The girl had been orbiting me ever since Zaza first brought her home. I was eleven then. Eleven years old and dealing with that creepy, green-eyed leech sneaking into my bedroom, sniffing my clothes.
And she laughs so loudly at things I don’t even find funny. It’s so fucking annoying.
I swear, one time she laughed when I was eating cereal, because she said I “always hummed when I liked what I was eating.”
Who the hell notices that?
The thought of her creepy, glow-in-the-dark eyes watching me eat enough to notice I always hum makes my skin crawl.
“Why does she have to come?” I demand, dragging my voice into that slow, exasperated tone that drives Mum crazy.
“Because they’re inseparable,” Mum says. “And she’s sweet. You should be nicer to her.”
I roll my eyes. “She’s obsessed with me.”
“No, she admires you,” Mum corrects.
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
Mum twists in her seat to give me the look that says she raised me better than this, which is debatable.
“Jabari. Francine is a nice young woman. She is not the child you remember.”
“Hm,” I groan. “I‘ll believe it when I see it.”
“You are so irritable lately,” Mum says while sighing. “It’s like the mention of other people has you in a sour mood.”
“It does,” I confess. “I don’t like people in my personal space.”
Dad snorts. “Your personal space could use some humility.”
“Again with this humility,” I mutter, leaning my head back. “Why is everyone begging for me to be miserable?”
“Because,” Mum says with a smile, “misery keeps you human.”
I scoff. “Misery also likes company.”
I can picture it now:
Zaza bouncing into the house, voice two octaves too high, dragging her shadow behind her. The friend will squeal when she sees me, probably ask me to sign something, then she’ll hover—always fucking hovering—asking questions, giggling, looking at me like I’m the answer to every prayer she ever whispered at Sunday service.
It’s exhausting. I don’t even remember her name, even though Mum said it already. It never sticks. She’s just… Zaza’s friend.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m not talking to her.”
“Yes, you are,” Mum says firmly.
“No, I’m not.”
“Jabari, just be polite.”
Polite.
I can fake politeness when I have to, like with press conferences, sponsorship deals, the occasional award ceremony, where the cameras won’t stop rolling.
But in my own house? With my own family?
No.
