Page 17 of The Fall of Iris Henley
JONAH
How are your applications coming?
A figure of speech. It was just a figure of speech.
I’ve got to calm down. I can’t flare up like this over every tiny thing. But the idea of Jonah finding out about the pile-on makes me want to weep. These conversations, flirty, light, uncomplicated, have been a lifeline of normalcy. I can’t stand the thought of losing them.
ME
Honestly it’s been kind of hard to work on them. IDK what my “academic and professional goals” are besides “leave Varda.”
JONAH
gasp, you don’t have clearly articulated plans for your future?
JONAH
jk, I’ve got no idea what I’m doing either
but I would like to do it in Austin
you’re still looking at UT, right?
ME
Yeah that’s one of the places I’m applying—part of me wants to go farther, though. I mean Austin’s an hour away from Varda, it might be nice to go somewhere totally new.
JONAH
ok but you’re overlooking something really important
and that is that I could be in Austin too and it would be very cool if we were in the same place at the same time
A warm wave of pleasure hits me. I can’t keep a goofy smile off my face, and I’m contemplating all the different ways I could reply when there’s a sharp knock at my door.
I drop my phone on the bed. I’ve been staring at the screen so long my room looks strange and flat, unreal. Or—no, it’s just that it’s gotten dark outside, and I haven’t turned on a light.
Noelle opens the door and sticks her head in. “Dinner,” she says.
I don’t answer. I feel her presence there in the doorway, but I don’t look up. After a minute, she leaves.
CHAPTER 12
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 9, 5:40PM
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 beenall 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.
