Follow Her Home Read Online Free
Author: Steph Cha
Lukeâs mystery, but I thought it might pay to look thorough.
I opened the passenger door of my sedan and let her crawl in before I took the driverâs seat and changed into my driving flip-flops. I threw the platforms into the passenger foot well, where they joined my minicloset of accumulated uncomfortable footwear without, apparently, bothering Lori. âBuckle up,â I said. She strapped herself in and let her head roll to a painful eighty degrees against the taut seat belt above her shoulders. She didnât seem primed for conversation.
Now that Iris was on my mind, I saw the resemblance between the two girls. It wasnât a direct likeness as much as it was a common thread. Their features shared a slippery, nymphish quality and their bodies a young litheness, though Iris was several inches taller.
At the very least, Lori and Iris were more likely sisters than Iris and me. Since the beginning of my school days, I had been tall and bony. Until late in high school I wore unstylish glasses and a series of blunt haircuts. Austerity suited me, and it was only after I got into college that I spent time on my appearance at all. Iris was attractive from the minute she emerged from childhood. Before she was old enough to drive, she turned heads just by setting foot inside a grocery store. She had well-defined features that she learned to enhance with makeup, set in a face the size of a fist. She had the long almond eyes that ran in our family, but they carried a look of gentle innocence that differentiated them from mine. Her nose was angular and her small mouth fitted with full, shapely lips. She dressed wellâshe was proud of her figure.
We grew up in Northridge, hot, quiet, and suburban, with our strict Korean mother. Our father died of liver cancer when I was five and Iris three. We missed him in a way, but by the time we were thinking people, he was little more than a myth. Our mom was an accountant before we were born, and when she was widowed, she went back to her job. She would have stayed at home if it had been an optionâshe was meticulous about our upbringing and education and resented the job that kept her away.
She nurtured me with a watchful eye. I never touched a video game, and when I graduated from kindergarten, television was out of my life. I never thought to turn on cartoons when she was at work. I was an obedient child. I loved my mother. Though she was sometimes shrill and demanding, she showed love and affection even in her harshest words. I suppose my childhood didnât match the American television ideal, but I was neither bored nor unhappy. I did well in school and earned my momâs praise at every corner.
To fill the hours when I wasnât eating, sleeping, or studying, I read. My mom yelled at me for reading in the dark, and, true to her invectives, my eyes started to go before I turned ten. I was drawn to the stories. They existed outside what I knew, and as a girl from a family of women, I adopted Marlowe. He was quick-witted and masculine, fascinating and foreign, and I took to him right away. After what happened to Iris, the favorite character of my youth became a fixture in my life. I found more than fantasy in the world of noir, and I sank into the scorching bleakness with self-punishing relish.
Iris was just two years my junior, but by the time she was in high school, she had, in a calm way devoid of rebellion, fashioned herself a different upbringing. She didnât care for the piano lessons I had attacked with duty and gusto, and after a few years of lukewarm strokes of the ivory keys, she was allowed to quit. She wasnât a bad student, but she bristled with nerves when our mom mentioned my study habits or my grades. By the time Iris started middle school, our mom learned to respect the differences between her daughters. Where I could be pushed and scolded, Iris would shrivel and question her self-worth. She was a shy, delicate child who cried easily
I opened the passenger door of my sedan and let her crawl in before I took the driverâs seat and changed into my driving flip-flops. I threw the platforms into the passenger foot well, where they joined my minicloset of accumulated uncomfortable footwear without, apparently, bothering Lori. âBuckle up,â I said. She strapped herself in and let her head roll to a painful eighty degrees against the taut seat belt above her shoulders. She didnât seem primed for conversation.
Now that Iris was on my mind, I saw the resemblance between the two girls. It wasnât a direct likeness as much as it was a common thread. Their features shared a slippery, nymphish quality and their bodies a young litheness, though Iris was several inches taller.
At the very least, Lori and Iris were more likely sisters than Iris and me. Since the beginning of my school days, I had been tall and bony. Until late in high school I wore unstylish glasses and a series of blunt haircuts. Austerity suited me, and it was only after I got into college that I spent time on my appearance at all. Iris was attractive from the minute she emerged from childhood. Before she was old enough to drive, she turned heads just by setting foot inside a grocery store. She had well-defined features that she learned to enhance with makeup, set in a face the size of a fist. She had the long almond eyes that ran in our family, but they carried a look of gentle innocence that differentiated them from mine. Her nose was angular and her small mouth fitted with full, shapely lips. She dressed wellâshe was proud of her figure.
We grew up in Northridge, hot, quiet, and suburban, with our strict Korean mother. Our father died of liver cancer when I was five and Iris three. We missed him in a way, but by the time we were thinking people, he was little more than a myth. Our mom was an accountant before we were born, and when she was widowed, she went back to her job. She would have stayed at home if it had been an optionâshe was meticulous about our upbringing and education and resented the job that kept her away.
She nurtured me with a watchful eye. I never touched a video game, and when I graduated from kindergarten, television was out of my life. I never thought to turn on cartoons when she was at work. I was an obedient child. I loved my mother. Though she was sometimes shrill and demanding, she showed love and affection even in her harshest words. I suppose my childhood didnât match the American television ideal, but I was neither bored nor unhappy. I did well in school and earned my momâs praise at every corner.
To fill the hours when I wasnât eating, sleeping, or studying, I read. My mom yelled at me for reading in the dark, and, true to her invectives, my eyes started to go before I turned ten. I was drawn to the stories. They existed outside what I knew, and as a girl from a family of women, I adopted Marlowe. He was quick-witted and masculine, fascinating and foreign, and I took to him right away. After what happened to Iris, the favorite character of my youth became a fixture in my life. I found more than fantasy in the world of noir, and I sank into the scorching bleakness with self-punishing relish.
Iris was just two years my junior, but by the time she was in high school, she had, in a calm way devoid of rebellion, fashioned herself a different upbringing. She didnât care for the piano lessons I had attacked with duty and gusto, and after a few years of lukewarm strokes of the ivory keys, she was allowed to quit. She wasnât a bad student, but she bristled with nerves when our mom mentioned my study habits or my grades. By the time Iris started middle school, our mom learned to respect the differences between her daughters. Where I could be pushed and scolded, Iris would shrivel and question her self-worth. She was a shy, delicate child who cried easily
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