Cocky

Chapter 5 #2

“Tuh! Yeah right,” I mock. No way in hell she’d give up meat, even for the day. “By the way, you have any more sorrel? Zaza wants it.”

She turns to face me finally, her hands on her hips. “Yeah, inna the deep freeze, I—no man. When last yuh shave ya face?”

I flinch and cover my jawline. “Why? Is it bad?”

She doesn’t answer. Just sighs deeply and signals for me to follow her, which I do.

“Yuh been drinking the tea I give ya?” she asks over her shoulder.

I shrug mine in response. “It makes me feel sick, so I stopped.”

“Hardhead.” Her voice sharpens. “That tea will help get your hormones under control, chile. But what do I know? I just work in the medical field and did the research myself. Yuh waan deal wid dis fi di rest a yuh life? Gwan, be my guest. Who cyan hear, must feel.”

I mimic her nagging under my breath, praying she doesn’t catch me.

We get to her room and she goes over to her dresser for a set of tweezers. Then, she takes my face into her hand and studies it.

It is like looking in a mirror. Her eyes that reflect mine, in both color and intensity, bore into me before I’m forced to look elsewhere from nerves.

She knows something’s eating at me before I even open my mouth and she gives me a look that says she’s waiting for me to spill.

“Just say what’s on ya mind,” she commands before she starts her torturous quest of plucking the hairs off my chin. “You look constipated.”

I fiddle with my thumbs, tempted to confess the group chat mess. But I can already picture her laughing herself sick.

So instead I say, “Za’s brother is back.” Which comes out of nowhere and makes Mum’s brows lift.

“The football one?”

“Yes.”

“Mm-hm.”

“And he’ll be at the dinner,” I add, trying to sound casual.

“Mhm.”

I frown. “Why you ‘mhm’ like that?”

“Because,” she says simply, “I know how yuh feel ‘bout him.”

“Tuh,” I scoff. “When I was a kid, ay? I’m over that.”

Her mouth quirks. “Oh… I see. Big, bad Francine nuh feel nothin’ anymore, no true?”

“I don’t,” I insist. “And the big comment is so unnecessary.”

She gives me a look. “Gyal, mi ‘member when yuh cry fi di whole week straight when him lef goh Africa. Mi did haffi lie tell Chinaza seh one a yuh uncle dem did dead.”

I groan, and rub my cheeks to stop the heating. “That was years ago and I’m past that. Things change.”

“Mm.” She watches me closely. “So why yuh bring him up then?”

I hesitate, fiddling with my thumbs. “I don’t know. I just… I don’t know how I feel about being around him again. Part of me wants to ignore him, but the other part—” I pause, chewing my lip. “The other part wants to make him feel how he made me feel.”

Her grip suddenly tightens on my chin, making me look her in the eyes. “Yuh ain’t giving the man no trouble, right?”

I roll my eyes. “Why does everyone think I’m the trouble?”

“Because, Francine,” she says, leveling me with the stare only Jamaican mothers have, “Trouble a di only ting yuh know how fi draw, mi swear.”

I grin because she’s not wrong. “I’m behaving, I promise. Well… I did cuss out Sister Maria today at church, but that doesn’t count.”

Mum shakes her head, muttering under her breath. “Dat jancrow. Yuh know she pass har place wid mi last week? A ask mi how yuh get so big.” Her eyes flash with annoyance. “Mi tell har seh yuh favor ya luscious mudda. An she favor box car.”

I burst out laughing, swatting her arm playfully as she smiled.

In moments like this, I’m reminded—I could never hate my body. It reminded me too much of my mothers and I’d never hate the body that brought me into this world.

I could never hate the stomach that held me. The arms that comforted me. The breasts that nursed me. I didn’t have it in me to look at myself in disgust when I stood here because of the woman who looked exactly like me.

My love for my mother made me love myself.

Mum tilts her head, squinting at me when she was done. “Yuh had a lotta hair pon ya chin eh,” she states as if it’s a new revelation. As much as I love her and everything she gave me, she could’ve spared me the PCOS. “Hope yuh neva carry dat go a church.”

I whip around to the little dresser mirror. “Really? Is it bad?”

She shrugs, too casual. “Not really. Not too noticeable unless someone was starin’ right inna ya face.”

My eyes widen.

Shit. Jabari was staring at me.

Mum catches it immediately—because of course she does. Her lips twitch.

“Ahhh. I see.”

“Mummy.” I drag out and cover my face with both hands. “This is humiliating.”

She rests the tweezers down with a little clink on the dresser, like she’s just finished performing surgery.

“It’s okay, eh,” she says, smoothing her hand over my chin. “All gone. Let’s go show the boy yuh new face.”

“MUM!”

By the time Mum and I make it over to the McKingsley house, the whole street is packed. The place is alive with chatter, kids running around in the yard, and gospel music humming low from the living room.

As soon as we step in, Mum and Mrs. McKingsley fall into their usual routine—kissing teeth, hugging too long, then going back and forth like they hadn’t spoken just yesterday on the phone.

“Girl, you look good,” Mrs. Mac says, holding Mum at arm’s length. “Is the night shifts slimming you down or what?”

Mum waves her off. “Slim where? Is stress yuh seeing.”

They cackle like teenagers, and I roll my eyes, already knowing they’ll disappear into the kitchen soon.

“Francine.”

I straighten automatically as Mrs. Mac addresses me. “Yes, ma’am?”

“The computer is messed up again. Can you take a look at it before you go?”

“Sure, I’ll get around to it.”

“Good girl.” She beams, patting my arm like I’m six. “So talented! You could be an electrician or a mechanic with that skill. But I suppose that will come when you’re finished playing with those childish games.”

I blink once.

Just once.

Because that’s the only amount of disrespect my spirit can take without me spontaneously combusting—first her son, now this.

“Hm,” I hum the safe, neutral, I refuse to go to hell for cussing my friend’s mother out sound.

“There’s nothing wrong with what Frankie does,” My mum defends me.

“I know,” Mrs. Mac answers “but there are better options for her.”

Thankfully, Zaza catches me by the stairs and pulls me away before I get roped further into a conversation about my future. We sneak off toward the den, her arm looped through mine, both of us ducking the aunties with their usual questions about husbands and babies we don’t have.

“Frankie!” one of them calls. “When you gonna find yourself a nice man?”

“Tomorrow,” I shoot back without missing a step. “ Prime delivery.”

Zaza snorts so loud it echoes down the hall and I squeeze her wrist. We collapse into the den, and she shuts the door halfway, as if that’ll stop anyone from barging in.

I flop onto the couch. “Don’t say I don’t love you, yeah?”

I reach into the bag I snuck past her mum and pull a sorrel pop out.

“Yes!” She squeals before grabbing it and sinking into the couch next to me. “You better have these at your wedding to Mr. Prime.”

“Of course I will,” I agree as I pull an ice lolly out for me. “I’m gonna order a tall one with a massive dick and a boring job. And he’s gonna have a basic name, like Gordon. Make his arse fix computers.”

“Not Gordon,” Za wheezes, curling up next to me. “You gotta order me one too, but I want one with a sexy name. Like… Diego, and he’s a professional surfer.”

“Surfer?” I ask. “In the middle of Croydon?”

She nods like it makes sense. “That way, when he pisses me off, I can kill him and say he drowned or something.”

“Morbid.” I grin, holding out my ice lolly to her. “I love it.”

She knocks hers against mine, and we do a little cheer before tearing them open.

“I just hope sexy surfer Diego can fix a fucking coffee table,” she sighs. “We’re gonna have to call a guy, aren’t we?”

I groan. “You’re still on about this stupid table? I thought—”

“What are you two doing down here, hiding away?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The hairs at the back of my neck rise before I even look up.

Za exhales. “Christ. What do you want, Jabari?”

“To talk to someone my own age, for one.” His footsteps echo closer. “Why are all the people here so old, man?”

He drops down between us, one arm is slung casually along the back of the couch and he makes sure our legs touch as he man-spreads across half the space.

This nigga’s like a gnat.

“Oi,” I say sharply, annoyed at his invasion of my personal space. “There’s no reason to take up half the seat with your—spreading.”

He laughs loudly, and the sound rolls right through me. “Yes, there is.”

Not gonna lie, I peek down at his lap before I can stop myself—big mistake. Huge mistake. My eyes almost triple in size, and my mouth goes dry.

How’s it laying across his lap on soft?

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to cleanse my mind of all impure thoughts because Za would kill me.

He must’ve noticed because when our eyes meet again, he’s smirking. Then, he reaches into the bag at our feet like nothing happened, brushing against me more in the process.

“Ou—treats!” He pulls out not one, not two, but three ice lollies.

Za shoots forward. “Hey! Frankie smuggled those in for me!”

“Payment for covering for you at church,” he says, offering her another one, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.

I fold my arms. “And here I thought you did it out of the kindness of your heart.”

“I don’t have a heart.” He says that with little to no emotion.

“Of course. How could I forget?”

“Easy,” he shrugs. “You’ve been doing a great job so far.”

He’s testing me, I know it. There’s this tiny, smug tilt to his mouth that makes me want to throw something at him.

“Unless you suddenly remember something, hm, Francine?” His tone dips lower when he says my name, and I swear my pulse skips.

He’s staring now, waiting for my answer. And he’s leaning in close enough that I can smell his cologne—clean, faintly citrusy, and maddeningly good. His gaze drags across my face, and I silently pray my mother got every last stray hair when she plucked earlier.

“No, I don’t…” I blink up at him, feigning confusion. “What’s your name again?”

He laughs, but when my face doesn’t change, the sound falters.

“You’re joking, right?”

Za groans. “Bari, we’re in the middle of a serious discussion, so if you could please leave, that would be great.”

“Please,” he echoes, mocking her tone and opening one of his many ice lollies. “What could you possibly be talking about that’s more important than me?”

I shoot her a look. Does he hear himself?

“Literally anything,” she fires back.

“Like?”

“Our broken coffee table,” I cut in. “So, unless you’ve got a carpenter tucked somewhere behind that massive ego, I suggest you fuck off.”

My reply must be amusing to him because he grins, and it’s that kind of grin that people do when they know they’re getting under your skin.

“I could fix your table.”

Za laughs. “Yeah, right.”

“No, serious.” He shrugs before taking a massive bite of the lolly that finishes it instantly. “How hard could it be?”

“Do you even have experience with that?” Za asks.

He discards the popsicle stick and opens another. “I made a stool in woodworking class once.”

“My God,” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I think we should end the conversation now.”

“Plus, it’s free,” he says, doing the same thing to yet another ice lolly. Who the hell eats ice lollies this way? I know my face is painted in judgment.

Za gasps. “You’re hired!”

I blink at her. “Wait—huh?”

“Come on, Frankie. It’s free.”

He grins wider, clearly enjoying himself. “It’s gonna be the best fucking coffee table ever made by man. I’ll stop by tomorrow after training.”

I look at Za in confusion, and she only gives me a warm grin.

Didn’t she just vent to me about her brother’s arrogance less than twenty-four hours ago?

I thank Jah that my parents only procreated once because mi nah understand this siblings ting none at all.