by KB Benson
“Sorry. So, what do I need to stick with you for another week for?” I ask trying to change the subject.
“Oh,” Iris says. “I have an art project with Jaxon Paylor that’s due at the end of the week. I just wanted to let you know ahead of time because of this whole Stewart thing. If I’m hanging out with him a lot, that’s why; but there is absolutely nothing going on, okay?”
I nod, grateful for her honesty. “It’ll only be a week?”
She nods. “I promise.”
“I can do a week.”
She smiles, relieved at my understanding.
“But don’t you go falling for this Jaxon person, okay?”
She laughs a light, resonating sound I’d almost forgotten. “Have you ever met Jaxon? Besides, how could I with you waiting here for me?”
I kiss her cheek, still a bit unsure about jumping right back in.
“Do you have plans tonight?” Iris asks, catching me off guard. Usually I’m the one to set up our dates.
“Not anymore. What do you have in mind?”
“Well, if I remember correctly, a certain gentleman once offered to come with me to the soup kitchen. They had two spots open up today, so I reserved them for us.”
“You knew I wasn’t going to be mad.” It isn’t a question. Of course, it isn’t. I couldn’t ever really stay mad at Iris.
“No,” she said, “but I was hoping you wouldn’t be.”
I don’t even have to think about it. “I’m in.”
The soup kitchen isn’t too far from my place, a small warehouse tucked between the neon signs for a local rummage store and a tattoo parlor. Honestly, I always thought the warehouse was storage; but when Iris leads me through the side door, a whole new world appears.
Music fills the cramped space where wooden picnic tables are shoved together, each filled with too many people. I can’t believe how many homeless people cram into this one little room. I follow Iris as she cuts a path through the sea of tattered robes and unshaven faces.
A few people call out to Iris, earning them a small wave. Iris must come here often for them to know her by name.
“Irrrriiisss,” a high-pitched voice squeals behind us. I step aside as a little girl, maybe three years old, with bright blonde pigtails races past. She barrels into the back of Iris’ legs, almost knocking her over. As soon as Iris sees the little girl, a wide smile spreads across her face.
“Hi, Kenley.” Iris bends to the little girl’s level, and the girl wraps her arms around Iris’ neck. “How are you, sweetie?”
“Mommy got a job!” Kenley squeals in excitement.
“She did? That’s exciting. Where’s her new job?”
“She’s helping clean the fancy lady’s house. They’re going to pay her to make their beds,” Kenley giggles.
“That’s silly,” Iris says. “You could make their beds probably, huh?”
“Yep! I make my own bed every day.”
“I bet you do. Well, tell your mommy congratulations.”
“Okay!”
Iris stands as Kenley runs to a group of kids in the corner taking off their shoes. “This way.” Iris nods to me.
I had no idea Iris was such a kid person. She leads me behind the serving counter and through a swinging door. Stained aprons hang on a rusted hook just inside the doorway; and we each take one, sliding it over our heads and then pull on plastic food grade gloves.
“You ready?” Iris asks.
“Sure am.”
We walk back out and take our positions behind the serving counter with the other volunteers. I’m not sure how many people we serve but I go through seven pans of mashed potatoes and four pans of corn muffins. It’s crazy to see all these people come eat and leave only to have twice as many arrive to take their place.
Iris visits easily as they tell us their stories. One woman’s house burned down last summer, and the insurance refused to pay for any of it. She and her two little boys now live in her car. Another man used to work for a Fortune 500 company until one day they laid off most of the employees trying to cut costs.
The majority of people here just hit a bad stroke of luck in their life. After the serving trays are empty and the kitchen staff cleans up the dishes, people stay chatting in the soup kitchen likely with nowhere else to really go.
“Hang on a sec,” I say as I rush out of the kitchen to my truck.
I rummage through the backseat until I find what I’m looking for: my trusty balloons and pump. Growing up I worked summers as a camp counselor and learned how to make balloon animals. YouTube was the real teacher, though; but now I’m half decent.
I take my colorful balloons into the soup kitchen and sit down. First, I build myself a twisty hat with balloons poking off in all directions. A few kids notice and silently point, their parents still talking; but no one says anything. Next, I make a giant flower with a dark green stem, yellow center, and teal petals. I bow to Iris and hand it to her. The kids giggle as Iris acts surprised.
“Thank you,” she says taking the balloon.
“What do you guys think?” I ask the kids sitting nearby. “Is that kind of cool?”
The kids nod with wide eyes and smiles but don’t say anything.
“Do any of you want something cool like that?”
Every hand shoots up into the air. We spend the next hour making balloon animals, the kids giggling when my older balloons pop unexpectedly or fizzle out before I can turn them into anything. I make giraffes, monkeys, bracelets, balls, octopi, parrots, poodles, swords, swords, and more swords. Even some of the parents got themselves a fancy hat or turtle. Iris watches me from the corner of the room holding her flower. I’m not sure what her expression means, but she looks happy.
When everyone clears out of the soup kitchen and the owner asks us to leave so she can lock up, I take Iris’ hand and lead her out the front door.
“Can I take you home?” I ask out of habit.
Iris runs her fingers through her long hair as though debating. A heavy silence forms, this topic bred distrust between us. Distrust I’m trying to let go. She shakes her head as though clearing it. “Of course, you can.”
We walk to my truck and she links her arm through mine. I’m at peace with Iris holding onto my arm like this, a daisy chain that feels as though it will never separate. Instead of driving the familiar route to Mr. Demonas’ house, Iris leads us to the coast.
“Where are we headed?” I ask.
“I may live with Mr. Demonas, but this is my real home.”
Rays of deep orange, yellow, and red spread across the sky as the sun sets as though mimicking Iris’ mood. She tilts her face to the sky as we walk, soaking in the last bit of warmth before the sun tucks behind the horizon.
“Hey, Iris,” I say, dragging her out of her silent reverie. “I have an idea.”
We stop walking. I drop to the ground near Iris’ feet, preparing to lift her up onto my shoulders. She squeals as her feet leave the ground and she clutches my forehead for balance.
“Oh my—Jace!” she cries as I walk along the fence that soon leads us to the sandy shore.
“You can feel the sun better this way.” The sun halos her silhouette, making her hair grow darker, if that’s even possible. She peers down at me, nervous at first, but slowly loosens her grip on my head and unfolds her arms to the world. She spreads them away from her body like she’s about to take flight. She tips her head up to the sun and takes a deep breath.
Iris is silent for a moment, peaceful looking. Her whisper cuts through the relaxed ambience, “Don’t drop me, kay?”
I chuckle, my shoulders rocking with the movement. In a heartbeat, Iris’ hands scramble for my head and she latches on for support. I can’t help but laugh again. “I won’t drop you.”
“You almost did, just barely!”
“Hey, that was all you. You should know better than to make me laugh while you’re on my shoulders.”
Even with the sun blocking my view of her face, I sense h
er rolling her eyes. In a few minutes, she opens her arms to the world again. “This is so amazing up here, Jace, totally different than walking on the ground.”
I smile, pleased with her happiness. When I stumble a few times on the uneven sand, Iris begs me to let her down. The moment her feet touch solid ground, she intertwines her fingers with mine, leading me to the dock. We walk underneath it, and the temperature drops in the shadows of the looming structure. Water laps up to our feet, arcing a few inches away from our toes before retreating back into the ocean once again.
Iris sits down on the sandy beach. “This is it. This is where I feel at home.”
“This is it?” I lower myself to sit next to her.
“Yep. Fancy, huh?”
“Very.”
“I spend more time here than I do at Mr. Demonas’.” Iris digs her toes into the sand.
“Is it weird? Living with your teacher, I mean.”
Iris shakes her head. “No, not so much. I knew him before he was my teacher.”
“Really? I want to hear this story.”
Iris smiles and looks out to the horizon. “That’s a story for another day.”
“I can’t wait for that day, then.”
We’re silent for a moment before Iris breaks it. “I like it here, more so than anywhere else I’ve lived. I don’t want to leave. I like being here… with you.”
She doesn’t say it, but I know she isn’t just speaking about sitting under the dock but about California in general. “I like you being here with me, too.”
Iris’ hand wanders over and rests on top of mine. I glance at her as she watches the rolling waves. Her long dark hair framing her face, her eyes concentrated on the depths of the ocean, her hand securely folded around mine. This is how it should be.
We spend the rest of the daylight at Iris’ home. She tells me how she used to move around a lot with her parents mostly staying near Nero or the ocean. Until her mother passed away, that is. We joke around, too, keeping the mood light and carefree. I don’t ever bring up stepping into the refreshing water either. When the sun submerges behind the horizon, I know it’s time to go.
“You ready to head back?” I ask.
“I don’t think so. I think I’ll stay here for a while longer.”
“You don’t want to go back to Demonas’?”
She shakes her head. I don’t want to leave Iris here.
“What if we go back and hang out at my parent’s apartment?” I ask.
“Are you afraid of the dark?” Iris asks, a teasing smile pulling up the corner of her lips.
“Pssh, me? I practically own the dark.”
Iris laughs.
“No, I just figure, the night is young, maybe we could keep our momentum going and do dinner and a movie?”
Iris glances across the sky at the ominous clouds slowly rolling toward us. “It does look like a storm’s coming. Why not?”
I stand, brushing the sand from my jeans and then reach down and lift Iris to her feet. She brushes the sand off her shorts and I help, brushing the small crystals from the back of her blouse. I lock our hands together one more time and we head home.
Chapter 24
JACE
Rain trickles around us as we reach the apartment. Iris stands on the porch, holding my jacket over her head as I shove the key into the lock. I throw the door open to darkness and let Iris enter inside.
“Mom? Peter?” I call into the empty house. My parents told me they were heading out of town for the weekend, but I wasn’t sure when they were leaving. “I guess it’s just us. How hungry are you?”
“Starving. I could eat a walrus.”
“Hmm,” I think. “Well, I don’t have any walrus; but I do make some mean taquitos. What about taquitos and Mexican rice? I’m an expert at rice, too.” I raise my eyebrows like I couldn’t be any prouder.
“I think I’ll have to try those first before I believe it.”
I head to the kitchen and Iris follows. Her wet shoes squeak across the linoleum, a trail of water droplets tailing her.
“Do you want to change into some dry clothes?”
“Oh, I didn’t bring any.” Iris shrugs. “It’s fine.”
“Hold on.” I race to my bedroom. A few minutes later, I return with a clean pair of sweats and a t-shirt.
“Here. Fresh from the laundry.”
“Thanks.” Iris takes the pile of clothes.
I grab a fry pan from a drawer just as Iris starts unbuttoning her denim shirt. “Whoa, hey,” I shout.
Iris stops mid-button. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing’s wrong.” I lead Iris to the bathroom just off the kitchen. “You can change in here.”
Iris nods, facing the mirror. I walk back to the kitchen and force myself to focus on what I’m doing, my heart pounding a million miles an hour.
“Where should I put my wet clothes?” Iris asks.
Glancing at the bathroom, I do a double take as Iris stands with the door open holding her wet blouse in her hands, the pile of dry clothes still sitting on the bathroom counter. My eyes wander over Iris’ bare back, lingering on her bra’s band, and I can’t breathe. My heart pounds in my chest and my hands beg to touch her flawless skin. Swallowing the desire, my eyes widen in horror. Bruises line her upper arms and trail up onto her shoulder, disappearing across her back.
I bite my tongue before my words can spill out in alarm. Those aren’t bruises from accidentally walking into an open locker which most of us have done at least once. Someone’s been hurting her. My mind cycles through potential suspects: Mr. Demonas. No. Stewart Battingshaw. Jerk, but not likely. Me. Never. Who else is there? I open my mouth to ask as Iris raises her arms to pull her long dark hair into a bun on top of her head. Something’s going on, something serious is happening with Iris and I have to help her.
I take a breath to speak, but no words come out. I can’t distrust Iris again. If it’s something serious, I have to trust she’ll tell me. I try to ignore the bruises, but I can’t. I do trust Iris, but she needs to trust me, too. I take another breath and walk to the bathroom.
Iris unbuttons her pants. Just before she undresses completely, I speak; but they’re the wrong words. “You’re going to want to close this,” I say, pulling the door closed behind her. “Put your wet clothes anywhere.”
Trudging back to the kitchen, I spread a block of cream cheese, cooked chicken, spices, and tortillas across the counter with my thoughts completely twisted. I mix everything together in a large bowl and within seconds the first taquito starts to spit oil in the frying pan. I throw taquito after taquito into the pan, the rice in another pot; but my mind drifts far from the stove.
Only a thin wooden door stands between me and Iris. Would she object if I entered? If I held her? If I kissed her? For a moment, I imagine cracking the door and slipping into the steam-filled room. What would it feel like to have her bare skin under my hands? My mind retraces her body, her curves, her flawless skin, and the dark bruises painting it.
Jerking from the fantasy, my stomach churns. My thoughts sift through my options, and I settle on saying nothing about Iris’ bruises. I’ll give her the chance to tell me first. And if tonight goes well, she might show me those bruises anyway.
The taquitos brown and crisp to perfection in a matter of minutes. I transfer them to our plates, spoon some seasoned rice next to them with a glob of store-bought guacamole. Guacamole is one thing no one in my family can make—if it’s brown by the time it gets to your mouth, something’s wrong with it.
While Iris finishes dressing, I pull out all our movies. Soon, the bathroom door creaks open and Iris steps into the light, looking nothing short of a model even in my t-shirt and sweatpants.
“Feel better?” I ask.
“Definitely. I can’t wait to get to this legendary Mexican food.” Iris eyes the two plates sitting on the counter. She fingers one of the forks sitting out. “Mmm! May I?”
“Of course,” I say.
; She blows on her taquito and takes a hesitant bite. Her nose screws up at first and then her eyes bulge. “Wow, you weren’t kidding. You are good at this.” She takes her next bite with more confidence and speaks around her mouthful. “Where did you learn to make such authentic Mexican food?”
“You learn a few things when all your best friends are from Mexico. Their parents taught me a few tricks.” Grabbing my plate, I lead Iris to the couch. I pull a blanket out of a nearby basket and hand it to Iris. “Cold?”
Iris reaches for the blanket and spreads it over her.
“Okay, so movie choices…” I spread the DVDs in front of Iris.
“Hmm, I don’t care, you can pick.”
“Please,” I say, “I’ve seen all of these at least ten times. You pick.”
“Hmm.” Iris eyes the movie choices. She points randomly to The Adventures of Robin Hood. “Let’s do this one.”
“Have you ever seen this one?”
“I’ve never seen any of them.”
“Well, you picked a good one for tonight. Robin Hood’s a classic,” I say.
Popping the movie in and flipping off the light, I sit next to Iris, pulling the blanket over myself. She stares at the glowing screen, mesmerized by the pictures flittering in front of her, her fingers constantly bringing food to her lips. The low, white light amplifies her features and my heart thuds against my ribcage. How the heck did I get so lucky?
I don’t know what will happen in the future but all that matters is this moment. After a few minutes, Iris peeks at me from the corner of her eye. My gaze darts back to the TV.
“What are you looking at?” she asks.
Heat flares in my cheeks. “Just you. I’m really happy you’re here.”
Iris snuggles deeper into my side and I wrap my arm behind her back. I play with the ends of Iris’ hair, letting the strands slide through my fingers. Each strand I release sends a wave of raspberry and pine through the air, a scent I crave.
About an hour into the movie, I rest my hand on Iris’ hip. Her body burns through her clothes. My fingertips trace slow, detailed designs on her leg. Iris doesn’t move at my changing touch; and I let myself explore, finding my way up to her waist, continually tracing small circles across her top.
