Four Of A Kind Novel Chapter 15: [1.14] Symptoms, Not Skills

Chapter 15: [1.14] Symptoms, Not Skills

I woke up to sunlight.

This was unusual. I almost never woke up to sunlight. My alarm went off in darkness, I commuted in darkness, and by the ti I saw the sun it was already halfway across the sky.

But today was Saturday.

And my alarm had been set for 8 AM.

Eight hours of sleep. When was the last ti that happened?

I couldn’t rember. The number felt foreign. Luxurious. Like sleeping on a cloud instead of my secondhand couch cushions.

The apartnt slled like coffee. And eggs. And sothing else, sothing warm that made my stomach remind

it existed.

From the living room, I could hear voices. Animated ones. Japanese, specifically. So character was shouting about friendship and determination.

Iris is watching ani again.

I sat up slowly. Let my body rember how to exist. Stretched my arms above my head until my shoulders popped.

The couch served as my bed, had for years now. Iris got the bedroom because she was younger, because she needed privacy, because she deserved better than sleeping in the main room of a Kensington apartnt.

I didn’t mind. I could sleep anywhere at this point.

I stood. Walked toward the kitchen in my black joggers, scratching my chest idly.

The scene that greeted

was dostic in a way that made sothing warm settle in my chest.

Iris stood at the stove, spatula in hand, wearing an oversized t-shirt that probably used to be mine and shorts that were barely visible beneath it. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a ssy ponytail. She was humming along to the ani’s opening the while flipping sothing in a pan.

On the counter: two plates, already set. Coffee in a mug. Orange juice in a glass. Toast on a plate with butter nearby.

My little sister had made breakfast.

"Morning."

She turned. Her face went through about four different expressions in two seconds.

First: happiness. The pure, unfiltered joy of seeing her brother.

Second: relief. The sa relief I saw every morning, the silent confirmation that I was still here.

Third: embarrassnt. Her cheeks turned pink.

Fourth: indignation.

"Isaiah Angelo, put on a shirt!"

I looked down at my bare chest. Then back at her. "It’s my apartnt."

"It’s OUR apartnt! And I’m a lady! You can’t just walk around half-naked in front of a lady!"

"You’re fourteen."

"I’m fourteen and a LADY." She brandished the spatula at

like a weapon. "Go put sothing on. I made eggs and I’m not serving them to soone who looks like he’s about to star in a cologne comrcial."

"That’s... a complint?"

"It’s not! It’s a complaint! Shirt! Now!"

I retreated to the corner where I kept my clothes, grabbing an old band tee from the pile. Pulled it over my head. Turned back to face my sister’s judgnt.

She inspected . Nodded once, apparently satisfied.

"Better. Now sit down. Food’s almost ready."

"Yes ma’am."

"Don’t ’ma’am’ . I’m not old."

"You’re acting old."

"I’m acting RESPONSIBLE. There’s a difference."

I sat at our tiny kitchen table. It was barely big enough for two people, covered in scratches and coffee stains and mories. We’d found it on the curb three years ago, carried it up four flights of stairs, and it had been ours ever since.

Iris brought over the pan. Eggs, scrambled, with cheese. My favorite.

"You didn’t have to cook."

"I wanted to." She served the eggs onto my plate, then hers. Sat across from . "You’re always making breakfast for . It’s weird when you actually sleep in."

"I had a late night."

"You always have late nights. That’s not new." She picked up her fork. "What’s new is you being here in the morning."

She’s right. How often do I actually eat breakfast with her?

The answer was depressing.

"Sorry."

"Don’t apologize. Just eat." She gestured at my plate. "I added extra cheese because you like it."

I took a bite. It was good. Really good. The eggs were fluffy, the cheese was lted just right, and there was a hint of sothing else.

"Garlic powder?"

"You noticed?" She looked pleased. "I’ve been experinting. There’s a cooking channel I watch sotis. They said garlic powder makes everything better."

"They’re not wrong."

We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The ani continued in the background. So show about magical girls, I thought. Bright colors and transformation sequences.

Iris caught

looking at the TV.

"It’s Sailor Moon. The original series. Don’t judge."

"I wasn’t judging."

"Your face was judging."

"My face is always like this."

"That’s true. You do have resting judgnt face."

"Resting WHAT face?"

"You heard ."

I took a sip of coffee. Strong. Just how I liked it.

"When did you learn to make coffee this good?"

"YouTube." She shrugged. "There’s tutorials for everything. Did you know there’s a whole community dedicated to coffee brewing techniques? They have opinions about water temperature and grind size and pour patterns. It’s intense."

"Sounds like a cult."

"All hobbies are cults if you go deep enough."

When did she get so wise?

The answer was probably "around the ti our mother abandoned us and she had to grow up too fast." But I didn’t want to think about that. Not today.

"So." Iris set down her fork. Fixed

with a look. "Where are you going today?"

"What makes you think I’m going sowhere?"

She tilted her head. "You ironed a shirt last night. I saw it hanging in the bathroom."

"You’re observant."

"I learned from the best."

"Job interview."

Her eyes widened. "You’re leaving the Velvet Room?"

"Possibly. Haven’t decided yet. Could be additional."

"Additional? Isaiah, you already work like seventy hours a week."

"This would replace so of those hours. Better pay. Fewer late nights."

She processed this. I could see the wheels turning. Iris was smart. Smarter than , probably. She’d figure out the implications quickly.

"How much better pay?"

"A lot better."

"Define ’a lot.’"

"Enough to make the train tickets feel like pocket change."

Her breath caught. Just slightly. "That’s... that’s really good."

"If I get it."

"You’ll get it." Her voice was certain. "You’re good at everything."

"That’s not true."

"Na one thing you’re bad at."

"Sleeping. Relaxing. Not working constantly."

"Those don’t count."

"Why not?"

"Because they’re symptoms, not skills." She picked up her fork again. "You’re bad at those things because you HAVE to be. If you had the choice, you’d be great at them."

When did she start talking like a therapist?

"Have you been reading self-help books?"

"Maybe." She didn’t look embarrassed. "There’s a lot of good stuff online. About stress and coping and..." She trailed off. "Anyway. The point is, you’ll get the job."

"You don’t know what the job is."

"Doesn’t matter. You’re Isaiah Angelo. You can do anything."

The faith in her voice was almost painful. She believed in

completely. Unconditionally. The way only a little sister could.

I don’t deserve that faith.

But I’ll live up to it anyway.