Chapter 12
HENLEY HOUSE
Downstairs, the dining room table is set with the good china.
Mom and Dad always make a big deal out of Sunday dinner because it’s the only night we can all eat together.
During the week Noelle and I have band or cheer or homework or club meetings, Dad works long hours in Austin, and Mom has a full slate of PTA and booster and book club meetings.
I’m not sure why we bother using the good china, because dinner is almost always the same thing: dry chicken breasts, undressed salad, and whatever miracle vegetable has been in the news lately.
It doesn’t seem like a meal like that needs any kind of fanfare or classy plating.
But Mom’s on a perpetual diet, so every week we eat the tasteless food off the tasteful tableware.
Dad’s already at the head of the table. He’s wearing his Sunday clothes—polo shirt, nice slacks.
He’s been out on the golf course all day; his face is a little sunburned, and I can tell from his smile he had a few drinks at the clubhouse before coming home.
“There she is,” he says. “Where’ve you been all day?
You can’t have that much homework yet, school just started. ”
“It’s October.” Mom’s voice is cool and barbed as she puts a platter of boiled cauliflower on the table between us. She hates it when he shows up to dinner tipsy. “They’ve been in class for a month and a half.”
Noelle comes in from the kitchen with a pitcher of water, sliced lemons floating inside. She’s back to her usual look: oversized black T-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts. Her features are small and sullen under her unkempt curls.
“I’ve already got a hundred and ten percent in my English class,” she tells Dad. She puts down the pitcher a little roughly, and the water slops over the side.
“A hundred and ten!” he says, like we’re five years old and he’s making some kind of goofy dad joke. “I’m glad it’s in English. I’d be worried if your math teacher thought that was possible. Can’t be better than perfect, Noelle. But nice try.”
It is actually possible, because our school gives weighted scores to AP classes, which he’d know if he’d ever once been to a parent-teacher conference or listened to us talk about it. I look quickly up at Noelle. Her lips go hard and straight, and she slumps down in her chair.
“Grace,” Mom says.
We’re not really religious, but Mom was a preacher’s kid. I never met my maternal grandpa—he died before I was born—but I know Mom grew up resenting the fussy, frumpy household she grew up in. I guess some habits are hard to kick, though, because she always makes sure we pray before we eat.
Dad sighs and straightens up before clasping his hands in front of him.
“Our Father in Heaven, we give thanks for this food, and we pray that it nourishes our bodies and give us strength to live as You would have us. This we ask in the name of Christ, Our Heavenly Father.”
“Amen,” we all say together.
Mom starts to pass the platter around. I take a piece of chicken like everyone else, but the idea of putting it into my mouth strikes me as impossible. Steam rises off the cauliflower, and I busy myself cutting things into tiny, tiny pieces.
“So we lost another game last night?” Dad says.
“Friday night,” Noelle answers. “It was pathetic.”
“I tried to make it, but the meeting in Austin went too long,” he says. “But maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t go. I can’t stand to see those boys lose.”
Dad was a running back in high school and will still regale anyone who wants to listen with stories of his glory days.
He and Mom both went to Varda High. She wasn’t allowed to cheer, because her dad thought it was “immodest,” but Mom and Dad still managed to be a high school power couple.
Their pictures are laced all throughout their senior yearbook: holding hands on a hayride, waving from a homecoming float.
Voted “Cutest Couple” on the Senior Superlatives page.
It’s kind of sad to think about. Now all they do is snipe at each other. They don’t even sleep in the same bed anymore—Mom decamped for the guest room years ago. She said it was because he snored so badly, but I think she also just wanted her own space.
Dad smiles at me, and I get a glimpse of what Mom must have seen in him so long ago. A roguish charm, a twinkling eye. “Well, too bad we lost, but I’m sure the cheer squad made everyone’s cost of entry worthwhile.”
“The band was on point.” Noelle’s sawing through her meat, leaving it in jagged hunks on her plate. “We’re doing a Beyoncé medley and it’s brutal. There are a bunch of wild steps for ‘Single Ladies,’ and I—”
“Slow down,” Mom snaps at her. “You’re going to make yourself sick, eating like that.”
There’s a little clink, as Noelle’s silverware falls to her plate. She scowls down at her lap.
Dad takes a sip of wine, completely oblivious. That’s his superpower: never picking up on tension. Life must be so easy that way.
“Beyoncé, huh?” He leans his forearm on the table. “They make you guys dance around with your tubas to Beyoncé? Man, when I was in high school—”
“I play the trombone.” Noelle’s voice is too loud. Mom’s eyes cut toward her, but Noelle doesn’t care. She’s gone pale, the shadows of her face deepening with anger. “Not the tuba.”
“Sure, I knew that,” says Dad. “The long one. With all the tubes.”
When we were little this might’ve been a funny bit: him pretending not to know something very basic about us while we giggled.
He used to act like he didn’t know what grade we were in, or which of us liked cherry versus vanilla ice cream, or even the name of our nanny.
We thought it was a bit. The problem is, now we’re old enough to realize that it isn’t.
He makes light of it to cover for the fact that he’s barely around and doesn’t give a shit.
“Anyway,” Noelle says, stabbing again at the chicken. “It’s a lot harder than just waving some pom-poms around and shaking your ass.”
Mom slaps a palm on the table.
“That’s enough. Not everything is a competition. You don’t need to cut down your sister just because you feel insecure,” she says.
A moment or two passes, and I think maybe this will blow over, and we will eat our dry chicken and unseasoned vegetables in silence like a normal white American family and then I can go back upstairs to my room.
But then Noelle pulls the trigger.
“At least I’m not a murderer,” she mumbles.
Every sound in the room collapses into silence. To my left and right my parents are confused, staring. But across from me, Noelle’s face juts like a precision blade. Her eyes flash with triumph.
Well, it was only a matter of time before she saw the post. She didn’t have to narc me out in front of Mom and Dad, though.
I put down my fork. I don’t know what I’m going to do—but I know what I want to do.
I want to break that plate over her head.
I want to throw wet vegetables at her. I want to make her feel small and stupid and ugly and pathetic.
But before I can do anything, Dad bursts out laughing. Literally holding his gut, laughing. Bending over at the waist, his face red with it.
“A murderer?”
“It’s true,” Noelle says loudly. “Everyone at school’s been talking about it. Everyone thinks she killed Rocky and Lynette.”
Dad stops laughing. I guess the sound of their names can get even his attention.
“That’s … that’s … that’s…” he sputters.
“Absurd.” Mom has barely moved, but she lifts up her wineglass in one slender hand. “It’s absurd. Kids are cruel.”
“Is this true, Iris?” Dad looks at me, his eyes suddenly focused. “Who’s saying this crap?”
I open my mouth, but before I can say anything, Noelle cuts in.
“Everyone,” she says again, almost gleeful. “And they’re saying her alibi is totally made up.”
“Why would you repeat something like that?” Mom’s attention turns back to Noelle. “What’s wrong with you? Why would you help spread lies about your own sister?”
“I want names,” Dad says. “I want to know who’s saying this. We’ll see what they say when they’ve got a defamation lawsuit on their hands.”
“I just don’t understand you sometimes, Noelle,” Mom says, shaking her head. “Why you can’t be more supportive—”
I stand up quickly, pushing my chair back from the table Everyone goes quiet.
“It’s just a dumb rumor,” I say. “Just … stop. No one needs to get sued. No one needs to freak out. Just let it go.”
“Iris, I will not stand for people dragging our name—” my dad starts. But I shake my head.
“Dad, it’s not a big deal.” The words are almost hard to say, twisting around in my chest. I’m desperate for someone to take this as seriously as I’ve been taking it—not dismissing it as a troll or a joke gone too far.
But the help my parents would offer is worse than no help at all.
They’ll be on the phone with the principal, with my teachers, with other kids’ parents.
They’ll call the internet provider, thinking that they can throw their weight around and find out who the original poster was.
They’ll think it’s as simple as dialing up Sekrit, and I just can’t take that right now.
“Can I please go back to my room? I have to finish my homework.”
I don’t wait for an answer. I turn and head for the stairs. Behind me, there’s a pained silence. It’s not until I’m out of sight of them that I hear my mom’s muffled voice. “You show me this message right now, Noelle. I want to…”
Great. It’s too late; they’re going to be on the case in no time.
I’m grateful they don’t believe the rumor, I guess.
That they are willing to defend me. But at the same time, I know it’s not about me at all.
For Dad it’s about the family’s reputation.
For Mom, it’s more evidence that Noelle’s a brat.
There’s nothing they can do to stop this, though. A wildfire has been lit and there’s no telling when it will be put out.