I whip around to the little dresser mirror. “Really? Is it bad?”
She shrugs, too casual. “Not really. Not too noticeable unless someone was starin’ right inna ya face.”
My eyes widen.
Shit. Jabari was staring at me.
Mum catches it immediately—because of course she does. Her lips twitch.
“Ahhh. I see.”
“Mummy.” I drag out and cover my face with both hands. “This is humiliating.”
She rests the tweezers down with a little clink on the dresser, like she’s just finished performing surgery.
“It’s okay, eh,” she says, smoothing her hand over my chin. “All gone. Let’s go show the boy yuh new face.”
“MUM!”
By the timeMum and I make it over to the McKingsley house, the whole street is packed. The place is alive with chatter, kids running around in the yard, and gospel music humming low from the living room.
As soon as we step in, Mum and Mrs. McKingsley fall into their usual routine—kissing teeth, hugging too long, then going back and forth like they hadn’t spoken just yesterday on the phone.
“Girl, you look good,” Mrs. Mac says, holding Mum at arm’s length. “Is the night shifts slimming you down or what?”
Mum waves her off. “Slim where? Is stress yuh seeing.”
They cackle like teenagers, and I roll my eyes, already knowing they’ll disappear into the kitchen soon.
“Francine.”
I straighten automatically as Mrs. Mac addresses me. “Yes, ma’am?”
“The computer is messed up again. Can you take a look at it before you go?”
“Sure, I’ll get around to it.”
“Good girl.” She beams, patting my arm like I’m six. “So talented! You could be an electrician or a mechanic with that skill. But I suppose that will come when you’re finished playing with those childish games.”
I blink once.
Just once.
Because that’s the only amount of disrespect my spirit can take without me spontaneously combusting—first her son, now this.
“Hm,” I hum the safe, neutral,I refuse to go to hell for cussing my friend’s mother outsound.
“There’s nothing wrong with what Frankie does,” My mum defends me.
“I know,” Mrs. Mac answers “but there are better options for her.”
Thankfully, Zaza catches me by the stairs and pulls me away before I get roped further into a conversation about my future. We sneak off toward the den, her arm looped through mine, both of us ducking the aunties with their usual questions about husbands and babies we don’t have.
“Frankie!” one of them calls. “When you gonna find yourself a nice man?”
“Tomorrow,” I shoot back without missing a step. “Amazon Prime delivery.”
Zaza snorts so loud it echoes down the hall and I squeeze her wrist. We collapse into the den, and she shuts the door halfway, as if that’ll stop anyone from barging in.
