“Need a ride home?” my mom asks from behind us. I almost swear. I hate it when she creeps up on me like that.
He shakes his head. “I brought my car, but thanks, Mrs. Adebayo.”
My mom always smirks when he says our family name. I’m not even facing her, but I can feel her expression. It’s because he says it wrong, like everyone always does, saying “Ayda-bay-O” when really it’s “Adeh-by-oh.” But, oh well.
Jamie pulls me in for a hug, his arms wrapping around me, his nose brushing my forehead lightly. Usually this would excite me, but there is something so dull about it right now.
“See you,” I say to him.
“See you, Chi, Mrs. Adebayo.” He says the last part with a nod.
“See you, Chiamaka and Chiamaka’s mom,” Belle echoes as her hand joins Jamie’s. They both walk off; I look away.
The door closes and I turn to my mom, surprised to see her braided hair done up in a bun and her face made up.
“Going somewhere fancy?” I ask.
She nods with a wink. “Date night with your dad before he leaves for Italy.”
Dad goes to Italy once a month to visit Grandma—who loves to remind me of the weight I’ve gained each time I see her. He used to go a lot less, taking Mom and me with him whenever he did. My parents used to live there before they came here. It’s where they met, in med school somewhere in Rome. I used to think it was the greatest love story of all time until Mom told me why we had to stop going. Dad’s family aren’t huge fans of Mom… or her dark skin. And by extension, me and my dark skin.
And that’s fine. I hated going anyway.
“Was that Jamie’s new girlfriend?” she asks.
My chest squeezes.
“Mm-hmm,” I respond, focusing on the wall.
“She’s pretty.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I say.
The wordsShe’s prettyecho through the house and my mind. “I’m going upstairs now, Mom. Have a nice night.”
Mom’s smooth hand touches my arm before I leave, reminding me of so many years of being tucked in, and the tight, constricting hugs only Mom can give. I look back at her, her dark skin bright and her brows furrowed.
“Are you okay, Chiamaka?”
Of course I am, I want to say, but instead I say nothing.
“You seem a little down,” she continues.
I shrug. “I’m fine.”
She doesn’t look all that convinced, and I’m not sure if I am either, but her shoulders relax, and she grabs her bag from where it’s hanging on the coatrack by the stairs.
“If you want pizza, I left you some cash,” she says as she kisses both my cheeks, then moves toward the door, a rush of her strong, tangy perfume filling my nostrils. “Love you, Chi. See you later.”
The door slams shut behind her, ringing in my ears moments after. I see her figure through the blurry rose-colored glass panes and hear her heels click across the concrete path, until both disappear into the evening.
I sigh, then drag myself up the stairs and back into the cinema. I know it doesn’t seem too bad—being falsely accused of stealing, twice, and having everyone think I got rejected by Jamie—especially since the revelations about Devon feel so much more personal. But being talked about is one thing, and being mocked is another. I hate being mocked, it reminds me of middle school: being the girl everyone liked to look down on, poke at—never the girl people wanted to be friends with.
Not that people want to befriendswith me now—or before Aces—but they knew that they could never look down on me.
I start picking up some of the mess we made, kicking the blankets to the side to see if any trash is left underneath. I notice a crumpled-up piece of paper with something written in thick black Sharpie. I bend down and pick it up, recognizing the writing as Jamie’s—1717. He’s always writing down his PINs and passwords on random pieces of paper.
I like to joke that one day he’ll have to write down my name, forwhen he finally forgets me. I remember him once saying,How could anyone at Niveus forget the great Chiamaka Adebayo?in his usual Jamie over-the-top way.
