“Nice kick,” Za adds from the doorway. “That was impressive.”
I flip her off.
Frankie throws a pillow straight at my face. “Out. Get out of my room.”
“My skull is splitting,” I say, still reeling. “You didn’t have to kick me like that.”
“I absolutely did,” she replies. “You were on me.”
Za hops onto the bed, cross-legged, humming along to the song.
“I must say,” she adds, “this tableau is very touching. Intimate. Almost tender.”
Huh?
“Don’t,” Frankie waves her off.
I squint at them. “What are you two talking about?”
They both ignore me.
Frankie rubs her face. “God. I need tea. Or porridge.”
“Or both,” Za says. “Which is why you should make breakfast.”
Frankie turns slowly. “Say again?”
“A full Jamaican breakfast,” Za says brightly. “Prepared by you.”
“I’m not cooking.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Why should I?”
“Because you love me.”
Frankie sighs. “I hate that argument.”
“It’s undefeated.”
Frankie crawls back in bed, pulling the covers over her in a show of defiance. “Why are you even awake?”
Za sits up straighter, suddenly proud as she gets closer. “Because I have plans.”
Frankie perks up. “Plans?”
“Yes,” Za says. “I’m meeting up with my fellow thespians. Talking about upcoming productions. Seeing what’s about.”
Frankie smiles immediately. “That’s actually really good, Zee.”
Za nods, pleased. “I took your advice. But I’m starting small. Keeping momentum.”
She sings another line, spins once on the bed, and grins.
“You’re in a good mood.”
“I am,” Za says. “It’s a hopeful day.”
