“Ah, ah!” An auntie in the front pew turns to us. “Why are you talking when the pastor is talking? Disrespectful child.”
“Oi,” Frankie says, sitting straight and lifting her shades to reveal those haunting eyes. “No one’s talking to you, yeah? So turn around and fuck off from other people’s conversations.”
Both my and the poor woman’s jaws drop at her words, but Frankie just stares her down until she turns around.
“That was a bit rude. Even for me,” I reprimand her. “A little overboard, don’t you think?”
These eyes are on me now, and I immediately straighten up as she gives me a look over. My neck heats when her eyes meet. She was so…pretty? It's almost hard to believe. My mind scans memories to recall what she looked like when we were younger, but I come up blank.
Is it possible she was always pretty, and I was too grossed out by her to notice?
Nahhh.
Lowering her glasses to her eyes and facing forward before sinking into the pew again, she finally says, “Believe me, she had it coming.”
And that was that.
She shut me out of her realm of interest again.
I look to Zaza for clarity, and all she offers is a shrug.
“Frankie beefs with most aunties in here,” she says, as if it’s an obvious observation.
Maybe I missed the social cues. Other people’s problems tend to bore me, but not Frankie’s, though. For some reason, I’m automatically on her side, and now I have a problem with the aunties here too, especially Sister Janet.
“Church folks don’t like the odd,” Za mumbles under her breath. “If I were you, I’d run for the hills. Being associated with us is a social death wish in this place.”
Frankie blows out deeply, and it turns a few displeased heads in our direction.
Oh.
I get it now.
The two of them are the cautionary tale. Every church has them—the people elders warn little kids not to turn out like.
The ‘weird ones.’
The delinquents.
With Za’s colorful, outlandish, theater outfits and Frankie’s dark aesthetic, of course, the church people are wary.
“I see.” I turn to Za. “If it’s that terrible, why even come here?”
“Exactly,” Frankie mutters under her breath, again yawning right after, as if the conversation is boring her.
That’s when I notice how close our thighs are and how her perfume clings to the air between us. It’s distracting yet intoxicating. But a selfish part of me even hopes some of that scent seeps into my clothes and stays with me after she’s gone. It’s so funny, I hate when people touch me, but Frankie barely brushes me, and I’m gassed.
“Because,” Zaza cuts in, pulling my attention back to her. “Mum insists we come.”
That makes me pause. “I see.”
A groan slips from Frankie, letting me know she’s over this topic. Something tells me this isn’t something to unpack in church.
So I pivot.
“The pastor told me you asked him to pray for me.”
“Yeah. And?” she says flatly.
