Page 78 of The Fall of Iris Henley
“Are you just dying? I bet you are dying.” Vanessa’s eyes are impossibly round.
I don’t even know what she means by that. “Um, no, I’m okay. Just trying to figure out what the new normal is.” My eyes dart around the room. “No Hayden?”
“Not here,” Molly says. “She texted me today to get our assignments.”
I guess that’s not unusual. Hayden always gets hypochondria when she’s stressed out. Even if some things are “returning to normal” or whatever, she’s probably a mess still. I just wish she’d answer my messages.
Before I can say anything else, Gloria comes in, her ponytail sleek through the hole at the back of her Longhorns baseball cap. She raises her eyebrows at me, mildly surprised. I wait to see if she’s going to say anything.I’m so glad you’re okay. I’m glad you’re back. Welcome. You’re safe here now.
“Well, come on, Henley. Practice is starting right now. Go get changed.”
I think of all the times she’s drilled me, grilled me, assigned me more laps, so that I could stay a flier. So that I could stay top girl. She’s always been fair to me, even if she is demanding. And she’s taught me a lot. She’s taught me how to perform, how to look light when I feel heavy, how to push myself past what I think I can do.
I don’t want her to think I’m ungrateful. But I don’t want to be here anymore either.
So I just shake my head. I step back into my cowboy boots, which I kicked off at the door, and pick up my backpack. “I’m sorry, Coach. I can’t. Thank you for everything, but I can’t.”
Gloria’s eyes narrow. The room is silent now, even the music muted. Vanessa’s hands have flown to her mouth in surprise. Molly just looks pale and uncertain.
“You’re not flying anymore?” Gloria asks.
I turn my back on them.
“I’m not cheering anymore.”
CHAPTER 43
MONDAY, OCTOBER 24, 5:37PM
HENLEY HOUSE
“I’ll tell you one thing, George Ramos has no idea what’s about to hit him.”
The dinner table trembles as Dad slaps his hand down next to his plate. He’s flushed, the red of his scalp peeking through his sparse blond hair. Mom makes a show of steadying her water glass.
We don’t usually eat as a family on Mondays, but tonight Mom surprised us with—guess what?—boneless, skinless chicken breasts and a side of undressed salad. It’s become clear, though, that more than anything else this is a war meeting. Dad’s called a second lawyer—this one a specialist in civil suits—and has been making a list of the people he could sue.
“That man’s been cock of the walk around here for twenty years, he’s got everything set up real nice for himself, but he is in for a rude awakening,” Dad says, sawing at his chicken. “Got half a mind to take in the principal too. What’s her name, Subramanian? What kind of name is that, even?”
“Jesus, Dad,” I mutter. “Can we dial the racism to a dull roar?”
I stay as low as I can in my chair without attracting a comment about my posture, picking at the corner of a chicken breast with my fork. I guess it’s good that my parents are finally standing up for me. I wish they’d done a better job of it before the damage was done, though.
“Let’s not go too crazy, Mark.” Mom purses her lips. She had her hair touched up today, her nails done in bright blood red. She always hits the salon when she’s feeling like a fight.
“Too crazy? These people made it look like our daughter was some kind of…” Dad trails off and glances at me. “I think we’re justified in seeking some compensation.”
“I’m just saying, Iris has had her name dragged through the mud enough already. I agree that we should look for some recourse, but I don’t know if it’s a good idea to attract more attention to ourselves,” Mom says.
Across from me, Noelle sits still and silent, picking at her food. She glances up at me with a sympathetic grimace.
“Oh come on, Carrie, this could pay for her whole college career,” Dad says. He looks borderline delighted. “You know who else we should sue is Laura Fisher.”
Hearing that surname sends a hollow pain through my body, like a pebble dropped in an empty well. It rings around inside me, an echo of something else.
Mom gives him an appalled look. “You are out of your mind. We’ve lived next door to Laura for twelve years.”
“Yeah, and look what it got us?” He gestures toward me with his fork. “Our daughter was cyberbullied. Our whole family was maligned. And she didn’t do a damn thing to stop it.”
