𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐀

𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎

𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 — ❝trouble in vixen heaven❞

"Andre! I know you seen me call you! Open this fuckin' door!"

𝙸 𝚈𝙰𝙽𝙺𝙴𝙳 at the metal storm door, cradling my phone between my shoulder and head. I listened as it rang obnoxiously over and over, listening to the monotone's boring woman's voice on the other line that told me his voicemail was full.

I huffed, hanging up and calling him again, ringing his doorbell over and over again as I listened to the same dial tone over and over again. My manicured index finger pressed against the rectangle shaped button of his doorbell repeatedly, a dull, continuous melody radiating throughout the house.

To my side, Amaiyah snickered, adjusting her weight to the side as she adjusted her grip on the oversized black, Nike duffle bags, her hands wrapped firmly around the white straps. I could see the muscles in her arms as she held onto the bags tightly, subtly swaying the bags back and forth.

"Hold the fuck on! Shit!"

Swinging the red, wooden door open on the other side was my brother Andre, nostrils flaring, his face scrunched up and his chest puffed up, a blunt hanging from between his lips. Through the gate pattern of the door, I could see him clutching onto the gun on his waistband, the frustrated expression written over his sienna brown features fading as he laid eyes on the two of us on the other side. The scent of citrusy, yet earthy dirt wafted through the door, tingling my senses.

"The fuck is wrong with you, yo?" He spoke, staring me down, "Why your ass can't just ring the doorbell like a normal fuckin' person?"

I smiled, watching as he messed with the lock on the door, pushing it open as he stepped back from the doorway.

"When have I ever been a normal kind of bitch, be for real," I shrugged, sliding by his tall figure as he leaned against the door. Amaiyah handed the bags in her hands to him, Andre smiling at her as she stepped past him. I spun around on the heel of my Dior sneakers, pointing to the gun tucked into the waistband of his black sweatpants, resting against his hip, "You gone shoot your only sister?"

"You was banging on my door like you was twelve - I was finna shoot something if it looked at me the wrong way," He replied, closing both doors, locking all three locks on the house door. His thick, Atlanta accent jumped in and out in between his words, tight lipped as he tried to hold onto his blunt. He turned to me, relaxing his shoulders, "Why the fuck you ain't just call?"

"She did, you just ain't pick up Ant," Yaya chimed in, leaning away from the mirror hanging up on the wall, puckering her lips as she tossed her lip gloss back into her purse. She glanced over at the two of us as she wiped the corners of her lips, rubbing whatever remnants of lip gloss that was left on her fingers into her fingertips.

"Yaya," Andre stressed her nickname, a goofy ass grin spreading across his face. "You should've had her call from your phone," he joked, "I be putting her shit on DnD."

"Nigga, fuck you," I flicked him off, leaving the two of them standing by the front door as I walked in the direction of the kitchen, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

The kitchen smelled of breakfast, the sweet smell of french toast and eggs filling the small space, my grandmother's pots and pans taking up space on the stove. Staring at me below the clock on the wall was a picture of the three of us - my brother, me, and my grandmother, Molly.

Even though Andre had put his own personal spin on things after my grandmother's passing, many of her sentimental items still filled the house - a oak wood china cabinet from my great-great-grandmother, filled with emerald green and vibrant red vases and glasses and plates - pictures of Andre and I when we were kids, and pictures of my father. Nestled in the open spaces on the wall of photos in the living room were more recent photos - ones of Andre and his kids, Renee and AJ, and photos of me, him, and Amaiyah.