Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(14)

“Good Lord in heaven bless this food and bless this family and bless Frank for blessing this table and our house with his blessed presence,” says Q’s dad so quickly it sounds like he’s muttering to a sink yet again full of dirty dishes.

“Amen,” says Q.

“Amen,” say Q’s parents.

Evon is too hot for amens, and says nothing.

“Amen,” I say. Being Korean-American, I’m technically Presbyterian by default. But I couldn’t even tell you what a Presbyt is or what it tastes like, to be honest.

Another KidzRock! song comes on, scrubbed of any bad words. It’s cute how Q’s parents still play this music for us even though we’re technically adults at this point.

“Q says you have a girlfriend now,” says Q’s mom.

“Jesus christ almighty hang gliding up in heaven,” I say to Q.

“Do you deny it?” says Q.

“No, I supply it,” I sigh.

“Then what’s there to hide?”

“I’m happy for you,” says Q’s dad, chewing with alarming speed. His glasses slip, and he pushes them up, and chews and chews, making his glasses slip again. “Is she very dope?”

Q and I laugh so hard that a noodle comes poking out of one of Q’s nostrils.

“You’re so funny, Mr. Lee,” I say.

“Frank, come on,” he says. “Call me David.”

“Okay, Mr. David.”

“Oh, so, Dad,” says Q, “I need you to write to the teachers about next week.”

Next week is this geek trip Q is taking up north to Stanford—also known as The Harvard of the West—where his geek uncle is doing a PhD. Q’s plan is to get into Stanford and shoot lasers into live monkey brains to see how they react. This is called optogenetics.

“I bet you’re crunk for the trip,” says Q’s dad.

“Yes, Dad, I am extremely crunk,” says Q.

“Should be tight,” says Q’s dad.

“So tight,” says Q.

I cough into my noodles.

“Okay,” says Q’s mom. “Now you’ve got me laughing.”

Q’s dad simply sits and chews and feigns obliviousness. He excels at being king of the dorks; he is proudly aware of this particular genius of his.

“So do your parents like this Brit girl?” he says.

“Honey,” says Q’s mom.

“We haven’t set a date for the wedding yet,” I say.

That gets a nice laugh. Except for Evon, who’s still lost in her own private musical world. Q’s mom waves a hand in front of her face.

Evon takes off the headphones and takes a small bite. Meanwhile, Q scrambles to finish his food.

“Yesssss,” he says. “I win.”

“Win what?” says Evon.

“Yeah, I didn’t know this was a race,” I say. I share a quick look with Evon.

“Q is a baby,” she says.

“We’re literally the same age,” says Q.

“Body of a teen, mind of a baby,” says Evon.

“Although technically,” says Q, “I’m older since I emerged from the vagina three seconds before you did.”

“Lord, I beg you have mercy on me,” says Q’s mom.

“Come on,” says Q. “Let me show you my game.”

“Okay,” I say.

We bolt up from our seats and dash off, but a mighty ahem stops us.

It’s Q’s dad, eyeing our dirty plates. “Ten years and I still have to remind you, Frank?”

“Holy cow, is it really ten?” I say.

“It is really ten,” says Q’s dad. He’s looking at us with gooey eyes, and I know he still sees us as little kids flinging our bikes down onto the front lawn.

Q and I look at each other and say, “Huh!” at the same time.

On the way into the kitchen I spot a photo of me and Q and my parents from three years ago, at our junior high school graduation.

I point at the photo with my chin. “You still have that thing?”

“Yep,” says Q, putting our plates into the sink. “Do you?”

“Yep,” I say. But that’s not true. I have no idea where our copy of the photo is. There are no matching photos of Q in my house. The last time Q was at my house was months ago, when he came to drop off something I’d left at his house. I can’t actually remember the last time he stepped foot past the foyer.

“Game on,” says Q.



* * *



? ? ?

I’m watching a little homunculus run around a 2D landscape from a God-view perspective. Q clicks and pans with the speed of a card magician. It’s fast, but not incomprehensible. He’s mining resources and building an elaborate system of factories to bring his homunculus hero through the Stone Age, Iron Age, and beyond.

We’re in Q’s room. Q’s room is pretty small, with just a small desk, two narrow bookshelves, and a sofa (Q prefers sleeping on sofas, because they are dual-use). What Q’s room is is mostly screen. A tiny projector sits on a faux-marble cornice and throws the giant view of the game onto a blank wall that Q has painted with some kind of special projector screen paint for maximum image quality.

“The story is,” says Q, “you’ve crash-landed on this alien planet, and you have to build up an escape rocket from scratch using whatever’s on hand.”