Page 5 of The Fake Out

“What?” Iris scowled. That was her normal expression these days. She flung herself on the far side of the couch.

“It’s past curfew,” I said. “Way past curfew. Where were you?”

Iris rolled her eyes, which were ringed in heavy black eyeliner. I’d once asked her if she was taking makeup tips from a raccoon. She was not amused. “Out.”

“Iris.” I glared at her.

She glared back. “Maebell.”

“You can’t be out this late. You didn’t even answer your phone when I called.” And I had called several times.

With a shrug, she picked at the chipped black paint on her nails. “I was busy.”

“I talked to Mr. Sullivan. He says you’re failing his class. Like you might not be able to graduate. If you want to start at the community college in the fall, you need to get caught up.”

She cut me off and threw her head against the back of the couch. “Fiiine. I’ll take care of it.”

“Plus, you’re supposed to be here with Mama until I get home. That’s our deal.”

Another eye-roll. We’d now seen the extensive collection of emotional responses from Iris—eye-rolls, shrugging, and scowling. “Sue was here.”

“Sue wasn’t the one who was supposed to be with her.”

She yanked the hair elastic from the lazy ponytail she’d put it up in. “I get it. Mom.”

“I’m not your mom,” I snapped, but we both knew I was more like a second parent than a sister to her and had been practically since her birth.

“Then stop acting like it. You’re the oldest twenty-six-year-old ever.”

“I am not!” This wasn’t a new argument. Sure, I owned a lot of books and had a geriatric cat with an attitude, but I wasn’t old.

“I think Mrs. Houser goes on more dates than you.”

I gasped. “Mrs. Houser is eighty-seven years old, mostly blind, and routinely leaves her dentures in the church bathroom.”

“I know.” Iris patted my knee with mocking pity. “And she still gets more action than you.”

I shivered thinking of Mrs. Houser doing anything but sitting in the second row from the front on Sunday mornings, happily singing off-key.

“Whatever,” I muttered and held my book in front of my face.

Perhaps thirty seconds later, one black-tipped finger curled over the top of the book and pulled it down to reveal Iris’s blueberry eyes.

“Are you pouting now?” she asked.

“No, I am reading.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” she said. “I’ll call. Or whatever.”

“Especially when you’re going to be late.”

“Fine.”

“Thank you.” I held the book against my chest. “I just need to know you’re safe, okay?”

Ignoring me, Iris pointed to the book. “The Blue Castle again. You are so predictable.”

“I am not. And besides, it’s a good book.” Actually, it was a great book, easily one of my top-twenty favorites. I didn’t have one favorite book and I didn’t trust people who did.