Chapter 2 #2
I step closer until I’m standing right in front of her on the opposite side of the counter. She doesn’t lift her head or even pause her game.
“Frankie,” I drawl it out, leaning one hand on the counter.
She pulls one of the earpieces out but continues playing her game. “Hm?”
“You really don’t remember me?” I push.
She sighs like I’ve just interrupted her mid-level for foolishness.
“Sorry. I really can’t say I do.”
“Come on.” I grin, though irritation’s burning under it. “Year seven, summer fete? I scored two goals. You were sat right next to Zaza, screaming your head off.”
Frankie barely flicks her eyes up—those pretty green eyes. Those big, astonishing, puzzling, sexy—
“I don’t remember,” she cut off my train of thought.
I clench my jaw.
Fucking hell.
“Alright,” I quickly shake off the rejection. “What about when we all went to the Eye that Christmas? You were scared of heights and cried the whole ride, and Mum made me stand next to you so you wouldn’t feel like you were gonna fall.”
The thought of us awkwardly holding hands while she bawled her eyes out made the nostalgia wash out a bit of guilt. ‘Cause I was the one who told her we might fall.
She presses a button on her switch, and the screen flashes. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Wow.
I lean in closer, voice tight “Fine, what about when I had that five-a-side match at the rec? Everyone was there that day. You were sitting on the wall with Zaza when Conley tried to move to her.”
That makes her pause just for a second. Her lips curve like she’s caught a private joke.
“Conley? I remember him. Always cracking jokes, yeah?”
I blink. “Oh, come on! You remember him and not fucking me?!”
“Jabari McKingsley!” Mum snaps as she points the knife she’s chopping onions with at me. “You watch your mouth in this house!”
I throw my hands up, scowling. “How does she forget me and remember him?”
Frankie smiles faintly, turns back to her Switch, and doesn’t bother answering.
Mum clicks her tongue and waves me off with the knife. “Instead of shouting in my kitchen, go and set the table. And wake your father from snoring on the couch.”
I groan, drag my feet toward the cupboards to look for cutlery and plates.
“See!” Zaza explains as she fights to get the knife through the yam. “If it were me, I’d get licks.”
“You ain’t me, and that’s your problem,” I say over my shoulder before disappearing into the dining room.
But my side eye catches her flipping me off.
I slam the forks and knives down a little harder than I need to, partly because I’m irritated, partly because I can’t get the thought out of my head.
Frankie really doesn’t remember me? Impossible.
You don’t just forget me. I don’t get forgotten. I’m not forgettable.
Annoyed beyond words, I stalk into the living room only to find Dad sprawling on the sofa, mouth open, football highlights still playing low on the TV.
“Dad. Dinner,” I say firmly.
He mumbles something then shifts, doesn’t move.
“Dad,” I repeat, louder this time, nudging his leg with my foot.
He snorts, blinks awake, and waves me away like Mum. “Alright, alright. I’m coming.”
I need to get out of this disrespectful yaad.
By the time I get back to the dining room, Frankie’s walking in. Her long locs are now secured in a rather heavy-looking bun on the top of her head. Her headphones are draped around the back of her neck, Switch tucked under her arm, and she’s carrying the steaming pot of stew with both hands.
She sets it down in the centre of the table like it’s nothing, and I hover.
“Hey,” I mutter, setting the plates down a little harder than necessary. “You’re playin’ with me, yeah?”
Frankie looks up. “I’m sorry?”
“You and Za thought this was funny, innit?” I point between us. “You having a laugh?”
She gives me this deadpan look, proper unimpressed. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
I exhale hard through my nose, forcing out something that might pass as a laugh. “Don’t do that. You spent hours in our house, going through my stuff, sneaking into my room… now suddenly you ‘don’t remember’ me?”
She picks up a fork, twirls it slowly as if she’s bored. “If I did all that, I’ve forgotten. Sorry.”
There’s that word again.
Forgotten.
“Nah,” I say, lining up another plate. “People don’t forget sniffing their friend’s brother’s clothes.”
Her eyes flick up. For a split second, you can see her reaction to that written on her face before she brushes me off again.
“You’re right,” she says, syrup-sweet. “But seems they forget how to set a simple table. Forks go on the other side.”
“Tuh.” I shake my head. “I ain’t set a table in ages. I got people who do that for me.”
“Yet here you are,” she fires back, “setting your Mum’s table like a good likkle boy.”
I pause mid-reach, give her a curious look.
She meets it, chin up.
“You got a problem with me?” I ask.
She blinks with big innocent eyes, and then the performance of the year. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t like me or something?”
Now she looks at me like I’m genuinely thick.
“Why would I not like you?” she grins. “I don’t even know who you are.”
“Oh, come off it.” I drop a napkin on the table. “Stop playin’ with me! You know exactly who I am.”
“Come on, Bari,” Zaza says, shaking her head as she enters the space and sets down cups. “If she says she doesn’t remember, then she doesn’t remember. Just let it go.”
“Nah.” I narrow my eyes at her. “You put her up to this.”
Frankie’s lips curl slowly, smug. “Or maybe you’re not as remarkable as you think.”
I scoff, leaning back in my chair. “Yeah, right.”
“All of you, enough.” Mum’s voice comes from the kitchen doorway. She wipes her hands on a tea towel and gives us the look that always shuts everything down.
I bite back the rest of what I want to say and sink further into my chair, looking across from me to see Frankie’s blank expression.
Dad shuffles in a moment later, scratching his head, still half-asleep from his nap. He drops into his seat with a grunt.
“Joshua,” Mum says firmly, settling beside him. “Do grace.”
Dad blinks, rubs his eyes, then nods. “Alright, let’s pray.”
The table goes quiet, heads bowing—all except mine. No, mine is tilted just enough to steal one last glance across the table.
Frankie’s eyes are shut, lashes dark against her cheeks, unbothered.
At least one of us is because I can’t shake it.
She doesn’t remember me, or she’s pretending not to.
Either way, it’s eating me alive.