an old ASU T-shirt, he doesn't look like a guy who will ever be leaving the air-conditioned splendor of his abode, which makes my heart sink.

I do see him glance at the new hair with concern. Score one for Deva, the makeover maven. Det. Malone lets it rest there. He's not starting another battle, even though he has obviously logged in his mental file the issue with my grown-up tresses.

Absolutely without question, I must figure out a way to get away and meet with the other girls today.

Without saying a word, I look away from my captor and pretend to be engrossed in toasting my 'Tarts. The chocolate milk is next, and I slam the fridge door just a little bit too hard when I'm finished with it.

Det. Malone doesn't flinch. He keeps his eyes on the newspaper where he's scouring the sports pages to check up on his favorite UNLV baseball players.

I eat in silence, alternating between looking at my fingers and chewing. When I get up to put the paper plate into the garbage, Det. Malone clears his voice and actually speaks.

“Just to be clear, Jessica, you're still grounded,” he says. “I'll be on duty tonight during the block party. Absolutely under no circumstances are you to leave this house or have anyone over tonight. Are we clear?”

“Ten-four,” I reply in my most flippant voice.

“Don't push it,” Det. Malone retorts. Then he must ask, “You look different. What did you do to yourself? I hope you didn't do anything else.”

Glaring at him, I don't answer.

And I don't push anything except the kitchen door, which I walk through and then hightail it back to the den. Slamming the door as hard as possible, I begin to pace on the beige carpeting. But then I calm myself and think about the day and the things that have to be accomplished.

My To-Do List:

• Sneak out of the house.
  
• Meet up with the other girls.
  
• Find Cooper and tell him what
  really
  happened to his sister.
  

It's his right to know and I want to tell him gently before Deva and the other girls just blurt it out. I can't admit it to them, but I have a soft spot for Cooper Matthews besides having a crush on him. He has been through enough mess and pain, and he doesn't need someone else blurting out the worst news of his entire life such as the fact that his neighbor killed his sister.

It's not that Deva isn't compassionate, but she simply doesn't have the people skills to ease someone into a tough conversation.

I'm not so sure I can do it either, but for some reason, I want someone who cares about Cooper to be the one to tell him that his sister was murdered.

It's the least I can do under the circumstances.

At 6
P.M.
that night and without a word of goodbye, my father gathers up his badge and gun and leaves our house. I wait about one second before running into the kitchen and then I call Deva's cell phone. It rings and rings, but she doesn't answer. Later, I'd find out that she was setting up fruit trays for the block party.

A few houses down, I'd learn that Nat was going through the same drill, although her mother wasn't the cooking type. Instead, they were spreading out a fine array of store-bought doughnuts on a tray.

“Mom, can I sleep at Ciss's tonight? There's a
True Crime
marathon on TV,” Nat said.

Finally, I'd find out that Deva's nanny waited until Deva's fanny was firmly in the Mercedes again before she made the short drive home of a block and a half.

“Deva, I have a horrid migraine,” the nanny begged off. “I'm so sorry, but I'm going to have to take to my room. Have fun at the party.”

Deva shrugged—nothing like a good migraine to take one problem adult out of the equation.

An hour later, Deva finally checks her cell messages. There are six of them—all from me.

“What?” she demands.

“Listen, Deva, just listen to me. I don't want to talk about this on the phone, but I'm going to sneak out of here somehow. Meet me at nine tonight with Nat and Cissy in front of Cooper's house. Please don't ask any questions, but just be there,” I plead with her.

I barely get those words out of my mouth when there is a pounding knock on the back door.