BIG SIS

10.1 I Sing Tragedies, 'Cause They Sell Better

The first thing Mrs. Weaver did when she met them after school was demand that Collin show her his bruise.

The second thing Mrs. Weaver did was turn to Iris and say, "You lied to me," cold and final and so disappointed Collin almost apologized out of turn.

Iris didn't have the courtesy to feign ignorance, or pretend to be sorry. "What gave it away?" she asked.

Mrs. Weaver pursed her lips. Her eyes danced between the road and whatever she could see of Iris in the rearview mirror. Iris had opted to sit in the back with Collin instead of next to her mother. Collin now knew why. He glared at Iris as best as he could without being too obvious about it.

"Mr. Francis called," Mrs. Weaver said.

Collin winced; Mr. Francis was the principal. Of course he'd call – anything to do with Iris would be top priority for the school, what with the media hovering like jackals. And Iris'd gone and cried in public. Over Collin.

"I hate you," Collin hissed.

Iris flipped him off behind her mother's back, expression as serene as a newborn calf's.

"Collin, has this happened before?" Mrs. Weaver asked. The worry in her voice made Collin flush, out of embarrassment and guilt and probably a tiny bit of happiness to be fussed over, which only made the guilt worse.

"No," he forced out.

Mrs. Weaver was silent for a few blocks. Collin felt her eyes on him, and did his best not to fidget. He'd had less trouble lying to actual cops.

"Well, the boy's suspended, and I'll be calling his mother. I don't understand why you would lie over such a thing," Mrs. Weaver sighed at last. She looked at them both with the sort of exasperation Collin had observed of mothers supervising toddlers at the playground.

The usual crowd of reporters parted for Mrs. Weaver's car once they reached their block. Reluctantly, and with the aid of a few bored police officers, but hey, they made it to the gate, so Collin wasn't complaining. The backseat windows were tinted. Collin spied Iris playing with the buttons and slapped her arm while Mrs. Weaver wasn't looking. Iris stepped on his foot. She left the window alone, so Collin counted it a victory, numb toes notwithstanding.

"Dinner will be an hour," Mrs. Weaver said. "Collin, if you could stay? I want to take a look at your head under the light."

Collin agreed with all the enthusiasm of a wet cat. Iris blew him a kiss from the stairs. She had her phone in her hand. The case was silver, Collin noted. He could've sworn it'd been black last time he'd seen it.

"Collin? Over here, dear," Mrs. Weaver called.

The thing was, Mrs. Weaver worked for a hospital. She was in administration, as far as Collin'd understood, but took first aid with the seriousness Collin imagined of nurses or doctors. There was an entire medicine cabinet under the kitchen sink. Half of its contents were on the kitchen table at present, including a roll of bandages Collin eyed with trepidation.

"Sit, please," Mrs. Weaver bid. She had a chair pulled directly under the overhead lights. The dark circles under her eyes stood out against her skin.

Collin sat. He bent his head forward without needing to be prompted, glad for the excuse to look somewhere that was not Mrs. Weaver. He cursed Iris again, then the reporters clamoring for a shot outside. Then himself.

"Does it hurt?" Mrs. Weaver asked. Her hands were gentle, far kinder than Reed's bony fingers.

"No," Collin said, and heard Mrs. Weaver sigh. "A little," he amended, ears burning.