9. family

NINE

family

Friday, March 7th

"Dylan, you ass! I had my name on those last two slices of pizza, and you still fucking took them!"

Isaiah sat at the kitchen table, headphones in but nothing playing, forced to listen to his brother and sister. All he wanted to do was finish his homework in peace, but his mom had re-painted his bedroom walls (she'd been wanting to do that for a while), and he wasn't keen on huffing paint fumes. So there he sat, watching another fight take place.

Dylan scowled. "Dad said you didn't like leftovers!" he retorted angrily, arms crossed against his chest.

"I didn't—what? You have lived with me your whole life! You should know that the only leftovers I like are pizza and desserts!"

"But Dad said—"

"Who cares what Dad said?" Jordan cried, fisting her unruly curls into her hands. "It had my name on it!"

Isaiah let out a loud sigh that caught the pair's attention. They both whipped around to look at him, Dylan confused and Jordan pissed. He blinked at their reactions, opening his mouth to speak, then quickly closing it with pursed lips. Jordan arched a brow in silent question.

He blew out a breath. "It's not that big of a deal," he finally grumbled. "Stop yelling and eat something else."

Jordan scoffed. "I know I can eat something else," she snapped, then pointed her finger at their little brother. "I'm mad because he had the audacity to steal my shit."

Dylan was being his thirteen year old self and mocking Jordan behind her back, creating exaggerated facial expressions and turning his hand into a makeshift puppet. Isaiah bit back an amused grin, one that Jordan took notice of and spun around to see what he was looking at. Dylan immediately dropped his hand and forced a cheesy smile.

Jordan rolled her eyes. "You're such a little shit," she hissed. "So annoying."

Dylan exchanged a wide-eyed look with his brother, then brought his gaze back to Jordan's. "You on your period or something?" he asked, both genuinely curious and teasing. She clenched her jaw.

"I am not on my period."

"You sure?" Dylan inquired, raising an eyebrow. "It seems like it."

Isaiah covered his mouth to hold back a chuckle, but it came out anyway, muffled and loud enough for Jordan to hear. She looked between her brothers, absolutely livid. "Both of you can go choke," she grumbled, marching out of the kitchen to escape to her room.

"She's crazy," Dylan said, shaking his head in disbelief. "She gets mad at me for the dumbest stuff."

"To be fair," Isaiah replied, waving his pencil in the air, "you do steal her stuff. Like her hair products a couple weeks ago. You took some of her skin care stuff, too. I'm pretty sure you even stole a hoodie—the all black one. And—"

"Okay!" Dylan interrupted, frowning. "I get it. I'm a thief."

Isaiah shrugged, lowering his hand and averting his attention back to his homework. "You said it, not me."

Dylan huffed and walked further into the kitchen, humming as he looked through the fridge, the pantry, and the drawers several times before proclaiming, "There's nothing to eat."

Isaiah rolled his eyes. "There is," he told his brother, leaning his head against his hand. "There's leftover wings Dad made last night."

"I ate those for breakfast."

Isaiah furrowed his brows and turned around in his seat, giving Dylan a baffled look. "You what? You ate fucking wings for breakfast?"

Dylan looked at Isaiah as if he'd lost brain cells. Which he probably did, considering he hung around Ashton every day. "Yeah, and?"

"And your stomach didn't, like, fuck you up?"

"Oh no, it did."

"Dylan, what the fuck."

Dylan simply shrugged his shoulders and snatched a couple packets of fruit snacks before disappearing up to his room. Isaiah relaxed in his chair, finally at peace and able to do his homework. Ten minutes, however, he heard the front door open. "Come help me with the groceries!" his mother shouted.

Dammit, Isaiah thought dejectedly. He pushed his papers to the side and hurried over to his mother, taking some of the bags out of her hands. She gave him a grateful smile and let out a sigh, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead. "Gracias, mijo."

Isaiah was the only one who helped his mother with the bags, as his father was at work and his siblings were lazy sacks of shit. Once he'd finished bringing them in, he helped her unload. "Now Dylan can't complain that there's no food," Isaiah commented.

His mother laughed. "That boy alone can finish all of this in a few days."

"He's a black hole," Isaiah stated seriously. "I swear."

"You know who else is?" She asked, eyes flashing with realization. "Your friend, Marcus. I haven't seen him in some time, how is he?"

Isaiah's good mood deflated instantly. "Uh, he's good," he mumbled. I think.

"Yeah?" She smiled warmly, looking up to lay her eyes on her son. But her smile dropped when she saw his gloomy expression. "Mijo, did something happen? What's wrong?"

"What? I'm fine, Mom," Isaiah said, waving a dismissive hand. "Just thinking."

She sighed and stopped what she was doing to walk around the counter and stand beside him. She squeezed his arm lovingly. "You've been down these past few days," she observed. "I thought I was just imagining things, but now I know I'm not. ¿Que pasa?"

"Nothing," he lied. "School is just stressful. Scouts are watching me, you know? Playoffs are approaching, too."

Isaiah's words seemed to relax her, because she let go and nodded in an understanding manner. "Try not to stress too much," she advised, reaching up to pinch his cheek. "You don't need wrinkles at eighteen."

He laughed lightly, placing his hand over hers for a second before letting go. She brought her hand back and returned to unloading. "I'll finish the rest," she told him. "Go finish your homework." She waved him off, and Isaiah didn't hesitate to grab his bag and papers. He escaped to the living room, not wanting to go upstairs to see if the paint fumes had worn off.

Although he sat there for two hours doing his work, it wasn't the subject of his thoughts. His hands seemed to be on autopilot, but his mind wasn't. His mother reminded him of why, exactly, he'd been so upset over the past few days: Marcus. A part of him hoped what Marcus had said wasn't true, but the other was an absolute pessimist.

He gnawed at his already tortured lip, foot bouncing against the carpet. It couldn't end just like that, could it? A friendship that had lasted since they were little. Isaiah didn't even know what he'd done wrong. Hell, did he even do anything? Or was Marcus just searching for an excuse to hate him? The latter definitely hurt the most.

Isaiah sighed and dropped his pencil. He couldn't focus. He could before, when it was just confusion littering his mind, but now it was someone he cared about added to it all. He wondered how those with lives worse than his could keep shit steady. It seemed impossible.

Or maybe he was just weak.

He pinched at his arm before putting his things away. He leaned back against the sofa and stared up at the ceiling, flipping his phone around in his hands. He'd been doing that a lot—doing nothing, but feeling like he had done everything there was to do. Exhausted was what he was.

People said their senior year passed by in a blur. Isaiah disagreed; that only happened to those who didn't have so much to worry about. Isaiah never realized it before, but he had a lot to worry about. Now, at least.

"Isaiah?"

He jerked up from his position and turned his head to see Jordan walking over. She plopped down on an armchair and gave him a confused look. "Dude, are you okay?"

Isaiah frowned. "Yes, why do people keep asking me that?" he groaned, slumping down and crossing his arms against his chest like a petulant child.

"Gee, I don't know," she drawled. "Maybe because you look like a kicked puppy all the time? Just a theory."

"I'm fine," he grumbled.

"You're a shit liar."

Isaiah glared at his older sister, scowling. "How would you know? You're not me."

"True," she said. "But I've lived with you our whole life. I've kind of picked up on your mannerisms. For example, you get all defensive when you lie."

"I do not!"

"See? Liar."

Isaiah sighed and averted his eyes to the TV, where some soap opera was playing with the volume low. He watched it silently, until Jordan muttered something and turned it off, throwing the remote she used at his chest. He made a face. "What?"

"Talk to me," she urged quietly. "You're my little brother. I hate seeing you all sad and shit."

"It's stupid," he mumbled.

"If it's making you sad, it's not stupid."

Isaiah glanced at her, then back at his blank phone screen. "Fine," he stated semi-reluctantly. "Marcus hates me. During practice, he ignores me. At lunch he doesn't sit with us. H-he spread some rumors about me that aren't true, and I don't know how he even thought of them in the first place."

She nodded slowly, then added, "You're leaving something out."

"I'm not."

Jordan tapped the side of her head. "You seem to forget I'm a psychology fiend. I know everything."

"Well," Isaiah said, "what I'm leaving out is something I refuse to tell you. Respect that."

She shrugged. "Okay. But just know I wouldn't judge you for anything. Unless you were being a complete and utter petty, ignorant shit."

"Noted."

Jordan chuckled before continuing. "Well, I say that if he won't tell you himself, you'll have to confront him—"

"Already did that. He didn't say shit."

"Okay," she said slowly. "Then try it again. And if it still doesn't work, then forget his nasty ass. If he doesn't tell you, it's probably because he knows it's something that doesn't matter, and he's just being a big ol' baby. And if he can't bother to try and fix things with you, then he wasn't a true friend in the first place."

Isaiah cracked a tired smile. "That's what August said."

"I don't know who that is, but he sounds white. Oops, wise, my bad. Autocorrect."

"Oh my God, Jordan."

"What?" she whined, lifting her hands and wiggling her fingers. "I have big thumbs."

"I hate you."

"Love you too!" she exclaimed happily. "Anyway, let a few more days pass. If he still doesn't approach you, you can either try to talk to him again, or forget about it. Your choice."

Isaiah chuckled weakly, pushing and pulling at his pop socket. "I'm very indecisive."

"I'm sorry," she said honestly. "Shit like this sucks."

"Yeah."

Jordan bit at her bottom lip, deep in thought, before finally saying: "Tell me about this August dude. I've never heard you mention him before. I have to make sure he's a good—" She paused, scrunching her nose up. "—pal."

"Don't say pal ever again."

"Trust me, I don't want to."

Isaiah laughed and sat up a bit more. "August is cool," he started, confused about what else he could say. He didn't know him that well. "He has a prosthetic leg. He used to play baseball, but doesn't anymore. He's kind of broody, like he was always frowning and grumbling at me when I first met him. I don't know why he suddenly likes me, but he does. His friend, Morgan, talked to him, I think is what he said."

"Morgan?" Jordan questioned. "Is she part of y'all's group too, or—"

"Yeah, they both are, I guess," Isaiah replied. "Steve likes her. I think he has for a while, and we just now found out. He's so secretive, like what the fuck? But I think she likes him, too. I mean, I hope she does. They'd be cute. I ship it."

"Ashton's still doing his thing, I hope?" Jordan asked, and Isaiah nodded with an amused grin. "Good. See, you have some cool friends. You have more genuine friends then the one that isn't. Look on the brightside, yeah?"

Isaiah bobbed his head in understanding. "Yeah." Jordan got up and ruffled his hair playfully, squeezing his shoulder next in a comforting way.

"Remember," she said. "Your choice."