The Grey Area

Chapter Two

She was just another small fish swimming in a large bowl named Earth. It wasn't that Isla Morey didn't like herself. She really did, she was comfortable in who she was. She just knew she was insignificant. Human beings were ordinary. And if she wasn't careful her ordinary life was going to slip away from her.

Lounging belly-down on her duvet, Isla Morey stared aimlessly at herself in a full view mirror at the other side of her room.

The same. She was almost exactly the same as everybody else. Almost.

Then again, other than celebrities or inventors or someone other kind of amazing person, who could really say that they were all that special at all? Most personalities are never really that different from the next one. Most people don't even really look different from one another.

She fixed the glasses that framed her brown eyes, pushing them further on her nose. She slouched in nothing more than a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms and a baggy top. Her dyed-blonde hair, with different coloured, obvious roots balanced in a bun atop her head.

Next to the mirror, a chest of drawers stood with a lit candle flickering away. Her eyes followed the flame and she watched it dance around, moving with a gentle breeze. She had left her bedroom window open just a jar, and the soft pitter-patter against the glass was almost therapeutic. It was January and the rain was heavy, but she didn't mind. It calmed her. She indulged in it.

She breathed in deeply, inhaling the candle's scent mixed with her mother's cooking. She thought to herself about how quickly the last year had passed, how hard she worked, and how she'd done almost nothing exciting. No parties, though she had few friends. No boyfriends, though her mother was always more than obsessive about her supposed dating life, (which was actually completely non-existent). No drama period. Sometimes she supposed that was a good thing. She regretted not making the most out of her adolescence, and not doing more. After all, they were supposed to be the best years out of anyone's life.

At least that's what all the adults had told her.

She knew she was at the end of her teenage years, and the realisation couldn't have come at a more worse time. Her exams were a mere three months away. Regret was the last thing she wanted, or needed on her mind.

In the back of her mind she dreaded the idea of having to study again: essays, assignments, and papers; they were all going to flood her life again soon enough. The idea was already a downer on her mood, but somehow she knew she was going to be even sadder when it was all over.

The sound of her mobile ringing on her bedside table suddenly drew her away from the thoughts she was having. She looked over her shoulder and smiled, reading the name Carrey that appeared at the top of the screen. Picking it up, she slid her finger across the bottom of it to answer. She was immediately met with a scream.

"Can you believe it?" the voice shrilled.

She winced at the loudness and pushed at her glasses a second time. "Believe what?"

Carrey was the same age as her at eighteen-years-old. Her best friend was a unique character, and had always been a bit more outgoing than herself. The red hair and bright blue eyes meant that she'd always been more eye-catching than her more slightly more wallflower self. People assumed her to be confident, so naturally popularity came easily to her.

Carrey's voice rose higher still, if that were possible. "It's our last term!"

Isla stretched her arm out, moving the phone further away from her ear for a moment. She then slowly brought it back to rest on the side of her face.

"Are you ever going to be at normal volume when you call me?" she asked, grinning to herself at her antics. She imagined Carrey's hair swishing around wildly. It had always reminded her of a lion's mane; red like waves of lava, soft like candyfloss.

"Probably not." The answer came out as though the question had been ridiculous, and ironically her voice lowered a few octaves. Unluckily, it didn't last long. Soon enough she was loud again.

"I'm serious!" she exclaimed. "Can you believe it's only three months until we finish?"

"No," Isla droned. "Yeah, but I don't want to." She placed the phone into the circle that had been created in between her crossed legs, and rested it on the sheets below. "We haven't even done anything interesting." She looked towards the window again, focussing on the rain droplets as they fell against the glass.

"Tell me about it. For the whole of last week, I've just been mentally crying about the work we're going to have. I'm so not prepared."

"No, I mean, we haven't done anything," Isla stressed. She looked back into her lap again. She picked at leftover nail polish on her fingers. "No parties, no drinks, no relationships—"

Carrey interrupted on the other end of the line." --Hey, I've had a relationship!" She paused. "And I've done some things."

"You were fifteen and it lasted about two months."

"True." She let her have that one. "Ugh, this is depressing."

Isla hummed in agreement. "How many days in three and a half months?"

"Hmm," Carrey started to calculate out loud. There's about thirty days in every month, so that would make what, ninety days? Why are you asking me anyway?" she finished. "I'm no good at maths. You know this."

"That's it?" Isla ignored her. "Seems like nothing."

"Yup," The 'p' in the word was emphasised with a loud and obnoxious popping sound. "Time flies," she huffed.

"I wish it didn't," she whined.

"Well, it's not like we can change anything."

"Thanks, Captain Obvious."

"What are you wearing tomorrow?" Carrey was always quick to change whatever the topic of conversation was. Her short attention span made it easy for her to go off on tangents when she spoke. "You're probably going to see Callum," she said teasingly.

Though she pretended it hadn't, blood rushed to the surface of Isla's cheeks; the hairs on her arm rose with the mention of his name. She swore she could feel a fire where her heart was.

Callum Black was her long-term crush — a kind of guilty pleasure. He was striking, with dark hair, grey eyes and deeply tanned skin. The eyes weren't just an ordinary grey though. They were grey with a gold-specced rings that decorated the outside of his pupils. They were a grey that reminded her of clouds on a rainy day. Luminous and bright, not something you see often. Something about them had always intrigued her. They shimmered. Not with something beautiful, but with something painful. To her, he always looked like he was hurting. It didn't look like the kind of pain someone would have from a papercut, moreso the kind of pain that would be inflicted if someone was mentally exhausted. She didn't know if anyone else had picked up on it, but she felt there was more to the him. He wasn't an open book like everyone else was. She was sure that something had happened to him.

She remembered seeing him for the first time almost a year ago, not long after her birthday that had been in December. She'd just turned seventeen, and just started her first year in college. It was during the second week back. She'd spotted him walking through the main hall; ever since he'd become something of an obsession of hers. She knew she wasn't the only one who'd been infatuated by him too. A lot of the girls she studied with gushed him, to a level that was almost sickening. But she could hardly talk. If she were to criticise them it would have made her the biggest hypocrite she knew, because sometimes, the only thing she was capable of doing was inwardly idolising him herself: though her daydreams and her reality were too completely different things. She'd decided long ago that the chances of him noticing her were slim to none. She may as well have been living in an invisibility cloak.

"I don't know. What does that have to do with what I'm wearing tomorrow?"

"Really? You're going to act like it isn't there?" Carrey laughed.

"Even if I do like him," she defended herself, "which I don't — he would never notice me. I'm nothing special." She closed her eyes for a moment, pinching at her nose, thinking. "Doesn't he have a girlfriend?"

Isla could hear laughter ringing out again, but she didn't mind. She knew it wasn't in poor taste. Her friend wasn't mocking her. "I thought you didn't like him?" She could almost hear the smirk across Carrey's face. "And no, not that I know of."

"I don't." Isla paused, preparing her next line. "How would you know anyway?"

"Errr, his partner in crime sits next to me almost twenty-four-seven. How have you forgotten?" she said it like it was obvious. "For someone who doesn't like the guy, you're asking an awful lot of questions."

She wanted to make a smart comment about the fact that that was impossible, because they weren't even in college twenty-four-seven. First though, Isla had to come to terms with the fact that she could've possibly acquired a form short-term memory loss. After spending so much time away from small rooms with projectors, and desks that pressed up against you uncomfortably, she indeed had forgotten. "Oh, yeah..." Though she would never have admitted it, the affirmation had given her a twinge of hope. She smiled.

"Oh, yeah," Carrey mocked.

It was at that moment that Isla's mother decided to interrupt the conversation. The middle-aged woman yelled from the bottom of the staircase, making sure her friend could hear on the other end of the line.

Somewhere distantly she could hear her father gruffly begging her, "Stop barking will you." His way of describing her voice may have been just a slight exaggeration, but Isla still asked herself how it was possible that her mother was quite so loud. For such a short statured woman, it still tended to surprise her. Then she remembered that this was her mother she was thinking about.

"Someone's cranky." Isla heard another chime of laughter as Carrey cracked up at her own bad joke, and she mimicked it, because her mother was never cranky — anyone who knew her knew that.

"I have to go." She licked her lips without realising, already imagining the menu that was always ready for her at 8PM on the dot, every Sunday, without fail. The only way it would ever not be on that kitchen table, would be if the world were to spontaneously come to an end; in other words, it wouldn't. Not under Edith Morey's watch. "The roast dinner is ready," she explained in few words.

Before speaking again, Carrey made a noise that sounded like a weird mix between a whine, and the final sound a dying whale might make as it hits the bottom of the ocean. "I'm jealous. My mum can barely make fish fingers."

Isla nodded even though she knew no one would see it. "Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

Carrey ended the call and she placed the phone back on her bedside table, before taking to the stairs. She moved swiftly, passing the bathroom and heading down the staircase, strolling through the living, and into the kitchen where her mother stood.

Her mother stood by the oven. She was bent down to pull out her favourite roasting tray. Her brown hair, which had fallen across her back, was a similar shade to her own. They had always been told they looked alike, (though Isla never really saw it). Apparently their features were also relatively the same shape, their skin the same tone, and each of their freckles spread out in almost across the same portions of their faces.

She looked at her father, a man with a strong personality that often clashed with people. He sat rigidly at the head of the table. His hand gripped at the handle of a mug that held something hot to drink. He was stern, with a crude sense of humour. In the past, he'd been mistaken for someone who was cruel, but he'd been mistaken by business partners at his car dealership (Morey Motors LTD: he owned it; he was boss). They were people who'd never known him outside of their workplace. If they did, they'd probably have a better understanding of him.

He looked up from the newspaper he was reading. To Isla it seemed that her education was all that her father was ever interested in; she internally groaned as she prepared to answer, but her mother had beaten her to it. "Are you ready for your first day back?"

"Andrew!" Her mother scolded him and pulled out the chicken she'd been roasting for hours. She put it to the side on one of her fancy presentation plates, then moved back to slide out another tray. The second one had been piled with vegetables and golden-brown potatoes that Isla salivated at the sight of. "Give the girl a break. I'm sure she knows what to expect." She turned back to the oven once more, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead. She twisted one of the dials to switch it off and picked up a jug of gravy from the kitchen counter, leaving it with the trays on the table.

"Alright, Edith." The same gruff voice she'd heard earlier made a re-appearance as it tried to hush her mother, who was bringing plates and cutlery to the table; she laid them out carefully — not one utensil out of place — and to the smallest detail. "Alright."

In an ironic sort of way they were amusing. They were supposed to be adults, but they bickered like cats fighting over garden territory. (Were they really even adults at all?) Sometimes she could swear that they aren't. They were almost just teenagers who wished they were. Sixteen--year-olds that thought they knew the full affects of smoking, even though they were still studying Biology GCSE — that sort of thing.

"Here we go." Her mother had been triumphant. "It's ready!"

"It looks great." She positioned herself next to her father, just as he stood up and leaned forward to carve the chicken. After it had been served, she added a generous portion of the vegetables she'd seen for herself, and dressed them with a drizzle of the same thick gravy her mother always made. The fresh smell of it always made her mouth water. She licked her lips after tasting the first bite and tuned in and out of the conversation that was taking place. She alternated between paying attention and not paying attention — mostly not — taking more bites of the meal. It wasn't long before she drifted off again and the conversation she had had with Carrey crossed her mind.

It was something that she would've never confessed out loud, but she knew she was kidding herself when she acted indifferently to Carrey talking abour Callum Black. She'd definitely had an eye for a handful of other boys before, and maybe even harboured a crush for one or two of them. Those interests had always been fleeting though. Something about Callum felt more permanent. He'd managed to worm his way into her life, and it didn't seem like he was going to worm his way back out of it anytime soon. She was convinced he was different...and also convinced that she may as well of been living in an invisibility cloak.

"You okay, sweetie?" A voice caught her off guard.

She was bewildered. "Sorry, what was that?"

"You seemed quiet there." As her eyes moved over her features, Isla felt like an experiment.

Her father frowned, took another gulp of his the tea — an odd choice for the meal they were eating — and opened his mouth to comment.

"How much of your life are you going to spend dreaming away?"

Isla chose to ignore the remark, noting that he probably thought he was being comical. Instead of responding with whatever smart comeback she could think of, she poked her fork into one of the potatoes on her plate and popped it into her mouth. She chewed it a few times and swallowed, continuing to be wrapped up in her thoughts.

When all of the food disappeared off the table, the talk she'd been barely paying attention to had died down, and the dishes were rinsed clean, she decided it was safe to slip away. She made her way up to her bedroom wanting to be alone again. She wanted nothing better than to wallow in the company of her own stillness for the few hours of the night she had left.

It was around 10:30PM when she called it a day. The next morning was going to be an early start for her, and she didn't want to be tired for it. She removed her glasses, quickly putting them away with a book she'd been reading, and changed into her night clothes. Moments later, she was comfortable under her duvet. It wasn't too long before the lights behind her eyelids went blank; the white noise behind her closed eyes went silent.