Page 18 of The Fall of Iris Henley
“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.”
Itisactually 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, andwe 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.”
“Thebandwas on point.” Noelle’s sawing through her meat, leaving it in jagged hunks on her plate. “We’re doing aBeyoncé 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 thetrombone.” 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 becauseyoufeel 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.
