Chapter 20 Charge It.
twenty
charge it.
Frankie.
“And the winner for Best Art Direction goes to—”
I already know.
I still hold my breath anyway.
“—Big Fish Studios!”
Applause rolls through the room. I clap along with everyone else, a smile settling onto my face out of habit more than feeling. My hands move on autopilot.
Not us.
Tasha lets out a quiet hum beside me.
“Alright,” she says, leaning in. “Good for them.”
“Yeah,” I reply. “Good for them.”
Za claps enthusiastically, leaning forward in her seat, curls bouncing. She’s radiant tonight. Genuinely happy to be here. I watch her out of the corner of my eye and feel that familiar tightening in my chest.
You and Za should spend some time together.
Jabari’s voice flickers through my head. I knew he felt a way about what I had to say today, yet I didn’t push for things to be different. Even though I asked if he wanted to come, a part of me was glad he did. Because I don’t want to explain to Za why I even invited him.
Still.
I wonder what he would say if he were here. I wonder if he’s watching.
The applause fades. The winners take the stage.
Tasha nudges my knee. “You okay?”
“Mm.” I tilt my head. “Ask me after the bar opens.”
“They deserved it, you know. The textures in their last build were insane.”
“They were,” I say. “Their lighting pipeline was ridiculous.”
She relaxes a fraction at that. Like she needed reassurance that I wasn’t spiralling. That I’m still me.
“Next year,” Za says confidently. “That’s you lot. I can feel it.”
I smile.
I hope Jabari isn’t watching this, because he’d see right through my bullshit and this fake ass smile.
I look back toward the stage. The lights feel too warm. My palms are slightly damp. I smooth them against my dress and focus on breathing normally.
Za shifts beside me. “You seem… distracted tonight.”
I keep my gaze forward. “Do I?”
“Yeah.” She tilts her head. “Like you’re somewhere else.”
You don’t know how horrible I feel right now. The biggest night of my career and all I can think about is your brother.
“I’ve just had a long week,” I say.
Za studies me for another second, then nods. “Yeah. That tracks.”
The host moves on.
Another category.
Another round of names.
The night doesn’t pause for anyone.
Tasha leans back and stretches. “So, drinks after?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “Several.”
As applause fills the room again, I clap along, posture straight, chin lifted. Zaza on the other hand, was clapping more than necessary.
“Brava! Brava!” She declares. Tasha and I exchange looks and I give an apologetic smile. She’s from the theatre and they tend to be more… outlandish. Even while a friend is losing every category she’s in.
Not gonna lie, it’s grading my nerves a bit.
The applause hasn’t even fully died down before I lean toward Tasha. “Did you see that?” I mutter under my breath when Normality won Best Narrative. “They barely innovated. It’s derivative at best.”
Za keeps clapping, polite, composed. “Frankie.”
“One sec,” I wave her off and continue talking to Tasha. “It’s a reskin with microtransactions. We actually built something.”
She turns to me now, brows knitting. “You don’t need to tear them down to validate your work.”
“I’m not tearing them down,” I snap, finally facing her. “I’m discussing the winnings with my co-owner.”
“You’re being mean.”
“I’m being honest.”
“Honest or bitter?” she asks.
“I’m allowed to be frustrated,” I say. “We deserved that category.”
“You can be disappointed without being dismissive. Other people worked hard too.”
“Not like we did.”
She looks at me then—really looks at me. “This is why I worry about you sometimes, you get too defensive.”
I scoff. “Oh, here we go.”
“You forget that this industry isn’t just about merit,” she continues. “It’s timing. Taste. Trends. You can’t take every loss as a personal attack.”
“I didn’t say it was personal.”
“You don’t have to,” she says gently. “You wear it on your face.”
“Girls,” Tasha says through gritted teeth. “Not now. Have you forgotten where we are? What’s wrong with you two?”
“I don’t know Frankie, what’s going on?”
This is the biggest night of my career so far and I’ve only won one award when I’m nominated for seven. Also I think I have feelings for your brother and it’s pissing me off.
That’s what’s wrong.
“Nothing. This is our last nomination.”
I turn back toward the stage just as the presenter clears his throat again.
“And the winner of the Best Debut Indie Game of the Year is…”
I sit up straighter. My pulse kicks. I actually cross my fingers. And…
“…Gotta Stack ’Em All!”
The room explodes.
High-pitched cheers. Someone behind me actually whistles like this is the second coming of Christ.
I don’t clap.
I don’t smile.
I don’t even pretend. I just… give up.
Za starts to clap, then stops when she looks at me.
I stand.
I don’t say a word.
I just grab my clutch and walk straight out of the ballroom before the camera can pan to the losing nominees. Before they can zoom in on my face and catch the exact second disappointment guts me.
It’s insulting.
No—worse.
It’s embarrassing.
Losing to a knockoff Pokémon–Tetris lovechild coded in what had to be a single weekend? Please.
Chastity had depth.
Narrative.
Strategy.
Actual thought behind it.
You needed more than five functioning brain cells to win a level. But apparently that’s not what sells.
I push through the lobby doors and step into the cool night air. The door clicks shut behind me, muffling the celebration inside. The red carpet, the flashes, the interviewers calling out names all fade into background noise.
For a second, I just stand there, breathing.
Then my phone vibrates in my hand.
Za.
I don’t answer it.
I walk farther down the pavement, away from the entrance, heels clicking too loud against the concrete. The noise inside still leaks out every time the doors open.
There’s a small group standing near the side of the building, half-hidden by a column. Two men, one woman.
All of them smoking and talking low.
I stop in front of them without thinking.
“Can I bum a cig?”
They all look up. There’s a brief pause, then the woman nods and passes me one without a word. One of the guys flicks his lighter and holds it out.
I lean in, light the cigarette, inhale.
I haven’t smoked one in years because Mum made me stop but tonight it feels earned.
It burns going in and I welcome it.
“Yo,” one of them says, squinting at me. “Wait. You’re—aren’t you—?”
I don’t help him. I already know what he’s about to say.
“Francine! You’re from RudeGal Gaming,” he continues, more confident now. “You won Best Sound Design, didn’t you? That was sick. Congrats.”
I ash the cig near his shoes.
“Thanks,” I say automatically. “But it’s nothing to be proud of.”
The smile falters. The woman glances between us, sensing the shift.
“Oh,” he says quietly. “Right. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I mutter. “Enjoy your night.”
I turn before they can say anything else and walk around the corner of the building, where the light doesn’t reach as well.
There’s a low wall there. I lean against it and bring the cigarette back to my lips.
My hands are shaking.
My phone starts vibrating again. Buzz after buzz after buzz.
Tasha.
Za.
My team group chat.
I don’t look.
I take another drag trying to steady my breathing.
It doesn’t work.
My breaths come too quick and shallow. I press my back harder against the wall, grounding myself, but the feeling doesn’t ease.
My heart is racing.
My fingers go numb.
I fumble with my phone, trying to unlock it, trying to do something.
Another vibration.
This one’s different.
Mommy: You did your best hun.
That’s what breaks me.
My throat closes completely. I suck in a breath and it catches halfway, turns into a broken sound that I don’t recognize as my own. My eyes burn, then flood.
I drop the cigarette and it hits the ground, going out.
I slide down the wall until I’m crouched, knees pulled in, clutching my phone to my chest.
I cry.
I can’t breathe properly and I don’t care who hears me.
My chest spasms again. I gasp, drag in air that feels like it’s not enough. My hands claw at my dress, at my collarbone, like I can physically pull more oxygen into myself.
I feel stupid. All I can think about is the nights I didn’t sleep.
The deadlines and sacrifices.
My phone keeps buzzing in my hand, but I don’t answer any of it.
I fold forward, forehead nearly touching my knees, sobbing until my throat hurts and my head feels light and my vision blurs.
This isn’t disappointment anymore.
It’s grief for the version of myself who thought tonight would be different.
Footsteps hurry toward me, heels clicking too fast to be casual. “Frankie—”
Tasha gets to me first, breathless as she crouches down. Za hangs back a step, arms crossed tight over her chest, jaw set just like her damn brother.
I can feel her disappointment before she even opens her mouth.
Tasha speaks first though. “Okay. I get that you’re upset. I really do. But you can’t just walk out like that.”
“Fuck those awards.”
She doesn’t flinch as she continues. “What kind of message does it send to the team when their creative director and Co-CEO storms out when someone else wins?”
I wipe my face with the back of my hand, furious at the tears still clinging there. “Fuck. Them. Awards. You hear what mi a say?”
Za steps forward then. “That’s so disrespectful, Frankie.”
I look up slowly. “Oh?”
“Yes,” Za says, voice tight but controlled in that way she gets when she’s trying not to cry herself. “It’s straight up disrespectful. You could’ve at least acted like you’re—”
“I shouldn’t have to pretend,” I snap. “Why is pretending always the expectation?”
“Because it’s basic decency,” Za fires back. “Other people worked hard too!”
“And so did I!” My chest tightens again. “So did we. I don’t care about other people’s work when it’s packaged in something brainless. Stacking tiles, Chinaza? That’s what I lost to?!”