A/N: Lots of emotions of all sorts in this chapter. That tends to happen in an angst story. They're probably overdone and cliched, but I'm in a pretty emotion-exploring mood. This whole story is getting an undercurrent of sadness running through it. Either that or a feeling of impending doom, I'm not quite sure which.

I know I haven't been updating as regularly as I usually do lately. This chapter has been languishing on my laptop for over two months now. But just now I got another urge to write, and this time it was so strong I couldn't deny it. Read. Review. Please.

Anger Management Chapter Two: Making Friends

After her brother had gone upstairs to bed, Isis had turned and sat down on the sofa with a vague idea of watching television or reading or retouching her make-up or at least something that had some sort of point. The thing that she hadn't intended doing was falling asleep; she had lain back against the cushions just to sit and breathe for a moment, and then before she knew it everything had turned hazy.

Rishid came back at half-past eleven to find her slumped over the arm, relaxed as she never was when awake. His initial thought was that she had had some kind of accident. He was intending to wait until taking his coat off before waking her, but she stirred just as he opened the door.

"M-Oh, Rishid. How was work?" She had been hugging a cushion to her body in sleep, and when she found it on her knee she frowned and moved it out of the way.

"Not bad." He glanced at her face, eyes noting worry lines that hadn't been there the day before, and inquired, "Your day, it was…?"

Isis's lips automatically formed the expected reply, meaningless in its casualness; she choked it down. "Bad."

He sat down next to her. "Another one gone?"

"Yes. Ninth."

Rishid sighed.

"I…I told him we would think about sending him to school. That the tutor issue was a waste of time."

"It is."

She glanced quickly at him, cobalt eyes angry and so alive.

"What I mean is that he doesn't really know how to react to them. It's too personal, too close. In school classes he will be one of twenty, maybe thirty. Not so much concentrated attention."

"And he'll get to know other people."

"Yes. There is that too."

They both sighed, the sound curiously flat and undramatic.

"Never mind." Isis forced herself to sound brightly cheerful but they could both hear the lie ringing out, like an out-of-tune singer in a choir; there was no 'never mind' about it and there never had been.

"We're going to get through this. Together."

Laughter. The sound bitter and raw and so hysterical oh my God it's so hysterical.

"Don't laugh. We will."

"Do you believe that?" She turned around abruptly, facing him properly and looking straight into his eyes, and even before their gazes met she knew the answer.

…………

"Do I have to wear this?"

"Yes, Ahkii. It's a part of the uniform." Isis straightened his tie again and stood back, unsure whether to laugh or cry or both. He looked so young in his new school uniform; already he was fidgeting and playing with buttons, embarrassed at being dressed up so.

"It's stiff."

"That's because it is new. It will be fine once I've washed it."

"It's itchy."

"You won't notice it."

He looked up at her, huge eyes curious. "Did you have to wear a uniform too?"

"No, because I didn't go to school." Painful memories surface, rising and falling back down like planks bobbing in the ocean. Memories of hunching over a book, eyes screwed up as she tries to understand the meaningless characters; the timid request to her father to get a tutor, and then recoiling at the reply; back to the books, nearly tearing the pages with her shaking hands. She closed her eyes and then opened them again – be gone, haunt me no longer, please oh please oh please – but they stayed, sniggering in the back of her mind.

"Oh."

She ushered him out of the door. "Come on, you'll be late. Do you have your lunch?"

"Yeah."

"All right then, let's go." Slip into car, imitation leather upholstery plastic and unforgiving; make sure he gets in too; key in ignition and her hand is shaking, why the hell is it shaking? A first day at school isn't such a big deal, especially as he is thirteen; it wasn't like The First Tooth or I Can Piss by Myself Now or Getting Knives Stuck into Your-

The world swims. She gropes wildly; feels the steering wheel with delirious fingers and pulls herself back up.

Apprehensively: "Are you okay?"

"Yes; I'm fine." Hahahahahahahaha. She isn't laughing.

Isis took a deep breath, steadying herself. Then she pulled out the keys and reinserted them, and it was a stupid thing to do but it didn't matter because this time her hand didn't shake.

It was cold and stiff like something dead.

…………

"Is this it?"

"I suppose it is." Ra, it was big. And children, so many children. Running and screaming and fighting and crying and giggling and running. The building was like something out of a magazine: bright, glossy, a slab of concrete where inside children were taught everything they were supposed to want to know. Or at least some of it.

It was a very correct looking school, almost cliched in its neat, regular appearance. Isis hadn't met any of the teachers but she could guess that they would be steely but smiley, dedicated but caring; perfectly normal.

Normal. When used in the Ishtar household, the word was a joke.

Malik was staring just as much as she was, eyes even wider than before. "It's so big," he whispered, half fearful, half in awe. "How many people do you think there are here?"

"I don't know. Three hundred?"

"Wow." Malik couldn't even imagine that number of people. All with different faces and personalities and talents. It didn't seem possible.

"…I'll pick you up at three then."

"…Yeah." At once he recalled her existence, looking first at her and then at his new school with a confused expression, on the borderline of the two worlds. "…See you."

He raised a hand slightly in a shy attempt at a wave, before plunging into the sea of people.

Isis watched him go, feeling the emotions wriggling through her body like X-rays or worms or some other unfamiliar substance, and walked slowly back to the car.

…………

Malik hoisted his small rucksack slightly higher and felt it instantly knocked back down to its previous position as people shoved past. Unconsciously he shrank into himself, reducing the size of the target. People were throwing glances at him, although whether of contempt or curiosity he didn't know.

A bell rang from somewhere inside the building: for a moment there was no reaction, as if the undesirable occurrence did not merit such a thing. Then, amid mass grumblings, pupils began to break off from the crowd and slouch at a pace that couldn't be described as anything more than leisurely towards the building entrance. Uncertainly, Malik followed them.

"E-excuse me, I'm new. Where do I go?"

Sneering faces swan by. He wasn't aware of his insignificance yet, they said: give it time.

He tapped someone on the shoulder, stretching slightly to do so. "E-"

"Fuck off." It was said with an alarming lack of emotion, as if someone as potentially useless as Malik did not merit wasting emotion on. The speaker passed on, instantly dissolving into the faceless crowd; Malik, on the other hand, stood there for a moment in disconcerted surprise. Usually he was on the speaking end of such a remark, not the receiving one.

He was warier his second time, making sure to select someone who looked neither immediately psychotic or at an extreme end of the popularity scale. "Um-"

"Yeah?" It was rasped out in a hoarse grunt. The speaker had a gold ring through one ear and kept fingering it as he talked, as if saying, hey, look guys. Am I cool or what?

"I'm new around here-"

"Figured as much."

"-and I was wondering if you could tell me where to go?"

Another troglodytic sound, accompanied by a flaring of the nostrils that reminded Malik forcibly of a gorilla. He had studied the eating habits of one in his textbook, but had never seen anything which looked remotely one until now.

"How old are you?"

"Thirteen and three quarters," he answered promptly.

The guy stared. "…Thirteen. Right. Uh, you want that line, over there." He pointed.

"Thanks." Malik ambled on, reassured, to join the straggly line. Most were plugged into their music players or robotically chewing gum or both. He edged to the back, trying not to stare at the unfamiliarity of it all.

A tall student (although most of the people seemed like mountains anyway, this person topped them like Mount. Everest) was languishing near the front, hands jammed in pockets. He turned round to catch the eye of his friend, and, in doing so, caught first sight of the new pupil. He stared. Malik, uncertain as to what the rules of etiquette in a school were, stared back. The tall student's eyes narrowed, becoming small and mean, like a shark that has just scented fresh prey. He muttered something to his companion, who turned and grinned, exposing nicotine-stained slabs of teeth. Nervous now, Malik dropped his gaze.

A bored teacher at the head of the line was ticking off names as students filed past, looking about as thrilled to be present as they were. When Malik came forward, the pen hovered for a moment over his name.

"Malik Ishtar. The new student, yes?"

"Um, yeah."

"That way please, Mr. Ishtar."

He looked ahead to where checked-off pupils had gone through the entrance and congregated around the corridor. A few had already gone in to bag seats, but most were slouched against the wall in the posture they usually took up while smoking. Old habits were hard to break. Some probably couldn't have stood up straight if they tried.

Feeling as though every eye were upon him, the teenager sidled along the corridor, trying instinctively not to attract attention but doing it anyway. People shot him looks during their conversations, mouths shaping words even as their eyes stared. Malik could feel himself starting to blush, and hurriedly shoved his way into the classroom. As he did so he accidentally brushed past the tall teenager from the queue. Malik didn't notice, but the other person did, and his eyes narrowed even further.

Upon entering his new classroom he noticed at once that the two rows nearest the back had already been filled, and dumped his bag on the next one, near the window.

"What the hell d'you think you're doing sitting there?" Youssef, the teenager with the narrow eyes, strode towards him, knocking his bag to the floor in one contemptuous sweep. "That's my place."

"Actually-" Malik was about to tell him in no uncertain terms where to go and how to do it, but got no further as his bag was kicked half-way across the classroom, towards the front. A person in the back row sniggered at the joke.

Sullenly, the defeated teenager picked up his rucksack and stumped down at the desk at the front which was by now the only one free.

The talking died down slightly as the teacher entered, register tucked under one arm. Mr. Fahd had narrow, darting eyes, a slash for a mouth and a lanky frame made even hollower from years of cigarettes. There was one smouldering between his fingers now, and he took occasional drags from it as he addressed the class.

"All right, you know the drill. When I call your name, you say 'Yes, Mr. Fahd.' And no variations. Just b'cause it's the first day of term doesn't mean I'll be taking any shit from anyone."

Malik could hardly believe his ears. What kind of teacher said stuff like that? His had only gone into that vein after he had started mucking around.

"Hassan, Omar."

"Yes, Mr. Fahd."

"Suhail, Bassam."

"Yes, Mr. Fahd."

"Waleed, Hani."

No answer.

"Waleed, Hani."

"I ain't here."

"I'm glad to hear it." Mr. Fahd ticked off the boy's name. "Ishtar, Malik."

"Yes, Mr. Fahd."

Someone in the back snorted with laughter. "Ishtar? What kind of a name is that?"

"A better one than yours," Malik muttered.

"What? What did he say?"

Someone repeated it.

"You wait til after school, man. You're gonna be fucking dead."

Mr. Fahd took another drag from his cigarette. "Settle down now, class."

…………

The lessons in themselves weren't too bad. Malik found that, even with his own patchy previous education, he was still ahead of the majority of the class. Not a particularly hard thing to be, considering that the 'majority of the class' either spent the lessons painting their toenails or farting to the tune of various songs, depending on their gender, but still oddly satisfying.

He did, however, struggle in English, which the class had been doing for nearly a year. Thus, when the bell rang for lunch, he exited the class in perhaps not the best of moods.

Youssef was not particularly happy either. He considered it his duty to make sure that new pupils knew their place in the way of things. For their own good, of course. And it was with Malik's long-term well-being firmly fixed in his mind that he tripped up the blond teenager, resulting in his lunch going everywhere. Malik, gritting his teeth and thinking of Rishid, restrained himself from doing nothing other than rejoining the queue, now covering the whole of one side of the canteen. But it was when it happened precisely the same way the second time that he responded by picking up his tray and throwing it at Youssef, and thereby causing them both to be sent to the headmaster's office.

It is unknown whether Malik would have already been influenced by the feeling that in a school, no matter whose fault it is, you never 'tell' on anyone, even your worst enemy, and instead remain righteously silent or instead insist on piling the blame on yourself. Any beginnings of this were blown away as Youssef proceeded to explain how he had been insulted and provoked the entire day, in fact had been completely driven to his actions. Instigated by overwhelming injustice, Malik found himself protesting vehemently.

Eventually Malik was released with a warning, the reason behind it being that he was a new student attending his first time ever at a school. Youssef, on the other hand, ended up with an after-school detention.

This goes some way into conveying across just how livid Youssef was when he got out of his last class of the day. The detention itself wasn't a problem – he had never attended one in his life and did not propose to start doing so now – it was the fact that there was a pupil in the school who did not give him the respect he was due. In his mind Malik Ishtar was already tried, found guilty and duly sentenced. For life. Now it was time to carry out the deed in proper.

The blonde had enough sense to exit school as quickly as possible: he did not really believe Youssef or anyone else would try anything, but it might pay to get to the bus stop round the corner before anything did have a chance to happen. He performed the occasional cursory glance over his shoulder, but other than that he did not bother to take any precautions. It was his first day, for Ra's sake.

He had just reached the corner when Youssef stepped out from behind someone's bush. "Well, if it isn't Mr. Smartass. Going somewhere?" The school bully was such a cliched character that there simply were no original threats left to make, especially when first cornering your victim. Not that Youssef knew this. He was simply saying what came naturally to him.

"Home." Despite his nonchalent tone, Malik could not help but have let his gaze be drawn to the bus-stop, less than five strides away.

The older teenager saw the longing sideways flick of the eyes, and let a degree of comradeship into his voice. "Bet you can't wait to go, huh?"

Seeing no obvious trap in this, Malik replied cautiously, "Yeah."

"What? You mean you don't want to stay and talk with me? That's low, Ishtar. I thought we were friends."

Nonplussed: "Wha…I…"

"You know, if you're going to be unfriendly to me after I've been reasonable then you can't blame me for being angry, can you?"

…………

"How was your first day?" Isis called from the kitchen over the steady sound of vegetables being chopped.

"Fine," her younger brother answered dully. He trudged listlessly into the hall, dragging his feet. She could hear the carpet being scuffed under his trainers and went out to see, but he had already sought refuge in his bedroom, the door an impregnable barrier between them. Isis looked at the door for a moment, then went back into the kitchen.

Malik stared at the carpet, at the scrunched-up pieces of paper and dirty clothes strewn around the room like something out of a 'modern-art' exhibit. Whenever Isis made an entrance, (rarely now because of the amount of times he shouted at her) there was always an air of irritation hanging stubbornly around her, as if he were deliberately upsetting the uniform spotlessness of the rest of the house by insisting on displaying the contents of his room all over the carpet.

He dug his nails into his fists, birthing red and yellow half-moons in his flesh. Fuck her. It was his room; he could do what he wanted with it. And, rising, he set about systematically destroying any sense of order that remained, tearing clothes and books from their homes and flinging them down so the clothes lay in hapless piles and the books with their broken spines and shredded pages flopped lifelessly on top of each other, companionable in their moment of death.

When the room had been rendered inhabitable by even his loose standards, he glared at the scene of wreckage, seeing himself made open for anyone to laugh at. Fine, he would get rid of it all. He would not let any part of himself be read by such trivial things. Perhaps there was a strength to people knowing nothing of what you were thinking, of what you were like. When even your own room was impersonal and betrayed nothing of you.

He seized the nearest objects and stuffed them away, before thinking he might as well do this properly. He was in control in this room, even if the fact were not true outside. And so he tidied everything away until the room was ferociously tidy and he sat on the edge of the bed, exhausted but still careful to smooth out the creases as he got up. Then he stood, and counted and counted and counted until he could believe that he felt better.

…………

A/N: I am hoping this hasn't come across as fragmented: I ended up typing the last 1500 words in short bursts, finding myself either unable or unwilling to get fully into the story. I just hope it doesn't show too much.