BIG SIS

3. Don't Ride in on a High Horse, You Won't Be Able to Get Down

Dinner rolled around. Wheel of Fortune had come to a bubbly end some fifteen minutes prior, thank every deity. Iris flipped through the channels. She cut through anchor after anchor, obviously not keen on the news. The TV went dark after a while. Collin kept his eyes on his phone and pretended he didn't feel Iris' gaze boring a hole in his skull. There was plenty to occupy his attention. Michael had resorted to texting his threats. Fucking idiot.

"Looking at porn?" Iris asked.

Collin took a screenshot of a particularly nasty series of messages and kept scrolling. "Yup."

Iris' chin landed on Collin's shoulder without a sound of warning. Collin almost punched her in the face, and only partially out of surprise.

"Your friend's not very nice," Iris noted.

Collin shrugged the girl off and pocketed his phone. "He ain't my friend."

"Aww, is my poor baby brother getting bullied at school?" Iris cooed.

"Piss off," Collin told her.

Iris grinned. "Make me."

Collin was aware, on some level, that he was losing his shit. The rush of adrenaline still felt good. Getting into Iris' face was even better.

"Don't fuck with me," he hissed.

Iris cocked her brow. The scar wasn't so grizzly up-close. It looked – elegant was a strange word for it, but fuck, it did.

The milky eye just looked dead.

"I'm not," Iris said.

Collin didn't like the girl's knowing smile. He wasn't angry anymore. He wasn't anything.

Mrs. Weaver called them in for dinner. "Yeah," Collin called back. His voice came out half-strangled. He turned away. Collin had never left a fight first but damn it, he was leaving this one.

Iris overtook him in the tiny space between the kitchen and the living room. She smacked his head in passing.

"The fuck?" Collin snapped.

Iris leaned in close, so fast that had Collin not reared back she would've head-butted him.

"Next time you turn your back on me, I'll put a knife in it."

She spoke low and soft. Then she left him there, staring after her, pissed off and impressed and scared as hell.

The table was set. Collin's seat was next to Iris, because of course it was. One big, happy, deranged family. Collin's eyes caught on the brown paper envelope propped up next to the microwave. He sat down without looking at anyone, and cut his chicken with a little more zeal than strictly necessary. No one commented. Why would they? God, he was pathetic.

Collin stiffened. His train of thought had long derailed, but the sudden stab of pain vaporized it entirely. Iris removed her heel from his foot. She didn't pause her happy chatter, or acknowledge Collin in any other way. Collin clutched his fork and thought violent things.

"Collin, dear, you have barely touched your food," Mrs. Weaver said.

Collin went back to his chicken with utmost haste. He could see Mrs. Weaver wringing her hands in his periphery. Mr. Weaver kept clearing his throat, something he did only when he was supremely nervous. It'd probably be polite of Collin to say something at this point. Well, fuck polite. Collin had nothing to say. The Weavers were the ones with the miracle kid and the fuck-off papers. They could start the damn conversation.

"Tell him," Iris said.

Collin stopped chewing. Iris sounded – well, herself. Not the apple-pie perfect cheerleader she'd been playing in front of her parents since she'd come back. She covered it up with a sweet, "Please?" which seemed to soothe the adults well enough. Collin's brief elation at the slip-up dimmed with the realization it had been pre-calculated. The wink Iris sent his way when her parents weren't looking confirmed it. Collin flipped her off, just as subtly.

Mrs. Weaver cleared her throat. "Well, we wanted to do this after dinner – over cake, to celebrate, you see, but I guess that would be presumptuous, wouldn't it? Although we do hope – well, that is, we've hoped for a long time now..."

Collin was pretty sure he looked like someone had dunked him underwater midwinter. In Siberia. Because Mrs. Weaver was sliding forms his way, adoption forms, already filled out.

"They'll need your signature," Mr. Weaver added. "Once you're eighteen, of course. You have - you have some time. To decide."

Collin took the envelope with numb hands. The room got quiet – or maybe it was the blood rushing in his ears. He heard Iris talking as if from great distance. Yeah, definitely the blood. It was probably why his eyes stung, too.

The Weavers were looking at him. Expectantly, and a little misty-eyed themselves. Collin swallowed. He didn't think they were asking for an answer to the question, the big one, right at this moment. They'd told him he had time, hadn't they? He must have missed something while he was . . . Contemplating. Things. Life. The spot of oil smeared on the tablecloth, whatever.

"Umm, what?" he said.

"Would you mind, dear?" Mrs. Weaver said, "I know you are new yourself, but it would really be such a big relief. And if – if you stay, with us, well. It would be nice, won't it?"

Collin felt like he was underwater again. He looked from one Weaver to the other, then at the wolf wearing a sheep's carcass sitting next to him. Iris gave him a sweet smile.

"We are thinking of enrolling Iris in your grade," Mr. Weaver aided.

The water abruptly froze solid. Collin was well and truly fucked. Thousands of years in the future, scientists would marvel at his perfectly preserved remains. They'll build him a monument, with a nice plaque: [On display: a teenage boy. He thought his life was getting better. Hahaha, what a sucker.]

"What do you think?" Mr. Weaver asked.

Collin caught himself before he could clear his throat. He wasn't the Weavers' son. He had no business picking up their habits.

"Sure," he said at last. His voice hadn't cracked that bad since the seventh grade.

Mrs. Weaver actually clapped in excitement. Cake was brought out and quartered. Collin ate and smiled and wondered what would kill him first – Iris, or the amount of sugar he had been forced to consume since her return. He begged off the after-cake movie marathon. The homework excuse was getting pretty worn, but the Weavers still bought it, so he was gonna milk that cow until it dried. Or they saw his report card. Whichever came first.

"Remember, dear, you have a say," Mrs. Weaver told him in parting. "Not only in this. In everything. We want you to be a part of the family."

"I know," Collin lied.

Iris blew him a kiss. "Goodnight, Cal!"

"Goodnight," Collin muttered, and very carefully didn't look the girl's way. He beat it up the stairs. If he heard one more time about how well he and Iris Weaver were getting along, he'd punch someone. Possibly himself.

His phone buzzed. Collin waited until he was in his room before he pulled it out from his pocket. Michael, with a lovely little salutation bidding him to suck something he seemed to lack himself. Collin took a screenshot of that, too.

Another message lit up the screen. Unknown number, picture attached. Collin opened it. He stared at the purple dinosaur that loaded with a mixture of horror and amusement. We are family! it sang. Collin rolled his eyes, fingers flying over the keys.

[Good night, Iris]

He pressed send. Then he turned off his phone, collapsed face-first on the bed, and did his best to smother himself with a pillow.