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 slamthe 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.
