09:37. Ugh. Mom won't be liking me waking up late on the guest's first morning here, but I need time to sleep. I need to sleep, because the next fifty nights I will have a total insomnia because of my horrid second cousin.

I get up and reach the slippers under my bed with my feet. Slowly, I put on the jeans and the tank-top-without-washing-instructions, the same ones I wore the previous day. I brush my hair with a purple hairbrush I once won from a fair.

I spread some red lip balm onto my lips and take a deep breath. I know what to expect: a perfect geek making sweet curtsies and chirping: "Oh Mrs Chevrolet, this kitchen is simply adorable" and "Mrs Chevrolet, this apple pie of yours - it's indescribably delicious!".

I step down the stairs in a way that hopefully is being very smooth and graceful. I'm sure she'll be greatly impressed by me.

Mom's voice echoes from the kitchen.

"What's keeping her, I told her to be here to welcome you!" I can almost hear Mom gritting her teeth.

Then I hear an unfamiliar laughter. "Well, I can wait. At least the surprise won't be ruined too early."

So, it's a surprise our Victoria-Josephine wants?

I push the door wide open and blurt: "What surprise?"

The first thing I notice about her is that she doesn't have denim overalls nor a straw hat. She's wearing a black tee and leggings, and over them a white tank top and a tennis skirt. She looks a little weird. Her expression is rather perplexed and Mom's annoyed.

"Good heavens with you, is that what you call a greeting?"

I don't give her any answer. Instead I'm trying to keep staring the girl while fumbling for toast with my back toward her. I feel irritated. She has the shiniest, the smoothest, the thickest, the longest and the most chocolate brown hair I've ever seen. Oh well. It's not that long. Actually, it's not very special after all.

Her eyes are some vague shade of olive green. Did I mention that I've always disliked the mix of brown hair and green eyes? If you have green eyes, you should have red or blonde hair. That's how it goes. It just looks way better.

"Your eyes are of the same colour as mine", she notices. Well, that took her long enough.

"You have the eyes of great aunt Magdalene", Mom says in a voice that oozes milk and honey.

I don't want to have some old hag's eyes, I just want Miss Candyfloss Head out of here!

When I finally manage to grab the toast, I have to face her, because the toaster is on the other side of the room.

She doesn't say a word, only brushes a chocolate tress of hers behind her ear. I bet she's trying to be attractive like Audrey Hepburn or something.

Her silence really starts to disturb me.

Mom nags: "Aren't you going to consider her at all? Oh, now I have to fly. I'll leave you here to get to know each other. Don't you dare flee anywhere!"

Of course, the last words are meant for me. Who else? Mom puts on some Liz Taylor and snatches her purse. She gives a quick kiss for both the weird girl and me, whispering: "Behave yourself."

She's off. The toast jumps from the machine. Eek. She hands me a knife for butter. I don't take it, but fill my mouth with the dry toast instead.

"I truly understand if you want to protest. I don't know about you, but I'm able to demonstrate even though there was some butter on my bread."

I keep my lips together. She moves on to examine her croissant.

"It's strange, this consistency of the southern breakfast. Leafy, if you know what I mean."

Leafy?

After a moment of thinking I open my mouth and burst out: "Why don't you tell your name?"

I try to survive with as little talking as possible, but I have to know why she behaves like she's here every morning eating leafy southern breakfast.

Her olive eyes twinkle. "So you're interested now? I was thinking that if you don't want to know anything about me, I won't tell anything. I don't find it fun to talk to people who aren't interested at all."

Ah. She's odd.

"My whole name is Cinnamon Ivory Yarrow", she sings. Yeah, right.

"Really funny."

She – Cinnamon, what a name – only raises her eyebrows. Is that even a real name?

I guess it is, because she doesn't exactly seem like a joker. I actually didn't muff a stroke with that Victoria-Josephine. However, I'd rather be even The-violet-that-sways-in-the-wind than Cinnamon.

"Lizzie", I introduce myself with my middle name.

Again, that laughter that doesn't fit in our kitchen. "Well, at least your name's easy to remember... Satin."

She's pronouncing it wrong. "It's Sa-tiiiin. You said it like Sa-tin", I say out loud by mistake.

"I'm sorry, Sa-tiiiin. Why don't you want to be Satin? If your mother hadn't talked about you so much by your real name, I'd be calling you Lizzie now."

I decide not to answer – again. I'm trying to keep up with my quota of rudeness, but there's something mysterious about Cinnamon. Like she was behind a glass wall all the time. She's weird. Besides, I like my name, I just didn't want Cinnamon to think that I'm on her side. Which I'm not.

Cinnamon just keeps eating and doesn't even look like she's wanting to hear my answer. Someone else would've already been demanding, "Why don't you say anything, I hate silence".

"I think it's all nice", she says.

"What?"

"Silence."

Can she read people's mind, too? I wouldn't be surprised.

"Silence is nice, because you can hear your own thoughts better. You can just sit there and listen to yourself, the CD of your own life. You don't believe how different thoughts you can get when you are just being quiet and giving them time."

I guess I'm looking a bit amazed, because Cinnamon goes on: "You don't think that much, do you?"

Actually I do. Right now, I'm thinking that Cinnamon could jump up and run as far away as she can. She's a freak. I'm getting goosebumps because of her. She's probably trying to brainwash and manipulate me in some twisted way. Maybe she's planning to take me to her spaceship!

Well, okay, maybe freak is a little too strong expression. But I've never been surer of one thing, or actually two. The first one is that I'll never let Misty – or anyone else – anywhere near Cinnamon. And the second one is that I've never ever met a more peculiar person than my second cousin.