The Quirky Tale of April Hale (Quirky Series #1)

17: Fourth First

17: Fourth First

There was a definite mischief glinting on Ryder’s dark eyes.

I wasn’t one who would notice people’s eyes. Most of the time, I squirm when I saw eyes, because they were too peculiar, too much of an alien. Too emotional.

I’m not good with emotions.

But Ryder did have a set of really expressive eyes, and even though he didn’t say anything, I could already tell what he wanted just from the look on his eyes.

And right now, all he saw was Red.

He wanted a war.

“Where’s your brother’s room?” he hissed.

A war with my brother.

Again.

To be honest, at this point, I should ease myself into it; accept that seeing Ryder and Quentin trying to screw with each other’s peace as one of life’s natural occurrence. They had been doing it for years now, and with them meeting way more often than what was good for their health, the intensity of their hatred grew.

“W-What are you trying to do with my brother’s room?” I asked him back, trying my best to avoid his gaze.

Ryder made it difficult for me to maintain a steady heartbeat by keep trying to look into my eyes. Even though I was all wet and sweaty, he had no recognition of my critical status of anxiety.

“April, come on,” he pleaded. His voice somehow softened to the point where it was almost as mellifluous as listening to Sherlock ripping apart people’s backstory. “I won’t hurt him. I just want to do a little… something.”

I looked around me, I looked at the ceiling above me, at the cabinet, at the table. Anything. Anything that would keep me from staring right at his brown eyes. For a moment, I regretted my decision to keep him in my room. I thought that by doing this, it would assuage my needs of humanity and up my chance to get into heaven when it was my time. But then, after knowing how much of a sport Ryder was to my whole body, I felt like I might need to take away his right to climb straight into my window like he belonged here.

He didn’t. He was directly responsible of the stifle of balance in my perfectly static life. And I swear if I died before I reached the ripe age of 30 because of heart-stroke, I was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

“You can’t punch him,” I said to him, still looking at the ceiling, trying to focus on that little lizard at the corner of my room. “Quentin will have a date this weekend. Look bruised he won’t want to.”

“You’re still yoda-ing over me?” 

“Intense you’re looking at me,” I struggled to keep my sentence structure grammatically correct. “Blame me you don’t.”

“Oh, come on, Kitten.”

Now, that last bit made it worse.

Since I didn’t want my speech impediment gain me another embarrassing moment with him, I only pointed to my right; Quentin’s crib. As soon as Ryder’s face lit, I hated myself already. Quentin was my brother, and yet I guiding his enemy into the sacred lair that was his crib.

I was such a horrible sister.

“He’s not inside, right?” 

I shook my head, and the hatred for myself grew. I wished I wasn’t pinned on the wall right now. I wished I still had the freedom to converse with Mr Teddies and watch my DVDs and write silly fanfictions about my favorite characters. I wished that my life was still normal.