FOSTER CHILD | PETER PARKER

ix.

FOSTER CHILD | ACT ONE
scene nine : boredom

THREE HOURS. Scott and Hank spent three hours in the basement having their little discussion and Isla was bored out of her mind. She tried to press her ear again the door to listen in but you could only hear so much from thick walls and hushed whispers.

From their little talk at the breakfast table this morning, she figured that Hank had wanted Scott to 'burgle' someplace, which didn't make a lot of sense to her as Hank Pym was a renowned scientist who had millions stashed away in his bank. She assumed that he wanted Scott to use the ants to do so because why flaunt this crafty piece of technology to a stranger.

Other than that and the fact that the keyhole was the best spot to eavesdrop, Isla hadn't learned anything about their mission. She heard the word 'suit' being thrown around a lot but she didn't think much of it.

Feeling Defeated by the lack of information found, she spent the rest morning exploring the house to distract herself from the ongoings in the basement.

The house didn't have much to it yet it still managed to look clutter–lived-in. She ventured into the home-gym and spotted a tennis ball in a brown, an old friend. She smiled as she made her way over it. It had felt like ages since Isla had held a tennis ball. Her foster family in Arkansas had set her up for lessons to help Isla relieve any anger and stress she felt. Fortunately for them, their plan has worked perfectly as Isla's anger and stress had turned into determination and easily made her one of the most skilled players on the team.

They put her back into ballet lessons on top of that, but they only made her go when she was super stressed and needed to do something calming. She wasn't too great at it but her form was alright.

Isla looked at herself in the mirror, she stood up on her toes—relevé—wobbling slightly as she did so, it had been a while since she attended a class.

She huffed. "This isn't working."

Isla walked over to the box, in hopes of finding a racket so she could release out her frustrations. She rummaged through it, covering her nose as a wave of dust emitted from the box. She took a step back from it to regain her breath from the surplus of dusty air before going through it again.

It was rather obvious to Isla that there was no racket in the box as if would've been an easy find, but boredom ensued curiosity had completely taken over her and she couldn't help but look through the box.

Eventually, Her hand hit a cold glass frame and she fished it out of the box. Not wanting to have another acute asthma attack, Isla wiped the dust off the frame and her eyes instantly softened at the sight she saw.

She ignored the ants that crawled up her as she looked at the photo of young Hope, hanging by the shoulders of Hank and who Isla assumed was Hope's mother and Hank's wife.

"Wow was he sure was a sight for sore eyes," Isla whispered to herself as she looked at Hank in the photo. The ants bit Isla, disgusted and/or annoyed by her comment, Isla couldn't tell

Her fingers trailed over Hope's mother's face, she was smiling—beaming. They all were. It was such a huge contrast to how they were now, broody, frustrated and dull.

Something only the death of a loved one could bring.

The ants bit Isla. Isla could feel the annoyance radiating from the ants because of her intrusiveness. "Ow! Okay okay, I'll put it back." Isla set the portrait down and left the room, rubbing her shoulder.