“I’m serious,” I defend. “You think too highly of her.”
“Sure,” she looks me up and down. “And heaven only knows what you think about her. Just don’t think about her anymore, ‘cause I know you already have.”
I don’t say anything. Can’t really, because she’s not wrong.
“Just drop it,” she demands.
“Fine,” I mutter at last, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Dropped.”
She eyes me again before walking away.
“Za!” I whisper-yell, stopping her.
“What!” She says in the same tone, looking over her shoulder.
I speak normally and ask, “Does she really not remember me?”
Zaza cuts her eyes at me, then flicks her braids over her shoulder and strides off toward the kitchen.
“It doesn’t matter what you try, anyway. Frankie ain’t going for it.” She mutters under her breath when she thinks I can’t hear.
I smirk, almost seeing it as a challenge, then I follow.
The smell of stew hits first.
Mum’s at the stove, spoon clinking while she hums under her breath.
I quickly pan the room, finding Frankie perched on one of the barstools, elbows resting on the marble. Wired headphones hang from her ears, cord trailing down into the Nintendo Switch she’s holding. A neon-red ice lolly sticks out of her mouth, lips wrapped lazily around it. She draws on it slowly, before letting it rest between her teeth.
The slow bobbing motion makes my chest go tight.
She’s so locked in with whatever she’s playing, she doesn’t even notice us.
At some point, she peeled off the baggy jumper. What’s left is just a thin black tank, low at the bust, showing more skin than I’d expect. Her arms are a maze of ink. Thick, heavy tattoos, black lines curling over muscle, up toward her collarbone, down past her elbow.
And none of that delicate flowers girly bullshit, but bold, artistic pieces.
The tank was also tight enough that I could see those nipple piercings.Of course, she has nipple piercings.
Now I’m staring.It’s jarring. It’s distracting.
“Ouuu ice lollies!” Zaza sings out, skipping in front of me. “It’s so hot in here.”
“No,” Mum says flatly, not even turning from the stove. “You’ll spoil your appetite.”
She stops her skip right in front of the fridge.
“But. Frankie got one,” Zaza whines.
Mum glances back, spatula in hand. “Frankie doesn’t have chronic acne.”
“Mum!” Zaza gasps, covering her slightly discolored cheeks.
I cringe. “Ew.”
“Shut up, Bari!” Zaza stomps her feet at me.
“My word is final,” Mum says, turning back to the pot. Behind her back, Frankie’s lips twitch and without missing a beat, she bites the top part of the ice lolly that’s been in her mouth clean off, with a quiet crunch, then holds the rest of the stick out toward Zaza while still staring at her Switch screen.
