Chapter 3-1
1204 Words
CHAPTER 3
The entire ride home, Cissy fiddles with Betsy’s radio and grills me about every millisecond of my interaction with Zeke. It’s amazing how many details she thinks are important. ‘Did he look directly into your eyes when he asked that question?’ ‘Were his arms crossed over his chest like this?’ And, of course, there’s the ever-popular ‘Did he ask you about me?’ When I run out of answers, I start making stuff up. It’s easier that way.
Cissy’s eyes flare with a bit of red. “Did he give you his smoldering look?” She’s created an elaborate filing system for Zeke’s goo-goo eyes. Blech. This boy-crazy crap makes me a little nuts. Not only because it’s dumb, repetitive, and a total waste of time, but also because part of me wishes I’d felt that way. Maybe once.
“Smoldering look.” I smack my lips. “What do you mean?”
Her eyes blaze red. “You know exactly what I mean. He gives you that look all the time. Zeke so likes you and you could care less. It’s not fair.”
I grip the steering wheel tighter and brainstorm ways to change the subject. There are two Cissys. One is my sweet friend with a big heart who can’t help but take care of oddballs like me. The other’s an obsessive nut job who goes demon-eyed with envy over whatever’s the object of her desire. Like Zeke. “Put the brakes on your inner demon, Cissy girl. Do you want to miss this chance?”
“What chance?” Cissy slumps into the seat, kicking her foot onto the dashboard. “You’ll be at the party too. Let’s be honest. He won’t notice I exist.”
“Hey, now.” I can’t stand to see Cissy so down on herself. “This is like…like…”
Cissy frowns. “Like what?”
“Well, it’s like fighting a Cellula demon. Do you let its projectiles wrap around you until it squeezes you to death? NO!” I pound the steering wheel with my fist for emphasis. “You reach inside the membrane and pull out its nucleus!”
The edge of Cissy’s mouth quirks upwards; her eyes return to their regular tawny brown. “I’m not exactly sure what you just said, but I think it was something like ‘don’t give up?’”
“Yeah.” I whack the steering wheel again; I’m on a roll. “Who lives in the one house in Purgatory that can get any kind of dress, make-up, or hair goop in the five realms? YOU. If Zeke’s what you want, sitting in the car and moping isn’t going to get him for you. Get your Barbie on and knock his socks off.”
Cissy sits up, her mouth rounding into a full grin. “You know what? You’re absolutely right.”
“Damn straight, I’m right.” I pull the car into the driveway and kill the ignition. Betsy’s engine kicks with a loud thump. “Now, let’s chow down on some Demon bars.”
Cissy pumps her fist in the air. “Huzzah!”
I park the car, walk through the front door, and update Mom that Cissy will be here for the rest of the week, talking non-stop about Zeke’s party on Friday.
Mom perks up immediately. “A party in the Ryder mansion?” She opens different kitchen cabinets, pulling out ingredients for chocolate chip cookies. Whoa, that’s unexpectedly awesome.
“Yup.” Cissy twirls one golden lock of hair around her finger. “I don’t know what I’ll wear.”
Mom hauls the mixer out from its hiding place above the fridge. “I have an old contact at Versace. I’ll write the name down for your parents. They’re great at whipping up something special on short notice.”
I slide into my favorite seat at our kitchen table (the one with the perfectly-sized back-hole for my tail) and watch Mom putter around the kitchen, a rare smile on her amber face. Since when does she know anyone at Versace?
“Thanks so much, Momma Lewis.” Cissy draws circles on the tabletop with her finger. “Want me to get something for Myla, too?” She looks expectantly from me to my mother.
“Nonsense!” Mom juts out her chin. “I attended my share of diplomatic events back in the day; I saved all my dresses. I have the perfect one for you, Myla!”
My face stretches into a sly grin. “All this talk about diplomatic events must remind you of someone.” As in my father. I shoot her a look that says ‘this is me, not giving up.’
Mom gathers up my long auburn hair, piling it at different angles atop my head. “We’re not talking about that, Myla.” She lightly pinches my cheeks to turn them blush-red. “I know just what we’ll do with your hair and make-up too.”
I pause, biting my lower lip. Versace, diplomats, parties at the Ryder mansion…Do I push for the millionth time for information about my father?
Cissy sighs. “If you’re starting one of those ‘who’s my dad’ fights, I’m going home.”
Mom keeps fussing with my hair. “I’m not fighting.”
I drum my fingers on the tabletop. “Okay, you don’t want to talk about Dad. Maybe you can talk about your diplomatic work? What were the events you attended at the Ryder mansion?”
Mom hums a nonsense tune, twisting my hair in different angles. “I never answered these questions before and I won’t start now.”
I let out an exasperated gasp. “Come on, Mom! This is so unfair. Can’t you tell me one little thing?”
Cissy thunks her forehead onto the tabletop. “No way! This sounds like a ‘who’s my Dad’ fight plus a ‘what did you do before the war, Mom’ battle. Can I please save us all some time?” She sits upright, making her two hands talk to each other like puppets.
Cissy’s first hand ‘speaks.’ “Mom, I really want to know who Dad is.” Cissy gives me a very whiny voice. We’ll have a chat later about that.
Her second hands ‘replies.’ “No.” Her mom voice is totally grouchy and right on the money.
‘My’ hand: “What did you do before the war?”
‘Mom’s’ hand: “I can’t tell you.”
“Not one eensy beensy bit?”
“No.”
“But I really, really want to know.” Cissy’s puppet-Myla jumps up and down.
“No, no, no, no, no. Now, go to your room and ask your friend to go home.”
Cissy stands up, taking a bow. “Thank you, thank you! Show’s over.” She plunks back into her seat. “Now, can we talk about the party?”
I set my hands over my face. “No.” She’s not charming me off the subject this time.
Cissy gently moves my hand until I peep at her between my fingers. “That’s not my Myla.” She shoots me a sweet grin.
I try to pout, but I slowly smile instead. Once again, Cissy knows exactly what to say to get everything back on track. No doubt our school will be overrun with moths in a matter of weeks, too. I drop my hands. “Fine, let’s talk about the party.”
Mom grins as well. “Absolutely. I was saying I could do your hair and make-up.”
“I can do my own hair and make-up, Mom. But if you can find a dress for me, that would be awesome.”
“And shoes too,” adds Cissy.
“Of course!” Mom sashays from the room; I hear the pit-pat of footsteps in our attic crawlspace. The rest of the afternoon, Mom pores through old boxes while humming a tuneless song. Meanwhile, Cissy and I actively avoid homework by watching the Brady Bunch marathon on the Human Channel.
All in all, a good day.
- Writer
