#and is very invested in keeping the culture alive in a way papa just isn’t

[dcadlynv-blog]

“Kids these days,” her mom used to say, before her family cut ties with her, when she was a sad, sullen teenage girl curled around the bluish glow of her computer screen. “All their friends are online.”

Isadora would just smile. Yep. Oh yeah, like a fuckload of friends, momma.

The truth: her computer was her best friend. However weird she was IRL, she was a badass on her laptop, staving off her loneliness by messing around online with websites. Two or three times a year, she would rebuild her perfect persona via blog posts--a trend-devouring monster months in the making, constructed out of aesthetic photographs and clothing that cost more than she made in tips waitressing at papa’s restaurant in a full year. She cobbled together her OOTDs in a cracked copy of Photoshop, posting her dream doodles online with the naive longing of a little girl.

The bulk of Isadora’s teenagedom was passed in solitude, wondering if the fake girl who wore the summer’s favorite YSL lipstick and drank skinny lattes spiked with vanilla vodka would have more friends than the empty little nothing parked on the couch. Or if the spiky punk-rock chick, in her sharp-edged bob haircut and leather jacket, would crush the kids who turned away from her at school under the heel of a Doc Martin. Or if the artsy coffee-stained hipster girl would just toss her stick-straight black hair over her flanneled shoulders and shrug. She thumbed the spacebar, wondering if any of those girls would fall asleep at the keyboard feeling whole.

Her obligatory degree, which she completed in good time like a good little sheep, is in computer science. She’s a software engineer, emphasis papa’s. He is very proud. Columbia is not a joke, everyone. She paid for it with a few whale-sized loans and a lot of scholarship money, and graduated as quick as fucking possible. She moved to New York City, picking up an internship and then a full-on job at a #ontrend app development company, turning out the latest in flat color must-haves for the season.

Papa, bless him, used to mention her modest success at any and every family gathering. From humble beginnings, Isadora. Do you have X app on your phone? No? You should get it, it’s very popular. Isadora is lead developer on it. Isadora, who got good grades, who got into a good school, who worked the bar all through school, who snagged the internship, who did everything right.

Oh? The family said, smiling, with the patience of the unimpressed. Her cousin Leo-great grades, great school, great everything--is a doctor. He’s helping people in the really raw parts of the world, all the stuff that makes the news. He’s doing God’s work down there. Bless him. What is it that Isadora does, again? But even if Leo was a schmuck, something weird that she’s always noticed about her family is that she makes even them a little uncomfortable. Her own blood.

And Isadora’s parents are aggressively normal. They own a Mexican restaurant and bar, where Isadora waitressed on and off through college, passing out platters of cheese enchiladas to the children of white suburban Long Island families and margaritas to drunk commuters on their way home. Sometimes she’d see it in people’s eyes--is this how you do it? Is this “authentic”? How am I going to fit in here? Should I even try? Is it worth it?

Weird how she saw that in her father, too, living in the US. Is this how you do it? Is this how you fit in here, out in America? Momma was Lebanese, not Latina, though because she looked vaguely “ethnic” people always tried talking Spanish at her. Isadora’s pretty certain that contributed the most to the uncomfortable gulf between her immediate family and her dad’s extended--not a wide gap, but, y’know, you still had to be aware of it.

But Isadora never felt close to them, nor her mother’s family, though they got a pass for the distance--they were somewhere else in the world entirely. Everyone else? Isadora believes she’s justified in saying she might as well have been on another planet.. She never had regular friends. She never had anything except her parents, for the most part--and then, when she joined the Sinners, not even that.

Wait--that’s not quite true. There was Luke.

The really shitty thing is, Isadora realizes now, is that the app industry really is fucking disgusting. It’s frivolous. Nothing taught Isadora the secrets of human nature like the relentless copying of the competition, that the dark heart of pop culture was to chase trends fast enough so that the it looked like the idea everyone had was actually yours. They used the users to generate crazy money. Most people, Isadora learned, have the same secret flaws, easily exploitable for profit. Driving the user base was more important than building the product.

In fact, you wanted to start with the flaw first, and build the product around that. And if you couldn’t find the appropriate flaw? You created it.

So now, of course, looking back--Isadora has to wonder what flaw was created in her. What made her feel so lonely and strange and weird that she thought the perfect life was something you could buy and put on like a dress.

Isadora used to have a fantasy, in high school and college. In the interest of full disclosure, this was pre-Church, pre-Deadly, pre-Envy, pre-everything that prompted that. Isadora’s last idle fantasy world was particularly pathetic. Even though she was learning to love the taste of making other people nervous, at the New York office where no one knew what to do with her and her “concept” outfits,  sometimes she entertained little notions, little scenes. Someone would approach her. This vague shadow person would be unafraid. They would smile at her, maybe quirk an eyebrow at her bag or her killer heels. They’d say something catty but comebackable. Why not? She’d drop that comeback. They’d laugh, meet-cute style, and just like that--a lover. A friend. At least one person who wanted to talk to her. Something.

A bare two months into her employment at the app start-up, they did a big money party to impress the investors. Isadora was at the bar, in a red and white dress meant to invoke the Queen of Hearts--for LookingGlass, their latest project, might as well show solidarity, right, even if the app was maddeningly shitastic--when she asked the sleek young suit to hold her whiskey for her while she reapplied her lipstick.

Isadora doesn’t remember anything about the conversation immediately following. She first knew him as Mr. Caplan, from Caplan & Cross Investing Group. He’d just started appearing after that moment, at her elbow, all night, making sly observations over a vodka soda with the material she supplied to him. She remembers thinking to herself, once or twice that night, he’s little more interesting than the other copies. I like him a little better than the other men who are just like him. He pinned her, accurately, as the primary architect of LookingGlass’ code--which meant, he’d taken the time to compare her with her LinkedIn profile and decide that she wasn’t the marketing rep that everyone mistook her for.

For that show of courtesy, she invited him to an afterparty, an exclusive thing she was saving for herself later that evening as a special treat, a reward for playing so nice here. See what else he’d trot out to impress her. In the taxi, he asked her to call him Luke. She told him, sure; his request was in the queue. He laughed, looked down at his hands.

Later, week nine of their relationship, he confessed to her that he’d been drifting in her direction all night that night, staying nearby in case she happened to glance his way, in case divine providence gave him an opportunity. Isadora’s brow furrowed. Her lightning-quick brain stalled, rebooted. She reassembled the world according to this information.

“God,” he said.  “I was so afraid you wouldn’t even see me.”

Isadora feels like she keeps sliding through different versions of herself, tossing the failures to the back of her closet with last season’s mishaps, looking for the winner. She doesn’t know when exactly she started living as her fantasies instead of through them, but she has a guess.

Day one in New York City, it was like this: she looked in the mirror and said, no, this isn’t what I want to look like. She looked at her calendar and said, no, this isn’t what I want to do. Isadora made tentative steps, then bolder ones. When someone held up a Team Sinner QR code for her to scan for more info, she’d already reshaped the skeleton of her worldview. The Church of Sinners was the muscle. Becoming Envy was the first beat of her brand new heart. She feels more alive than she ever did before.

Of course, it could always been improved.

Isadora’s secret weapon has always been her obsessive drive, her power, her ability to ford through onerous details and mental hardship to her goal. She dislikes sleeping now. Shit ticking up on a counter. That’s her jam. Her salary was never amazing, she never once broke seven figures, but she didn’t allow a paltry lack of funds stop her. Isadora swaps and deals; she makes “connections” with designers; she curates a public Insta stocked with her greatest hits, one she’s had from before her days as Envy. People give her things now that they know who she is. Envy has appeared publicly. She’s actually walked red carpets. She saw on Facebook the other day, two girls who wouldn’t even look at her in high school now remember her fondly as friends.

Dangerous are those who dream in the day, right?

Joining the Church of Sinners put something in Isadora--or awakened something in her-- that she could have never had anywhere else. Maybe without religion, she would have turned into a bitter, lame little sweatpants Redditor with a grudge and a vaguely male sounding username. Maybe without the Sinners, without her frickin’ savior the real damn Devil, she would have marinated in her loneliness, in her regret, in her failure to find a self that makes her happy.

Instead: she is does whatever she wants, because she wants to.

Instead: nothing is without meaning. Everything is progress.

Instead: the only thing worth hating about yourself is the past you. It is ironic that the thing that Isadora levers the most in her proselytizing is the dread that people feel, drifting awkwardly through the world, the ugly regret that she herself no longer truly feels. Her only ache is one of desire. She doesn’t want to go back and change anything; she wants to go forward.

The advent of the Horsemen has only purified Isadora’s faith. The fact that the Apocalypse is drawing nigh actually changes nothing. Why give up? Why abandon oneself to nihilism? Are you afraid? Really? Why? Now might be the last chance you ever get, bitches. Seize the motherfucking day.

Isadora is a fanatic. She has always lived in a world of angels and demons, beings that were hundreds, if not thousands, of times more impressive and deadly than herself--so what’s the difference between them and the Horsemen to a puny mortal? Emulate them, fight them, love them. Live how you want to live. This is her religion.

Isadora reviews her Biblical history sometimes, to construct her sermons; she pesters Raziel and Renee for the deets. She composes her arguments with the same brutal elegance as her code. One sheep is useless; you gotta have numbers. You have to see that count tick up. Even more than that, you have to see that the numbers are useless unless you control them, how they think and the ways they think it. You have to have a good hold on the flaw you’re using as your lever. Isadora thinks, damn, Old Testament God may have been onto something.

The flaw created in people is fear. Did you know that? That’s what you use if you really want to make them believe.

#about isadora