Chapter 36
HENLEY HOUSE
The next day I stay in bed long after my alarm. Mom comes in and tries to bully me into going to school, but I wait her out.
“You can’t just give up, Iris,” she says, her tone icy and hard.
I pop my head out of the covers to squint at her. “I’m off the cheerleading team and no one is talking to me. I don’t have a functional locker. I haven’t done homework in a week. What is the point of dragging myself through another school day?”
“The point?” She lifts her chin high. “The point is to let them see you walk through that hall like butter doesn’t melt!”
It’s easy to imagine her at fifteen, gliding through the halls in the designer jeans she paid for herself and ignoring whatever mean girls the mid-nineties had to offer.
The stories she tells are always about her triumphs: the time she made homecoming court in spite of the odds, the time she won the school talent show with a number from some ancient stage musical.
But underneath those stories there are echoes of the times she didn’t triumph, maybe, or of the things she needed to triumph over.
I don’t know those stories, but I can see the anger they left her with.
I can see that she doesn’t take off her armor anymore because of them.
“The point, Iris,” she says now, “is to make sure they know they cannot touch you.”
The thought flits through my mind that it must be very lonely to be my mother sometimes.
“Just leave me alone” is what I say out loud.
She tries a few other arguments but finally seems to realize that unless she wants to physically remove me from my bed, it’s an exercise in futility.
I stay in bed until I hear Mom’s car pull out of the garage.
Then I don’t know what to do with myself.
I try to watch a movie but I can’t focus.
I flip idly through one of my textbooks.
I scroll through Insta. That just makes me realize that a bunch of my former friends have blocked me.
I check in on Sekrit a few times, but there’s not much new content.
I’ve become more or less a joke to most of them, a meme. A character from last week’s drama.
At lunchtime, I go downstairs to see what’s in the fridge: last night’s unseasoned chicken and a Tupperware of broccoli. No thank you. I find an old box of macaroni and cheese in the pantry and start boiling water.
I hear the garage door open and close and wonder if Mom’s come home early for some reason. But it’s Noelle, her curls damp from her bike helmet. She throws her backpack on the ground and sits at the kitchen island as if I’ve been expecting her.
“No fair you getting to stay home from school just because you’re wanted for murder,” she says, propping her chin on her hands. “I didn’t get to play hooky when Ethan Whatley tried to convince everyone I had an abortion.”
“What’re you doing home?” I ask. “Aren’t you supposed to be in French right now?”
She shrugs. “Yeah, but everyone’s asking me a bunch of dumb questions about you. I got tired of it.”
“Dumb questions?”
“You know. Like, why is your sister such a bitch? Did you know your sister was a bitch? When did she start turning into a bitch?” She shrugs. “It’s kind of annoying, actually.”
“I bet.” I stir the pasta into the water. “You want some mac?”
“Depends. It’s not the weird low-fat stuff Mom got last time, is it?”
I snort. “God, no. This is good old Kraft blue-box processed-cheez-with-a-z.”
“Hook me up.”
I fill up two bowls and push one across to her.
“So what’s it like out there?” I ask, blowing steam off my fork. “Are things getting back to normal? Such as they are?”
She shrugs. “No. Not really. I mean, from what I heard, that was the biggest homecoming blowup of all time, so the dust is still settling. Carter’s suspended, I guess. The cheer team’s been circling the wagons around your friends though.”
“Good.” It makes me feel a little better to know that Sophie and Hayden haven’t been cast out. Maybe they’ll be able to get through this, at least.
“Where’d you go Monday, anyway?” Noelle asks.
I set down my fork. I don’t know that I’m ready to talk about being catfished, period, much less to a person that is looking to stab me in the back half the time.
“Max and I thought we might have a lead on who the poster is. But we were wrong,” I finally say. “We still don’t know.”
“Sucks.” She takes a bite of her macaroni and then winces at how hot it is. “This is all so stupid.”
“I would’ve thought you’d be having fun, watching me get torn to bits,” I say.
She looks, oddly enough, a little startled by that.
Then she rolls her eyes.
“Don’t be so sensitive,” she says. “When I hate you, it’s a special bond between sisters. When everyone else hates you, I have to stand up for you, which is really irritating.”
“Oh really? You’ve been standing up for me?” I smirk.
“Uh, yes? I’m doing the very important marching band PR circuit on your behalf. The brass section’s still got your back.” She kicks against the island. Mom hates when she does that.
“Well, thanks. I guess I assumed you’d be leading the way to the gallows. All things considered.”
“It’s not like that. It’s more like…” She thinks a moment, chewing. “Like Mom and Dad make me actually insane, and you’re just catching stray bullets.”
“They’re hard for me to deal with too, you know,” I say.
“Yeah, but at least you’re more or less the daughter they want.” She doesn’t sound apologetic, exactly, but she looks down at her bowl. “Plus you get to leave soon.”
“Hey, I’ve done my time!” I say.
“I know, I know.” She waves the statement away. “It just gets to me sometimes. Imagining you in some cool college class. Talking to people about something other than football, while I’m still here.”
“Yeah. I get it.” I push pasta around in my bowl. “Believe it or not, that’s all I really want too.”
The doorbell rings. We both go still and listen for a moment. Outside a car starts and then drives away. I go to the foyer just in time to see that it’s a FedEx truck.
The package on the front porch says CHEER WORLD.
It’s addressed to me. I wonder if they’ve sent me a bunch of samples again—last year I was the team secretary, which meant I did a lot of the ordering, but this year it’s supposed to go to Hayden.
I look around for a pair of scissors and am just about to slice through the tape when my sister grabs my arm.
“Iris,” she says. “Look.”
For a moment I don’t see anything. I pull my hand away. “Careful, I’ve got scissors.”
Then I notice that she has gone white as chalk.
I look back at the box. And I see what she’s seen.
The bottom of the box is dark and wet, like it’s been sitting in a dirty puddle.
Or like something inside is seeping through the cardboard.
Something red and thick and sticky.
And then I am screaming, the scissors falling out of my hands with a clatter, and my sister tries to pull me away from the kitchen, tries with all the strength of her body, and I’m frozen there, staring at the box that someone sent, special delivery, just for me.