A Poised Nuisance (Lithe Book 1)

by Iris RIvers

  The police picked Kai up from the bloodied floor, carrying him to where his sister sat on the front porch. They were no longer crying, just staring straight up at the sky, waiting for something.

  The police officers tried telling the children that they were to be sent to foster care, that they’d find a good family. Kai had not said a word, only clutched Kaden’s hand into the palm of his own as they waited for nameless adults to make a decision that would change their lives forever. Even as they entered a family new to their hearts, Kai’s hand did not let go.

  That was the funny thing about Death: it carved wounds into one’s heart that would never heal. It stole the innocence from a child’s hands and gave only fear and misery in return. Death creeped into one’s life unexpectedly—no one ready for it; everyone pleading It shouldn’t have been them!—but He didn’t care. Death cared about nothing.

  Kai realized that later on. Death didn’t care when He took his parents from him. He didn’t care as Kai sat at their funeral, hot tears burning streaks of misery into his cheeks, pounding on their caskets, telling them to Wake up! and It’s time to wake up!

  Death didn’t care.

  “Kai Reeves?” Kai looked up at the woman standing before him, the pale skin around her eyes wrinkled like she’d spent her life smiling—happy. He wondered how that felt.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, sticking out his hand. “Nice to meet you.” The woman took his hand, her grip firm.

  “I’m Farrow Davis,” she said. Kai nodded. Farrow pulled the chair before Kai out of its spot beneath the table, sitting down. Kai drew his coffee toward his chest.

  Farrow laid some papers on the table—all white; all freshly printed. Kai stared at them.

  Miles and Dianne Reeves was printed in bold across the first page. Kai ran his finger around the rim of his cup.

  “It took me a while, but I found a lot,” said Farrow.

  “I can see that.”

  Farrow nodded. “Where should I begin?”

  “At the beginning. Start at the beginning.”

  LILAH HART LOVED THE smell of soiled books, of ancient paper and plum-colored ink. She loved the feel of golden engravings on a hardcover book—the texture both old and new underneath her fingertips.

  Every time she picked up a book, no matter the plot or the author, she felt as though she could finally breathe again—like the pages were a map to half her heart and half her head; like the very print of her thumb brushing against the adroit words had torn her apart completely yet left an everlasting incantation on the sanded pages.

  A good book was not a dream but a nightmare. One that left you trembling in desolation as you awoke from the daunting hours of twilight. The compelling torment that came with each word written on the pages—a record player in your mind, spinning over.

  And over.

  And over.

  Until one day it stops, and you’re stuck. Stuck in a world of such bleakness and despair that you can’t help but wonder when your next nightmare will be—when the next time you’ll feel seen again will be, even if it is through the eyes of your deepest, darkest demons.

  That was what Lilah was currently looking for—her newest nightmare.

  She slipped in and out of the ligneous shelves of her white bookshelves, finger idly tracing the multicolored spines as her sienna-colored skin glistened underneath the bulb above her. Her playwright-director had assigned a small short story due by the end of the week and Lilah had not written a single word. She simply didn’t have the motivation or inspiration. Her mind had been a jumbled mess the past few days—incoherent thoughts keeping her up at night and unnecessary anxiety stressing her throughout the day.

  Agitated, Lilah leaned her head against a shelf, the tight curls from her bun undoing with the movement. Her phone vibrated in her back pocket. Turning over, she pulled it out and read the notification on the top: MAMA. She swiped the text.

  Assalamu alaikum, beta. Kesi ho? Peace be upon you, child. How are you?

  WAS, Lilah texted. I’m good. Aap kesi ho?

  I am good as well, Alhamdulillah. U have class today?

  Lilah was surprised she answered in English. Her mother preferred to speak in Urdu when talking to her only daughter. She scooted to the floor and crossed her legs.

  No. At home studying.

  I see, her mother replied—and then sent various book emojis. Lilah laughed to herself. Her mother had a habit of doing that. Will you join me at the Masjid today for Zuhr?

  Lilah stopped laughing. Her fingers faltered over the screen, unsure of how to respond. The past couple of years, Lilah’s connection to Islam had weakened. It had not completely disappeared though. She could still feel her faith tingling in her heart—not lost; not forgotten. Her mother knew that—Lilah had broken down one day, told her I don’t know what I believe in and I need some time. Her mother wasn’t upset. She took Lilah in her arms and whispered sweet things into her ear, telling her, It’s okay to feel lost sometimes.

  Lilah gripped her phone. She wanted to meet her—she wanted to go—but she needed time.

  Can’t mama, I have to work on an assignment.

  U sure U can’t make room in UR schedule? her mother asked.

  No. I’m sorry. Maybe next time.

  Lilah watched the three dots on the bottom of her screen. Watched as they disappeared and reappeared again all within the same minute.

  It’s OK, beta. And then, a few seconds later, I understand.

  Lilah exhaled a deep breath, feeling at ease. She loved her mother—she truly did.

  A knock sounded at the front door, startling Lilah. She was here. Lilah stood, running to the mirror beside the door, fixing her hair and running her fingers under her eyes to remove the mascara smudges. She smiled at her reflection and then, quickly, pulled open the door.

  Orion stood there, her skin shining, her smile bright. She wore rings on each finger and a white turtleneck. She was beautiful—she was so beautiful. “Hi,” said Lilah.

  “Hi,” Orion whispered. Silence filled the layers of the apartment. It stacked in the crooks of comfort, contaminating Lilah’s monotony.

  “Come in,” said Lilah, stepping back into the room, looking back to her messy couch. Orion moved past her, surveying the space. Lilah’s apartment was the perfect representation of her personality. A brick wall lined the entire back side; posters and graphic art designs covered almost every inch. There were pictures too: pictures of her mom, of Pakistan—her home country. Though there were no pictures of the girls, Lilah had taped a single picture of Orion. It was a candid, the twines of her hair spread around her; her eyes closed and her mouth open—smiling and happy. Of all the photos, that was Lilah’s favorite.

  Near the windows, plants hung from the ceilings, intertwined by pale rope and wicker baskets. Random trinkets were stuck in every nook; small statues of Greek structures and other random ornaments lined the counters and shelves. Next to her mirror, a Bernie Sanders bobblehead danced to the air.

  And then there were the books.

  There were so many books. They lined the floors, stacked up against the walls while others sat on top of chairs, in-between kitchen cabinets or behind open doors.

  “So...” said Lilah, suddenly feeling uneasy.

  “What’d you do today?” asked Orion, walking to the bar stools under the kitchen island. She pulled one out, removed a copy of The Scarlet Letter sitting lazily on top, and sat down.

  “Just wrote some stuff for my next assignment,” she answered, meeting Orion at the island. She picked up the papers on the counter—she preferred to handwrite for some odd reason—and flipped through them. “It’s turning out horribly.”

  Orion laughed. “I doubt that.”

  “No, trust me. They are incredibly bad,” she replied, shoving the papers over to Orion. “See for yourself.”

  “Fine,” she said. She read some scribbled lines on the first page and smiled to herself. “I don’t know who I am anymore,” Orion read,
standing from the seat and dramatically moving her arms around, acting out the lines. “What am I doing? Why am I here? We are nothing but—”

  Laughing, Lilah jumped up, trying to reach for the papers. Orion was taller than her though, so she was able to lift them above her reach. They smiled at each other, then Lilah covered her face with her hands, saying, “Don’t read them out loud. I’m going to die of embarrassment.”

  Orion continued. “We are nothing but tiny atoms, tiny molecules. Hey, that sounds good.”

  “Please don’t lie to me,” said Lilah. Orion laughed, flipping to the next page. The blue ink filling the pages was smudged like she’d spent hours writing, her wrist moving across the words.

  “Tell me what to do,” she started.

  Lilah uncovered her face, shocked. That wasn’t for her screenwriting class—that wasn’t for anyone. She stepped forward. “Don’t read that one,” she said, near begging.

  “It’s not even bad!”

  “But—”

  “I don’t know what to do,” said Orion, moving in place, a smile tugging at her lips. “She lives in my mind. She crawled in one day, unacknowledged, and refuses to leave.” Orion sucked in a breath, looking to Lilah’s apprehensive face. They stared at each other for a while, until Orion continued, reading the last line on the page.

  “I—I love someone I shouldn’t,” she spoke slowly, deliberately, as if she was trying to understand the words herself—as if they had hit her so deep, so far down, that she had to take a moment to breathe.

  The two girls simply looked into each other’s eyes—not speaking, not moving, not breathing. Neither knew what to say. Neither knew how to handle the situation.

  Lilah hadn’t loved another person before—not in the way she should’ve; not in the way she’d seen on television, in overdrawn romance novels. She’d forced herself to date nice, respectable boys—she’d tell herself I haven’t found the right guy yet or Maybe I just don’t want to date. But then, looking at Orion’s face, her dark hair, she found herself thinking, This is was love must be. She thought, If I was to put a word to these feelings—these emotions—it would be love. Adulation. Infatuation. Yearning.

  The thoughts startled her. She turned away from Orion, not allowing the feelings to deepen—to consume her—because she was sure they would. She was sure that, with enough time, she’d allow herself to drown inside the umber of Orion’s eyes.

  Orion cleared her throat, setting the papers down, then slowly moved over to the small couch. Sat down. Let out a breath. Her mind whirled, circling around the same bitter thought. She pushed it down quickly.

  “Have you heard from Lara?” asked Orion, breaking the thick, uncomfortable silence.

  “No, I haven’t,” Lilah replied, her throat unbearably dry. She tucked a curl behind her ear as she grabbed a cold water bottle from the fridge. She turned the cap off. Took a sip. Sucked in a breath.

  “I heard Evelyn’s going to talk to her,” Orion said. “To convince her.”

  “I’d assumed so,” she replied, not moving from the kitchen, the cool air from the fridge brushing her limbs. She turned and shut the door, startling Orion with the noise.

  “Do you think she’ll join us?”

  “Yes,” Lilah answered. She finally turned to face Orion, their gazes connecting almost immediately. “Yes, I think she’ll join.”

  Orion nodded, agreeing.

  “They always do.”

  AFTER THE LONG, STRAINING meeting with Farrow at the coffee shop, Kai had returned home—exhausted, needing sleep. His mind ached with all of the new information. Farrow hadn’t found everything—not yet. But she still shared her suspicions––possible reasons for their murder.

  Revenge, she’d said. But revenge for what?

  Kai found it odd discussing the events of that night. It took him back to the year he had spoken less than two words a day—when his mind wouldn’t allow him to cry, to ask for help. When his adoptive parents had countlessly asked him Are you okay? and, each time, he had replied with a simple nod. Yes, I’m fine, it said. He doubted anyone believed it though.

  Kai felt utterly alone. He was used to that feeling—the bitter loneliness—but it felt different this time. Profound. Meaningful. He decided to FaceTime his adoptive parents to distract himself.

  He sat on his couch, the loud ringing of his laptop filling his apartment. His parents had given the apartment to Kai a few weeks before the start of sophomore year—he had been shocked, grateful. He had never had such a space to himself before. It was odd—the ghost-like quiet, the static calmness of his dark walls, his wooden floors. But he loved it nonetheless.

  He’d realized one night—his head against the stygian velvet of his sofa—that he needed it: the sobering alternative from his past life—a life filled with bloodshed and violence and death. He needed the dreary isolation in order to stay sane.

  “Kai!” His parents’ faces filled the screen, their brown skin wrinkled and worn. His mother’s hair was losing its color, while his father’s had completely grayed. They had adopted him when they were young. They’d never had kids—by choice—and, last minute, his mom—Amelia—impulsively decided to adopt. James had agreed; he loved his wife too much to say no.

  “Hi, Mom. Dad,” he answered. Kai felt a small smile pulling at his lips.

  “How are you?” his dad asked, hints of an accent lighting up his words. He was originally from Brazil but had moved to New York in his early twenties. In the city, he’d met Amelia at some old bar—too drunk to fully remember one another but sober enough to not forget. They’d exchanged numbers and fallen in love—quickly.

  They were old school—retro. The type of people to sit on the roof of a sixties Camaro and watch the stars on a desolate night. Looking at them now, through his worn laptop, Kai realized that they probably did those things. Often.

  “Fine,” Kai replied. His parents grinned, happy at the confession. Kai rarely expressed his feelings, so the casual Fine was something they appreciated very much.

  “How are classes?” asked his mom. “Don’t you have a recital this winter?”

  His mind dangerously strayed to Lara. He’d been musing on possible ways to remove her from the recital—to force her to relieve herself of the part—but thus far, all he’d come up with was murder.

  Kai would not resort to such lengths though. He wondered if Lara would—if given the chance. He imagined her standing over him, dagger in hand, his blood coating her flesh. His mind told him she would—kill him. It sounded extreme—horrible, inhumane—but he didn’t know Lara. He couldn’t trust her.

  She was capable of anything.

  “Yes,” he said, “I do.”

  “When is it?” she asked. “We’d love to come down.” His dad looked to Kai with anticipation.

  “December thirteenth,” Kai answered. The pair on the screen before him nodded. They hadn’t needed to ask if their son had won the lead—they already knew. He’d never lost the lead role—he’d always been the best, the admired.

  “Your parents would be so proud of you,” James whispered, his eyes bright. The yellow light of their bedroom reflected across his face, making him look almost melancholic—reverent.

  Kai looked down at the faded keys of his Macbook. “You are my parents.”

  After a few moments, Kai looked back up to the couple on the screen. Although they were not his true parents—not by blood, anyway—they were as much family as his late birth parents were. They didn’t need to be connected by blood, by DNA—Kai belonged to them in a different way. The familial strands that bound them together were made of love, of care. Of the tiresome family road trips in which they’d sing songs of their childhood the entire ride—in which they’d gaze out the window, looking at the barren land before them, and feel content. Of the nights spent in the cold kitchen, bare feet dancing across the wooden floors. Of the simple goodbye and hello hugs that came and went with each passing day.

  “Have you heard from Kaden?” Kai as
ked, changing the point of conversation. The mood shifted—his parents’ eyes turned from proud to tired in a short moment, the bags under them suddenly evident.

  “No, Kai,” Amelia said, her voice quiet, filled with grief. “We haven’t.”

  Kaden Reeves had decided—last minute—to attend Oxford University in England. It was a decision based on anger—on mistrust. Her own secrets had devoured every living part of her; gripped her whole until she could no longer stand it anymore. The ticket to England was her ticket to freedom—whatever liberty she couldn’t find in the ant-like streets of New York she was sure to find between the cracks of Oxford’s brick roads.

  Kai nodded solemnly at the admission. He hadn’t expected anything different. If this conversation had taken place only a few weeks ago, he’d have hope—but now? Kai had lost any strand of anticipation for his sister. He no longer waited for her calls or messages; no longer assumed she’d return home—if this even was her home. She needed time. Time to be happy. Time to be free of her demons. Kai would take them away from her if he could—he would do anything for her—yet to Kaden, her problems were too severe—completely unfixable.

  “Well,” James said, “it’s getting late. We better get going.”

  Kai looked to the clock and realized it was eleven at night.

  “Good idea,” he said. “Talk soon?”

  “Of course, baby,” Amelia said. “We love you so much.”

  “Love you,” Kai said quietly. They smiled and ended the call.

  Kai took a deep breath of the cooled air and leaned his head back, looking up at the ceiling. He fell asleep on the couch that night, his last thoughts of his sister, of her smile.

  He dreamed of betrayal.

  KAI’S COFFEE TABLE was a mess. Faded rings from mugs covered nearly the entire surface. There were upside-down books and random newspapers that Kai would occasionally read. A black bowl sat in the middle with things like his keys and random silver-coated rings that Kai had a habit of taking off when he was anxious.