Chapter 8 Gameplay
eight
gameplay.
Frankie.
“Are you feeling alright?”
Zaza calls from the kitchen as I shove my feet into my trainers by the front door.
The hallway mirror catches my sleep-deprived, irritated reflection. My eyes are already tired of the day that hasn’t properly started yet. I bend to tie my laces, tugging them tighter than necessary, cinching my frustration into the knots.
“Yeah,” I answered her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know, maybe because of how mad you were? Or did you forget?”
I pull the laces tight.
Oh, I remember.
I remember it like it was yesterday, ‘cause it was:
I’m woken from my beautiful slumber by laughter.
Not the polite, fake laughter of the theatre pricks Zaza usually drags home.
This is loud.
Obnoxious.
No regard for time, space, or the fact that other people live here.
I bolt upright in my bed.
For a second, I just sit there, blinking into the dark, trying to convince myself I’m still dreaming. Then the laughter comes again, louder this time, followed by a bang against the counter.
Absolutely not.
I fling the covers off, stomp out of my room, and march straight into the kitchen only to be confronted by the source of my misery.
Za.
And her annoying-ass brother who was here twenty of the twenty four hours of the day.
Zaza’s laughing beside him, shoulders shaking, face open and easy in a way I don’t feel right considering she spent so much time complaining about how he was always getting special treatment from everyone else.
And Jabari’s talking. “—and Mum was so mad at you!”
Zaza groans. “Mum’s always mad at me…”
“I don’t know why,” he shrugs before taking a bite of something.
“Of course you don’t,” she rolls her eyes in annoyance. Then she notices me. “Oh. Did we wake you up?”
I know I look unhinged.
Hair everywhere.
Shirt hanging off me.
Fists clenched at my side.
“Why are you here?” I ask simply in my very tired voice.
Jabari turns to face me slowly, eyes flicking over me like he’s amused. “I came to see my sister. Is that a problem?”
“Yes,” I say, instantly. “When you’re shouting while I’m trying to sleep, it is a big fucking problem.”
Zaza steps forward. “Cici, I’m sorry. We weren’t thinking about being that loud we’d wake you. We’ll tone it down.”
But Jabari just shrugs.
Hm.
That shrug does something to me. Like my comfort, my sleep, my space don’t register as things worth caring about.
Then he takes a bite of whatever that was he was eating again.
It was so flaky it was sprinkling across his beard. Like chunky glitter.
Yellow, flaky… wait.
I feel my stomach drop.
“Is that my veggie soy patty?” I ask, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it.
“Is it?” He glances at it. Chews. “I don’t know, just was starving after practice so I grabbed the first thing I saw.”
Something tightens behind my eyes.
“I’m going to combust,” I say quietly.
“Kinky,” he replies, smiling.
My eyes are twitching now.
“Jabari,” Zaza snaps. “Stop teasing her. Cici, look. I’ll replace the one he ate. Okay?”
He takes another bite.
“You can’t replace it. My dad sent the pack from Jamaica.”
She stills. “Well, it’s just one, right? You wouldn’t miss it.”
“I don’t care if it’s one, it’s mine. He should’ve asked before he ate it!”
“Why do you keep saying one?” he asks as he continues to chew my food, genuinely confused.
I go still.
I don’t say anything.
I just walk past them, chest tight, legs heavy, and open the freezer.
Empty.
The boxes are there, but they’re light.
All five soy patties are gone.
The one thing I saved specifically because I can’t eat what everyone else eats.
The one thing I ration is food, since it’s one of the few things I control in this house since he came back.
He took over our living room, our TV.
What’s next?
Will he find his way into my bed?
Then I see the ice cream container.
Opened and scraped clean.
My chest caves in.
The hand-churned vegan Grape-Nut ice cream my mummy made only when she’s feeling nostalgic for Jamaica.
Gone.
I stare at it for a long moment, throat burning. It’s stupid.
It’s food.
But it isn’t just food.
It’s mine.
Zaza wouldn’t do this.
Which means he did. And had the nerve to leave the empty container in the freezer.
He came into my space. Ate my things. Took without asking.
And I’m so fucking sick of it.
I close the freezer slowly and turn back around.
“You bloodclaat—”
And then everything goes black.
“Cici…” Zaza drags. “You took it too far.”
I scoff, adjusting my bag strap and flicking my locs out of my face. “Someone has to.”
Because clearly, it wasn’t going to be her.
“The man’s getting far too comfortable here,” I add, my voice sharper now that I’m upright. “And he doesn’t even pay rent. How much more am I meant to take before I lose my fuckin’ mind?”
Zaza leans against the counter, studying me with that look she’s had since we were teenagers.
“Ci, let’s be honest here. This isn’t just about the food. You just don’t like him.”
I roll my eyes hard. “Duh.”
What I don’t say is that this conversation wouldn’t even be happening if she’d just send her bum of a brother home. Or that she’s letting him get away with whatever, just like her parents do.
I’m surprised I even let her, let him get away for so long.
But yesterday was the final straw.
Hours.
We went back and forth for hours before he finally gave up and stormed out. Za hasn’t seen or heard from him since and I guess she was worried.
“Yeah, well,” Zaza sighs, softer now. “Besides me, I don’t really think he has friends like that so he likes to hang around me. I almost felt bad for him.”
I arch a brow. “Almost?”
“Almost.”
Fucking siblings, man.
“Hm.” I sling my bag over my shoulder. “You and your brother are too complicated for any normal person to understand. One minute you hate him, the next he’s always over. Make up your mind, fam.”
“One,” she says, pointing a finger at me, “I don’t hate my brother. And two, are we complicated? Or are you just using that as an excuse to be horrid to him?”
I pause, hand on the door. “Can’t it be both?”
She laughs, shaking her head, waving me off like I’m a lost cause.
“Just go to work.”
“Fine! But we are unpacking your relationship with your brother when I get back.”
“Or we can unpack how you can be more nicer to him?”
“I’d rather drink bleach and walk into traffic.”
“Goodbye, Francine.”
“Love you too, darling.”
I grab my keys, step out into the morning air, and instantly regret every decision that led me to living where the weather always looks like it’s crying. The sky’s gray, the pavement’s still damp from last night’s rain, and the puddles make my trainers darken at the toes as I jog to the corner—
Just in time to watch my bus pull off.
Of course.
I stand there, hands on my hips, breathing a little harder than necessary, watching the back of it disappear. Somewhere in the distance, a car splashes through a puddle, spraying water I definitely didn’t need on my jeans.
Typical.
By the time the next bus lumbers up, I’m already irritated. I climb on, tap my Oyster, and slide into a seat by the window. Earbuds in, volume up, trying to drown out my own brain with some Jorja, but she’s not helping either.
If anything, it makes it bloody worse.
Every lyric feels like I’m being called out for being emotionally constipated and aggressively avoidant.
I stare out the window, watching the city blur past in wet streaks. My mind is too busy with overthinking to even consider turning on my switch and completing that quest in Zelda.
Was I too harsh?
The thought sneaks in before I can block it.
Did I take it too far with Jabari?
Even Zaza is looking at me like I’m overdoing it.
And Za’s not exactly known for being overly sentimental with Jabari, so if she’s concerned, maybe I should ease up.
But then again, she’s been known to see the best in people and try to give them second, third, and even a million chances, much to my annoyance.
Still…
Maybe I came in a little hot.
I sigh, resting my forehead against the glass.
I mean… he isn’t horrible to be around.
Just insufferable.
Annoying.
Overbearing.
Loud in that way men are when they’re used to being listened to.
But—begrudgingly—I’ll admit he’s very tidy. I’ve never seen him leave a dish in the sink, which honestly puts him above most men I know. And he’s funny, sometimes.
Confident.
Honest.
My brain, traitorous thing that it is, drifts back to the image of him on his knees fixing the coffee table.
Back when he was begging for my forgiveness.
And in his eyes was…sincerity.
Real, unmistakable sincerity.
It could’ve been the secondhand smoke but for a moment, he looked genuinely sorry. Like he actually cared that he’d crossed a line with me all those years ago. Almost like he wanted my forgiveness instead of just my attention.
That’s the part that still messes with me.
My mind keeps tripping over itself trying to separate who he was from who he is. The boy who used to look at me like I was a joke versus the man standing in front of me now, taking hits and still trying to fix things.
Especially when he turns around two minutes later and acts like a complete arsehole again.
Whiplash, honestly.
I snort quietly to myself.
At least I’ve learned one thing, booing him works. It really does. Like a spray bottle to a cat. One well-timed thumbs-down and he short-circuits.
He’s such a child. Evident by his insistent need to call me by that horrid nickname.
The bus jolts as it hits a pothole, and I sit up, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake the thought of him loose.
“God, I’m pathetic,” I mutter. The woman beside me gives me a look. I ignore her. I turn the music up louder and stare out at the rain-streaked world again, hoping it’ll wash him out of my head.
“Morning, Frank,” Tasha greets as I step into my office.