Page 49 of The Fall of Iris Henley
ME
4:47
Can’t wait to see you tonight
6:43
Hey you! Are you on the way?
7:14
Let me know your ETA
7:16
Just so I can plan for it
7:18
We may not have time to get dinner now so maybe get something on the way
7:45
Starting to worry about you, everything okay?
I look down at the phone in my hand. I last texted Jonah twenty- seven minutes ago. The dance started twelve minutes ago.
I can’t text him again. It’s already pathetic, but that would betoopathetic.
Still, I edge up to the window of my bedroom, peek through the curtains, hoping to see his blue Honda Civic pull up in front. Sorry I’m late, I was stuck in traffic. Had a flat tire. Had to help a family of ducklings get across the highway.
I’d take any of them.
My body has been on high alert all day long. For three days, actually—since I invited him to come, since he said yes. Yesterday at school, during the game, today while doing my hair and makeup, I’ve been bouncing my feet, fidgeting, wandering around in a dreamy fog. Because I was going to be in a room, finally, with Jonah. I was going to show up at the dance with him. I could picture us, framed beautifully in the doorway as everyone stopped to look. Is that Iris Henley? Who’s that boy with her?
For one thing, we could change the news cycle.
For another… I could finally see what it felt like to touch him. To put my hand in his and see what it was like to feel his skin on mine.
But now I know I’ve made a terrible mistake. A terrible, embarrassing mistake.
I look back up through our chat history:What time should I get there? What color is your dress? Do the guys at your school do tuxes or just suits?And then, this morning, one last message from him:See you tonight.
Nothing since then, though. And now my guts are plummeting through my body in freefall as I wonder: Was this always going to be some kind of joke? Was he ever planning to come? Did I scare him off?
Is literally everyone in the world fucking with me?
I can hear Noelle’s music in her room. She’s not going, of course. It’s so strange how she has the guts to dress up in allkinds of wild, formfitting costumes, but she’s too self-conscious to put on a formal dress for a dance. Does she have to pretend to be a different person before she can make an effort? Or is it just not fun if she doesn’t have superpowers?
Maybe I’ll take a page out of Noelle’s book, and take off this dress and crawl back into bed. No one wants me at that dance, and the one reasonIwanted to go has obviously stood me up. So why bother?
But then I see headlights. A car! Finally a car, pulling up just outside our fence. From here it looks like a compact sedan. I take the stairs two at a time and land right in front of the door, just ahead of my mom. I give her a back-off look before I turn the doorknob, and she holds up her hands, then vanishes into the kitchen.
I take a deep breath and pat the back of my head to make sure my hair is still up in its twist.
Then I open the door.
The man who stands on the mat is in his forties or fifties, graying at the temple, glasses perched on his nose. I freeze in place, all my hopes and expectations shriveling up inside me.
