| NINE |
SHE IS NOT A FAN OF TORTURE FLICKS
"Okay, so I don't exactly know what happened yesterday, but I just want you to know that I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable or if I offended you in any way."
Eira blinked at her second coffee first, and then at Isaiah. She stared into his pale blues with such complete bewilderment that Isaiah's first thought was that all he had said had come out as one long incomprehensible word. While that was most likely true, Isaiah took that as a good sign. It either meant he completely exaggerated or misread the situation, or that she'd forgotten what he said yesterday (what did he say?) and everything could be swell again. Or, it could mean that he'd have to repeat himself.
"I didn't mean to seem like some weirdo. Or a creep. Or like, an axe murderer or something. Cause I'm not. An axe murderer, I mean. I could never be. I faint at the sight of...you know. The b-word. That's like, an axe murderer qualification." He explained quickly. He caught himself, and his eyes widened. His tone was frantic and earnest as he tried to backtrack and attempt to dig himself out of the hole he dug.
"Not that I would know at all what the qualifications of axe murdering are! Cause, I don't. Like, I don't know at all. I'm not an axe murderer. That is to say, I'm not a weirdo or a creep either." He clarified. "But that doesn't mean that all axe murderers are weirdos and creeps. I'm sure some of them are very nice men who–" Isaiah realised the context of his words and the utterly bewildered look on Eira's face and did a complete 180.
He let out a sigh and took in a deep breath. It felt like his mouth had been running a race against itself, and lost. Terribly.
"You know what, let's start again." He sighed. "Eira, I'm sorry."
Eira nodded, and Isaiah could see that she was relieved to have understood one thing, at least.
"Great. I'm going to sit down now, and you're hopefully going to forget everything I said in these last few minutes. Except this, of course."
His calculus books hit the table with a thud, and he unlatched his calculator, powering the brainy device. It was quiet between, save the rapid click-click of Isaiah's calculator. He was about to ask her how her day went, until she spoke and broke the silence between them. Her voice was careful and a little curious.
"Were you serious about the blood thing?" Her voice took on a whisper at the word, as if Isaiah would faint if he heard it said in a normal voice. Isaiah thought it was cute, her uncertainty.
"Oh, yeah." Isaiah nodded casually.
He set his calculator and pencil down to give her his full attention, and to elaborate on his little phobia of sorts. His mother had told him once that every woman deserved undivided attention.
"It makes fistfights kinda difficult." He mimed upper cutting an invisible opponent, and Eira smiled. "Can't exactly Rocky Balboa someone when you're fainting the minute you pop one on their nose, can you?"
"That's good then." Eira said carelessly. When Isaiah gave her a questioning look, she simply shrugged. "Violence makes me uneasy."
Isaiah frowned and adopted a look of exaggerated contemplation. "Then how am I supposed to defend your honour? Your virtue?" He gasped. "With a strongly worded letter?" Isaiah scoffed teasingly. "That won't have the same effect, sweetheart."
Eira grinned, and Isaiah noticed that she had the most perfect teeth that he'd ever seen. It didn't really matter, but it was just a little thing that made Eira more beautiful.
At that moment, Margery Vanhoover, a girl in Isaiah's English class and their waitress for the day, sidled up to them then. She brandished a smile Isaiah knew wasn't fake, a notepad, a pen, and patience. As much of a nice girl as Margery was, Isaiah knew he didn't imagine the curious, eager way her eyes traveled between him and his beautiful companion. He'd probably hear about it tomorrow.
When Margery left them alone with the silent promise of bringing Isaiah a foamy hot chocolate and two croissants, Eira spoke an answer to his previous statement.
"You feeling the need to defend my honour means that you, Isaiah Matthews, think that I have something to lose." She smiled at him, in that patronising way he liked and couldn't really explain why.
"There's nothing that would make me be in danger of losing honour or virtue, so I don't need you defending my honour. Metaphorically or literally, sweetheart."
Ignoring the way his heart stuttered and tripped at the word falling from her lips, Isaiah instead smiled at her in a way that was too soft and too fond for people who didn't know much about each other.
"I don't know much about you, but I can tell you're..."
Isaiah trailed off, wondering if it was smart to say exactly what he thought Eira was. His mind mocked him with what had happened when he spoke without filtering the last time, so he decided to keep it to himself until the time was right.
"You're different, Eira." He said finally. "I don't know much about you, but I know you're different. And sometimes it's good to be different."
Eira was looking at her coffee like it held all the answers to questions she hadn't uttered. For a moment she looked so deeply troubled that Isaiah thought he should leave her to herself for a while. She looked like she needed it, and he was sure he could find something to occupy himself for a little while. Maybe an hour or two.
But before he could quietly slip away, Eira looked up at him with a strange glint in her hazel eyes and asked, "Why is it only good to be different sometimes?"
"It's good to be different, but sometimes being different isn't good. It's good to be special, but sometimes being special isn't good."
He said it without even thinking, like he'd been saying it for a very long time and very often. Because he had, and he did.
That was the last thing his mother had said to him before everything that happened happened. She'd not been crying, but her eyes were glassy and brimming with tears. Hope had been asleep on her hip, a very tired three year old, and Micah was playing video games. She had looked at Isaiah with those glassy pale blues, afraid but determined. She had always given him wise words and nuggets of wisdom. Isaiah remembered them–
"Isaiah Matthews, the only special person here is you."
Isaiah's skin began to prickle with discomfort. He shifted in his seat a few times as his mind rejected what he said. Special. He wasn't special. Not even close. He had already deflected the words she spoke in the same way he deflected every positive thing people said about him before he even got a chance to process it.
Isaiah didn't say thank you. Isaiah didn't blush. Isaiah didn't do anything that hinted at appreciation towards her compliment or gratitude. He never really tended to when people said things like that to him, about him. Instead, he tried to do what he always did when he felt lost within himself. When something happened that shone a light into the corners he didn't want anyone to find, see, or talk about.
Forget.
"Once, I took my little sisters to the clubhouse in our neighbourhood and Hope– the older one– scraped her knee doing God knows what little kids do, and she was crying her eyes out and waiting for me to do something, while I was trying to blink away my dizziness. Tough stuff." Isaiah sighed dramatically, shaking his head like a discouraged school teacher.
Eira pursed her lips, not at his story, but at the suddenness of it. She had already formed an answer to why Isaiah decided to bring the story up. He was what every genuinely good person tended to be. It was sad to see, really.
Isaiah Matthews believed he wasn't those things, he believed that he wasn't the good things people said he was. And it was clear why now. He was a self-deprecator.
"Isaiah," she started gently, with the intention of telling him something.
However, the words seem to die in her throat when she saw the look in his eyes. It wasn't much of a warning as it was a plea of some kind. It was urgent. It was afraid. It told her to leave him to his self deprecating, at least for a while.
Instead of whatever she was about to say, she said, sarcastically, "How do you survive?"
+++
"I'm not saying you're a loser, but...you're a loser."
Isaiah could've sighed like the smitten-kitten he was. What was it about Eira calling him a loser that made him feel like he was drifting on a cloud?
"I mean...what kind of person hasn't watched High School Musical 2? I'll tell you, a loser." She teased him.
Isaiah grinned up at his ceiling while Eira's voice echoed in his room, lecturing him on all things High School Musical.
His phone was on his bare chest, the lights in his room were off save the glowing lava lamp on his bedside. The entire house was quiet, mostly because it was eleven thirty on a weeknight and everyone in his house obviously knew that staying up late on a weeknight only resulted in yawning and eye bags.
Isaiah had done exactly what he said he and Eira shouldn't do. Stay up late on the phone.
Isaiah didn't care though. Sleeping meant not listening to Eira's soothing, soft voice and listening to her laugh at something he said. He liked it when she laughed at what he said. He liked it a lot.
"You know, not everyone thinks High School Musical's a good movie." He said carelessly, simply to rile her up. "In fact, some may argue that it was cinematic rubbish." He said dramatically, adopting a throaty, posh accent.
Like he expected, Eira let out a dramatic gasp on the other side of the line.
"How. Dare. You?" She ground out. "You sir, have no shame."
"Maybe you can teach me about High School Musical." He suggested in a careless tone, though on the inside his heart was thundering and his pulse was racing. "I'm willing to be swayed."
"It would be as eventful as teaching algebra to a brick wall."
"But this brick wall has a home theatre that's too big for one person..." He trailed off, coaxingly.
Eira stopped laughing. The silence on both ends of the line were full of question. Isaiah wondered if he had been too forward with his invitation. But it was his only window. His only.
"We've got a popcorn machine too." He said, to fill the silence. "We have a lot of movies. Movies upon movies. Categorised, even. We've got surround sound. We've got comfortable chairs. We've got–"
"Isaiah, I don't care what you've got." She said softly.
Isaiah frowned at the Blink-182 poster he was looking at. "Then watch it with me."
"Isaiah..."
"Please, Eira. I asked you the last time and you said no. I don't deal with rejection very well. I'm a cry-in-a-foetal-position kind of person. Do you want to see me cry, Eira? I'm an ugly crier. Like, super ugly. Like, cracking mirrors kind of ugly. He deadpanned. "Do you want to see me cry?"
"I hope I'd never have to." She responded immediately.
Isaiah was shocked at the determination in her voice, but he bounced back. "Then come and teach me all about High School Musical. I've heard learning is easier when you've got a pretty girl to teach you."
"Isaiah..."
Isaiah sighed dramatically, the exaggerated sound filling up his room. "Fine. If you don't want to spend time with me...what else can I do?"
Eira was silent on the other end of the line.
"I guess I'll just have to watch it by myself. High School Musical...all those movies...how am I even going to do it?" He sighed despairingly. "I'm going to be so alone. All alone...in that theatre...with nobody to watch a movie with..." He trailed off. "All alone. Just me. Alone."
He sighed dramatically. Eira still didn't bite.
"Which one's Troy? The one who likes wearing the hats? And Gabriella's the one with brown hair and glasses, right?" He asked, injecting a note seriousness into his voice.
"Oh my God," Eira groaned at his cluelessness. Isaiah grinned triumphantly. It had worked. "Fine. But we're not watching that. There's no way I can watch it with you."
"I'm hurt." He said sulkily.
"We can watch anything." Eira said. Then, she added on afterthought: "Except torture flicks. If I could ever hate anything, I think I'd hate those."
+++
"I'm going to Benoît's, I'll be back before Dad gets home."
Micah said this to Isaiah in passing and as a formality. Isaiah had a feeling that if, for whatever reason, he had even said he couldn't go, he would've gone anyway.
"You want me to pick you up?" Isaiah asked, half hopeful.
"I'll get River to drop me if she's home."
"And if she's not?" Isaiah wanted to ask, because River was a strange person who didn't exactly spend her Wednesday nights, or her other nights, like every other person.
She spent a lot of her nights rallying or demonstrating, meeting with her non-conformist friends about blood boiling topics like 'Fur Is Murder' and intersectional feminism, or sometimes, she was simply just out with his mother's God knows who doing his mother's God knows what.
Micah wouldn't even have responded. He was already walking out of the house, out of the gates and probably about to begin the seven minute walk to the nearest bus stop to get a bus to River's house, leaving a faint smell of ash and angst in his wake.
He composed a quick text to River asking her to drop his brother off at him after he's done doing whatever at her place, and she responded with an affirmative and a smiley emoticon. This calmed him down. Since he was sure his brother wasn't going to wander the streets at night, he set to preparing the home theatre for Eira's arrival.
The girls were in the playroom or in their rooms, Rosa would be keeping them company, Charles The Butler was in the library, Clive The Driver had the night off since Isaiah's father and Hélène had gone to the airport. Isaiah wasn't exactly sure why they had gone to the airport, but he knew that they had a charity function in honour of some dwindling animal tonight. How they went about their schedule was their business, really.
Isaiah didn't care for those details, he just expected them to be home around midnight. If they wouldn't be, Hélène would pretend to be thoughtful and would send Isaiah a text. Regardless of whether his dad and stepmum would be home tonight or not, he reasoned that it was more than enough time to watch one (two?) movies with Eira and have her out of the house before his family even heard the front door shut.
With that in mind, he began to set up the theatre do Eira's arrival with a longer, easier stride than usual. He only had thirty minutes until she would be at his bus stop.
Once the popcorn was popped and Hope and Amèlie were definitely playing in the playroom, Isaiah set off in his car, hoping and praying that nothing (and nobody) would disturb what he'd been planning in the five or so minutes it took to reach the bus stop.
Eira was waiting for him there, not sitting on the bench, but tracing her finger on the printed bus route map. Isaiah honked his horn, grinning when she frantically searched for the source of the loud noise, startled.
"I didn't mean to startle you!" He shouted insincerely over his engine.
She smiled fondly at him, and Isaiah found that even though the other people at the bus stop were staring at him with disdain and irritation at his behaviour, something strange and akin to butterflies (those damn butterflies) were in his stomach. Eira had the most beautiful smile.
When they reached his house, Isaiah was somehow relieved to see that it was still standing in one piece, and in its three storey, swimming pooled, manicured lawn and hedged, gazebo-ed glory. That didn't always seem like the case.
He parked the car and switched off the engine even though he made no moves to exit. This was mainly because he was trying to not make a big deal out of the fact that he saw Eira's fingers clench into a fist, unconsciously. He tried to tell himself that he imagined the intake of breath that Eira had taken once they had crossed the gates of his community and driven up the winding driveway of his house. They sat in the car, cloaked with a silence that Isaiah didn't want to call awkward, but didn't want to lie either.
Eira seemed to be consumed by her thoughts. And it was those very thoughts that Isaiah was afraid of. Was she, like nearly everyone else who he had brought home, immediately thinking he was some kind of pretentious dickhead for simply having a large, nice home?
He didn't think so, but he wasn't one to, you know, incorrectly assume.
Isaiah tried not to make it obvious that he didn't want anyone to spot that he had brought a girl home. It was by no means incriminating or due to embarrassment (who in their right mind would be embarrassed about a vision like Eira?) but simply because Eira was a city made of glass and everyone else, including him, had butter for fingers. The only difference between him and them, was that Isaiah got the sense that he should wear gloves and wrap himself in bubblewrap and styrofoam before venturing to the city of glass that was Eira. He was butterfingered, but at least he was prepared.
They used the door through the garage, passed through the kitchen where Isaiah plucked three cooling biscuits from a loaded tray, stilled because they heard a suspicious chorus of giggles, which could just have been the monitors carrying over the sounds of little girls playing in the attic. Now, they were lingering in one of the corridors because they heard Charles the Butler laugh heartily. Isaiah waited with baited breath, hoping that the ageing man wouldn't decide that moment to leave the library.
He was aware of Eira behind him, waiting to be led by him and not questioning why they stopped. In his panic of anyone seeing her, he forgot the reason why he didn't like using this particular way to get to the theatre. He had avoided his usual route in an effort to shield Eira from his butter fingered family, and he had completely forgotten that the reason he avoided this path was the exact reason that Eira was speaking of.
"Is this your mother?" She asked in that soft, melodic voice. She rose her fingers, as if to touch the portrait of him, his mother and his two siblings.
Isaiah's heart squeezed. Against his will, he felt his mind fill with memories and memories and memories about his mother. Her eyes, the way she smiled at him, the way she always knew exactly what to say to him to make him feel better about the way he thought about things.
As normal as he liked to pretend that he was, Isaiah Matthews knew deep down that he wasn't, really. And he'd only admitted that to three people in his life. Karim, Madison Von Barring, and Faith Matthews. River and Shiro knew how to put two and two together to make eight, and nobody else ever really noticed.
He felt a deep sense of sorrow wash over him whenever he thought about Faith Matthews, and this instance was no different. He was only glad that he wasn't facing Eira, or else he knew for certain that he wouldn't have been side-step and tiptoe around the topic of his mother the moment he looked into those fucking eyes and they looked into his.
"You have your mother's eyes." Eira observed. He could feel her looking at him, and he could tell by the way she said it that she thought, she assumed, that was a good thing.
Isaiah couldn't find his voice. Memories of that day flooded over him, almost knocking into him like a tsunami wave on a poor, lone daisy. He remembered everything about that day.
The itchiness of he and Micah's matching dark blue suits, the way Rosa had fissed-and-fussed over his hair, making it not too floppy and not too styled. There wasn't much she could do with it, really. He and Micah had those rite-of-passage horrible, choppy haircuts little boys tended to have at those ages. He remembered the way the photographer's assistant had to wave and play with toys to get Hope to focus her one and a half-year old mind on the camera.
He remembered the way he was itching to go out and change out his suit so he and Karim could squirt their water guns and maybe go terrorise Madison Von Barring, Isaiah's pretty neighbour with the blonde pigtails who always smelled like flowers. He remembered the way his mother had taught him the 'right' way to smile, comically of course. Baring all her teeth and exposing her gums, furrowing her eyebrows...
Isaiah remembered how everyone had laughed at that, and how his mother had pretended to be offended, but her eyes gave it away. He remembered his suit didn't itch much after that. He remembered the way his mother had made a face to Isaiah during the photographers five second countdown. Isaiah's laugh had been captured, and that was what Eira was looking at at that very moment.
"This is the older one– Hope, right? She's adorable." Eira gushed. "I thought you said you had sisters? There's only–"
Isaiah didn't wait for her to finish. He walked down the hallway, feet stomping with more force that necessary and feeling an almost completely overwhelming flood of emotions. His eyes were blurring and his fists were clenching, his heart was beating too-too fast and he was certain that what he was feeling wasn't just the sadness he felt whenever he thought about his mother.
It was anger he was feeling. It was anger that was fuelling the blurring of his vision. Anger that was causing him to clench his fists and harden his usually big, soft heart. It was anger. He was angry. And he had every right to be. Faith Matthews did not deserve what happened to her. She didn't deserve it at all.
"Did I say something wrong?" The voice was soft and melodic, the sort of soft and melodic that Isaiah knew only belonged, really belonged, to one person.
The of the theatre door shut softly, and Isaiah heard her approaching footsteps thudding on the polished wooden floors.
"No." He wanted to say. "I'm just being a baby about to cry over my mum, who is in a better place than here. I'm also not used to expressing my feelings, so there's not really much that I'm really going to tell you. But I'm fine. I'm okay. You didn't say anything wrong. Well, you did, but you didn't know what you said was wrong, so you didn't technically say anything wrong. On purpose."
He was being ridiculous, he knew. He was being really ridiculous, and emotional. He had to make like gloves and get a grip.
He took a deep breath and made his way to the DVD albums. Without turning back to Eira, he asked; "You ever seen Saw?"