Introducing, ♰ Iris Cameron.
(Through the totally not bias lens of John B Routledge...)

JOHN B (V.O.)

  ...Iris, well. Iris is a little harder to explain.

  SCREEN CUTS to the wraparound porch of the Château. It's sunset, and a tangerine glow crests the tall reed sweet-grass of the marsh. Crawdads are singing, and a girl (IRIS CAMERON) sits alone on a stained swinging-bed. She's smoking a blunt that wasn't rolled by her own hands — she was fourteen when her half-brother taught her how to neatly roll a dollar bill for the cleanest line, but she still can't skin up her own joints.

  She's wearing a pair of red Converse — they're careworn, as are her eyes. Pretty things: hickory, huge, and bloodshot. Inside, we can hear laughter — so much of it. It's warm and familiar. The girl doesn't feel left out. She isn't on the fringe of anything. Even here, outside, surrounded by the marmalade sunset and the chirping crickets, she's a part of it all. She feels more home here than she does anywhere else.

JOHN B (V.O.) (CON'T)

  Remember how I said Kie had a foot in both worlds? Iris takes that to a new extreme. You see, we all love her mom — maybe some of us too much.

  SCREEN CUTS again. We're in the INT. of a halfway home, a kitchen to be specific. There's a wind-chime hanging from a curtain pole that refracts tiny blades of light across the room, and JJ MAYBANK is twirling a bemused middle-aged woman under his arm. He's got this shit-eating grin, and the woman (CARMEN MARIANO) is rolling her eyes affectionately. The boy, blonde as blonde can be, cranes his neck over to Iris and mouths, "Your mom's hot," and she sticks her fingers into her mouth with a retch.

JOHN B (V.O.) (CON'T)

  But none of us really get why she can't get over Iris's dad. And he's where it gets complicated.

  CAMERA FADES BLACK. The sound of shattering: it's ceramic. The SCREEN CUTS to the INT. of Tannyhill — grotesquely enormous, big enough to house this mangled family.

  There's hundreds of pieces on the floor. The vase was ROSE CAMERON'S favourite. Iris doesn't break things without meaning. A shard of it nicked her calf, and rivulets of blood bead down her shin in fresh red ribbons. Stood in front of her is an imposing man — this is her father: they look distressingly alike. The anger in their eyes is the same. But he's looking at her almost tauntingly, as if to say, "There. Well done. Are you proud of yourself, girl?" She's trembling like a bathing animal.

  They hate each other. They love each other. She's his favourite daughter. She's broke his wife's favourite vase. His second wife. WARD CAMERON buys her mother plenty of flowers, but he's never bought her a vase. Why?

JOHN B (V.O.) (CON'T)

  Her dad's the richest man on the island — and everyone's heard the rumours. They think Iris's ma only goes back to him for the money, but it's more than that. They've got three kids together. Kids mean more than that, don't they?

  Iris has to mean more than that, because, well...

  The CAMERA CUTS, and fades back to the EXT. of Château. It's still sunset and Iris is still smoking. She's almost reached the filter of her joint; her mouth swells instead with a more minty tang that makes her grimace around one of the final drags. She doesn't stub it out though, not yet. She's waiting for something, almost.

  Then, the screen door crashes open. Four teens tumble out onto the wraparound porch, hiccoughing over laughter, splashes of beer capsizing out of their bottles and onto their wrists, making them sticky and damp. Iris splits away from her daydreaming to smile at them in fondness, and KIARA CARRERA moves over her to her first, stumbling and giggling. She coos lovingly as her ringed hands cradle Iris's face and she smothers her in sweet kisses.

  John B is using the railing of the porch to knock off the bottle cap of the beer in his hand, and he readily hands it to her. POPE HEYWARD crowds into her space on the swinging-bed — he's dear to her, but he knows nothing about personal space when she's drunk. Iris cringes as he bruises a kiss against her cheekbone, Kie's own lips still on her temple. Still, she throws an arm around the back of his shoulders and leans over to press the last of her joint into his mouth. He grins around it and tells Iris that he adores her.

  Finally, there's JJ. He sprawls himself across her and Pope like a lazying orange cat in the morning sunlight, stretching with a big yawn, and ignoring their disgruntled groans at the heaviness of him. His knee accidentally jabs into Pope's abdomen as he curls up in Iris's lap, head in her thighs, rolling up until he's looking into her eyes — his are hazed by drink, hers hooded in her high. He looks almost foetal, trying to emulate an embryonic love he's never really known. She smiles at him still, and pokes at his cheek. She loves them, and they love her. Even as JJ crushes every bone in her with the weight of his clinginess, and Kie's cloying lipgloss dries sticky against her forehead.

JOHN B (V.O.) (CON'T)

  ...She means it to us.

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