Free Iona Moon by Melanie Rae Thon Page B

wearing that skirt since eighth grade, Iona. Nobody, I mean nobody, wears pleats anymore . Iona saw her mother bent over the sewing machine, measuring and tacking each pleat, basting the waistband. No one will ever know it didn’t come from the Mercantile . Except it was more beautiful than anything from the store downtown. Iona twirled through the living room, the skirt spinning around her legs, floating, the pleats opening and closing like an accordion. Yes, she heard the rustle of the cloth against her skin, and it was a kind of music, the sweet sound of fine wool, light and warm, the best skirt she’d ever owned.
    One glance at the face, Iona could bear that. But she looked at herself as a scolded dog looks at its mistress, quickly, afraid of the hand that might slap its head. Two eyes, one nose, not a freak. Crowded teeth but no overbite or underbite, thank God for small mercies.
    The long ash of the cigarette collapsed. “Light another one,” Iona said, though her throat burned. She moved toward the mirror.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing?” said Jeweldeen.
    â€œSeeing if I look like shit.”
    â€œJesus, Iona, it’s just an expression.”
    Iona leaned over the sink. “I have my father’s nose,” she said. She turned and reached for the cigarette. “Watch this.” She took a long drag. Smoke curled from her parted lips, and she breathed, slowly, evenly: it was easy if you had the patience. Now her nostrils flared and the smoke whirled up her nose.
    â€œYou don’t look so bad,” Jeweldeen said.
    â€œThank you. I really appreciate you saying that.” But sarcasm was wasted on Jeweldeen. Iona flicked the butt in the sink and was lighting another when Belinda Beller sashayed into the bathroom, arm in arm with Susie Endicott. They bounced as they walked, springing off their toes. Their breasts moved, but in a way that was oddly independent of their bodies. Iona thought they must stuff their bras with something heavier than Kleenex these days, packets of some dense, gelatinous fluid that could burst at any moment, leaving those perfect white blouses stained and damp, stuck flat to their chests.
    Belinda pinched her nose when she saw Iona and Jeweldeen. Iona wasn’t sure if she was trying to make a point about the smoke or something less specific. “Come on, Susie,” she said, “I can hold it.”
    â€œI can hold it,” Jeweldeen sang after them. They were such clean girls. In those seconds, Jeweldeen had realized that her own skirt was too tight, her stockings too dark. The makeup was wrong too, but it was too late to start again. “I hope she pees her pants in homeroom.”
    â€œNo,” Iona said, “she most definitely can hold it.” She thought of that night down by the river, Belinda playing hunt and peck with poor Willy a week before she dumped him.
    The bell was ringing. “I’m going to Sharla’s after school,” Jeweldeen said. “She’s off tonight, so she can drive us home.”
    â€œI can’t.”
    â€œShit, you’ve been running straight home every day since school started. You hiding a boyfriend in the barn?”
    â€œI just can’t,” Iona said.
    â€œFine,” said Jeweldeen, “but I’m not asking again.”
    Iona stepped into a stall and flushed her cigarette. Jeweldeen waited by the door, but Iona stayed at the toilet, watching the butt swirl. She didn’t tell Jeweldeen that her mother’s hair came out by the fistful, that she had to hide the brush so Hannah wouldn’t see her yellow strands in the bristles. She didn’t say how Hannah hated the bedpan because her own urine burned her skin. Iona powdered her butt like a baby’s and tried to keep her clean. She could have told Jeweldeen’s sister. She could have said her mama didn’t even brush her teeth anymore because her gums bled. Sharla would understand. She