Four Of A Kind Novel Chapter 32: [2.5] Crimes Against Organization

Chapter 32: [2.5] Cris Against Organization

I looked at it.

The screen displayed what could generously be described as a calendar. More accurately, it resembled the final thoughts of a dying AI that had been fed nothing but energy drinks and motivational posters. Appointnts overlapped. Colors clashed. So entries were just emoji. One block simply read "that thing with the bows!!!" with no date, ti, or additional context.

"That’s..." I searched for the diplomatic word.

"A disaster?"

"Creative."

Harlow bead. "See? You get !"

She leaned closer to scroll down, and her chest pressed against my bicep.

I kept my eyes on the phone screen.

"This entry here," I said, pointing at a purple block. "What does ’rember the thing’ an?"

"Oh! That’s the charity dinner! I think! Or maybe it’s the photoshoot? One of those!"

"When is it?"

"Thursday? Or Friday? The one with the day in it!"

"All days have days in them. That’s what makes them days."

Harlow laughed, and the motion made her shift against . Her perfu invaded my senses.

She slls like a bakery had a baby with a fruit stand, I observed internally. Dangerous. This is dangerous.

"You’re funny!" She bumped her shoulder against mine. "I didn’t know you were funny!"

I took the phone from her hand. "Give

that."

"Okay!"

The chaos was worse than I’d thought. Seventeen different reminder apps. Three separate calendar systems, none of which synced with each other. Screenshots of text ssages saved as "schedule references" that provided no actual scheduling information.

This isn’t a schedule, I thought. This is evidence in a court case about cris against organization.

But I’d dealt with worse. Three years of balancing school, work, Iris, and sleep deprivation had taught

that any system could be salvaged if you approached it with enough spite.

I opened the calendar app I’d set up that morning. Created a new shared calendar. Nad it "Valentine Household - Official" because professionalism mattered even when everything else was on fire.

"What are you doing?" Harlow had shifted even closer, her chin nearly resting on my shoulder as she watched my fingers move across the screen. Her breath was warm against my neck.

"Color-coding." I selected a shade of pink that matched her hair highlights. "Your personal events go here. Appointnts with your sisters get different colors. Work obligations are another."

"You’re giving

my own color?"

"Organizational clarity requires visual distinction."

I entered the fitting appointnt at four, pulling the information from her text screenshots. Added the Fashion Club eting at six. Set reminders for thirty minutes and ten minutes before each event.

"Now watch." I demonstrated how to add a new event, how to set reminders, how to share the calendar with others. "You can sync this with your sisters’ schedules. Everyone sees the sa information. No more conflicting appointnts."

Harlow stared at the screen like I’d just perford actual sorcery.

"You’re like a wizard," she breathed. Her face was inches from mine. Purple eyes wide. Lips slightly parted. "A hot, organized wizard."

Hot, my brain repeated. She said hot. That’s an adjective typically reserved for temperature or physical attractiveness.

"I’m a guy who knows how to use a calendar app." I handed the phone back. "It’s not magic."

"It IS magic! Dark magic! Organizational dark magic!"

"The darkest."

And then, before I could prepare, Harlow Valentine threw her arms around my neck.

The hug involved her entire body pressing against mine from the side, her chest flattened against my shoulder, her face buried sowhere near my collarbone, her arms locked around my neck with the grip strength of soone who probably did pilates or yoga or whatever rich girls did for exercise.

"Thank you, Isaiah!" Her voice was muffled against my uniform jacket. "You’re the best guy ever!"

The cafeteria went silent.

Harlow pulled back.

She was smiling. Completely unaware of the social earthquake she’d just triggered. Completely oblivious to the fact that every single person in the cafeteria was now staring at us.

"Sa ti tomorrow?" She bounced in her seat. "We can make this a regular thing! I’ll put it in my new calendar! My color-coded, organized, magical calendar!"

"Sure."

Harlow stood up, adjusting her uniform with the casual grace of soone who had never worried about wrinkles in her life. "I should go find Cassidy. She has that tutoring session with you after school, right? I should make sure she actually shows up instead of hiding in the tennis teams locker room again."

"That would be appreciated."

"Great! See you later, Isaiah!"

She bounded away, her rose-gold hair bouncing with each step. The crowd of polo-shirt guys fell into formation behind her, but not before Chad shot

a look of pure murder.

I watched them go.

Then I looked around the cafeteria.

Every eye was on . Conversations had resud, but they were hushed. Pointed. Phones that had definitely been recording were hastily pocketed.

This is fine, I told myself. I am a professional providing professional services. Nothing about this situation is unusual or concerning.

The whispers were getting louder.

"Did she just hug him?"

"Who IS that guy?"

"Is that the scholarship student?"

"Since when does Harlow Valentine hug scholarship students?"

"Maybe he’s her new boyfriend?"

"No way. Have you SEEN the guys she usually dates?"

"He’s kind of cute though..."

"Cute doesn’t pay for yachts."

Then my phone buzzed.

I pulled it out with my free hand, taking another bite of sandwich as I checked the screen.

The ssage was from Vivienne.

Why is my sister sending

screenshots of her calendar with heart emojis and the caption ’ISAIAH IS A WIZARD’?

I stared at the ssage.

Sowhere in the cafeteria, soone was definitely taking a photo of

staring at my phone while eating a cold sandwich alone at a wobbly table.

This was my life now. This was what ten thousand dollars a month bought.

I typed back a response, keeping it professional: Professional services rendered as per contract.

The three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Vivienne was typing sothing. Deleting it. Typing again.

Finally: We need to discuss boundaries.

I considered my response options. Sothing professional. Sothing that would defuse whatever concern Vivienne had developed about her sister’s enthusiastic appreciation of basic organizational skills.

Acknowledged, I sent. Available after Cassidy’s tutoring session.

The three dots reappeared imdiately.

My office. 6 PM. Don’t be late.