Page 9 of The Fall of Iris Henley
He gives me a knowing look. “I mean, I can’t one hundred percent vouch for you, but I did not see you leave and come back covered in blood or whatever. If that’s what you’re worrying about. From what I could hear, you weren’t going anywhere that night.”
“Okay, okay,” I say, forcing a smile. He always seems to know what I’m thinking. Usually it’s nice, being known like that. But hearing him joke about this makes my heart start to go too fast.
“Anyway.” He gives me one more squeeze and then lets me go. “There’s nothing you can do about any of this tonight. Go upstairs, try to rest, see what things look like tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yeah.” I take a deep breath, and then let it out. “Yeah, okay, you’re right. I’ll try. Thanks, Max.”
“Yeah. Night, Henley.” He looks at me for a second, then smiles and tugs on the end of my ponytail. Then he vanishes back into his house.
I stand for another moment on the little strip of garden between our houses, looking up at the pattern of the oak trees against the starry sky. It’s still surreal, hearing details from that night that I don’t remember. Max’s mom is known for her itchy cop-calling finger, and usually I do my best to respect that. But I don’t remember her threatening us that night. I don’t remember deciding to go inside; I just remember being out on the lawn and then back in the living room, house lights blazing against the dark windows.
If I don’t remember that, though, what else have I forgotten?
CHAPTER 7
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1:15AM
HENLEY HOUSE
Inside, the house is dark and silent, except for a thin strip of light emanating from under Noelle’s door. I creep up the stairs to my room and snap on a lamp. The puddle of light it creates is shockingly bright after the darkness, and I blink hard and fast to adjust.
My reflection stares back at me from the full-length mirror on my closet door, dead-eyed and smeary. The dress I changed into after the game is soaked through with sweat, and the knot of my hair is tilting off to the side. Mascara is smeared across my face, and my eyes look startled and wide inside that raccoon mask.
I pick up my charger and plug it into the phone. Even as I do it I think,This is a mistake, go to bed, don’t look, you can’t do anything, don’t even bother, but the idea of not having a phone is scarier than the idea of knowing every cruel joke. It takes it a moment to cycle on. I know I need to go into the bathroom that connects my bedroom to Noelle’s, I need to clean myself up and take off all the makeup. If I don’t, they’ll be talkingabout my gross pimply skin in addition to my murderous rage. But I sit there, cradling the phone in my hand, waiting for it to boot up.
When it does, the first thing I see is a text from Jonah.
My fingers tense compulsively around the edges of my phone. What if he’s heard? What if he’s seen the rumors? What if he believes them?
But that’s not possible. For one thing, he lives in Houston. He doesn’t keep in touch with anyone else in town—at least, not that I know of. And for another, Jonah’s not the kind of person that would buy into some wild unfounded story.
At least I’m pretty sure he’s not.
There’s only one real way to find out, though. So I do it. I open the message.
He’s “hearted” the selfie I took.
That’s all.
I press the phone against my heart for a second. It seems suddenly absurd that I would’ve thought otherwise. The post, and all the comments, has me acting paranoid.
You still up?I type.
There’s no response for a moment. I get up and go to the bathroom to wash my face and comb my hair and change into my pajamas. It feels good. I’m still achy and exhausted but at least I’m not an actual mess anymore.
Though obviously some people would disagree.
When I get back to my bed, he’s replied.
Hey! How was everything tonight?
I sit down on the coverlet, chewing my lip. What can I even say to that?
For just a moment I consider the truth. If I’m the one who tells it, if I can make it obvious how ridiculous it is, he’ll have to believe me. He’ll be on my side. He’ll sympathize.
We met at summer sports camp. I was there for cheer, andhe was there for tennis—so we spent most of our days practicing in triple-digit heat on the field or strength training in the weight room. But I can picture him across the breakfast table with his easy grin. I can picture him in the social room of the dorm, animated while he describes some movie I’ve never even heard of. I can picture him at the camp dance, holding his hand toward me and waiting.
He’s not like anyone I know in Varda. Maybe it’s just that he’s not someone I’ve known my whole life.
