For the shouting, the swinging and the full Frankie meltdown.
But she doesn’t yell.
No.
She straightens, smooth and controlled, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then looks me dead in my eyes.
Dead. In. My. Eyes.
Slowly, she gives me a thumbs down.
And then.
“Booooo.”
eight
gameplay.
Frankie.
“Are you feeling alright?”
Zaza callsfrom the kitchen as I shove my feet into my trainers by the front door.
The hallway mirror catches my sleep-deprived, irritated reflection. My eyes are already tired of the day that hasn’t properly started yet. I bend to tie my laces, tugging them tighter than necessary, cinching my frustration into the knots.
“Yeah,” I answered her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know, maybe because of how mad you were? Or did you forget?”
I pull the laces tight.
Oh, I remember.
I remember it like it was yesterday, ‘cause it was:
I’m wokenfrom my beautiful slumber by laughter.
Not the polite, fake laughter of the theatre pricks Zaza usually drags home.
This is loud.
Obnoxious.
No regard for time, space, or the fact that other people live here.
I bolt upright in my bed.
For a second, I just sit there, blinking into the dark, trying to convince myself I’m still dreaming. Then the laughter comes again, louder this time, followed by a bang against the counter.
Absolutely not.
I fling the covers off, stomp out of my room, and march straight into the kitchen only to be confronted by the source of my misery.
Za.
And her annoying-ass brother who was here twenty of the twenty four hours of the day.
