Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(15)

“Cool.”

My pocket buzzes, and I sneak a peek. There’s a picture of Brit looking with one big eye through a wine goblet like it’s a magnifying glass.

I single-thumb three hearts back and put it away.

“But the aliens don’t like me,” says Q. “Because I’m cutting down their forests and polluting their environment. So you also have to build weapons to kill them off.”

“Wow, that’s super amoral.”

“I know, it’s a bummer aspect of the game’s design. It’s called Craft Exploit.”

“Also, since you’re the interloper here, shouldn’t you be considered the alien, not them?”

“It’s conflicting, right? Definitely a dude made this game.”

Q spots six warships approaching, and decimates them with a flurry of tiny missiles.

“Probably a white dude,” I say.

“Would explain the colonialist impulse,” says Q.

Another buzz, another photo from Brit, this time of a package of paper napkins named Napkins à la Maison de Beaujolais. Brit’s added her comment beneath: J’adore French-for-no-reason branding.

I stifle a chuckle and stash the fartphone before Q can notice.

“Still, the game looks fun,” I say.

“It is,” says Q. “Open source, too. I coded these lift-sorters, right here.”

“Badass,” I say.

Yet another buzz. I want another peek. I want another hit of Brit.

But Q pauses the game. “Your phone’s really blowing up, huh.”

Q stares at me.

“Fine,” he says finally with an eyeroll. “Answer it.”

“Just one last one, I promise,” I say.

“The last one? Or the last-last one?”

We’re coming back Sunday night! says Brit. Frank Li, I frankly need to see you.

I feel my stomach wave hello. My ears grow warm. Gravity eases enough to loosen all the joints and nails and screws holding the world together until all its pieces are slowly tumbling free in a soft huge space lit only by the white rectangle beneath my thumbs. My girlfriend is texting me.

I Frank Li need to see you too.

Can I come to your house?

Impossible, I think. Just forming the words would be impossible: Mom-n-Dad, this is Brit, and we’re going to lock ourselves in my room for hours like they do in teen movies.

I’m racking my brain for alternate venues optimized for romance, but then I do a mental facepalm. I’m not free Sunday night.

I type carefully. Shit, Sunday night I gotta help Dad out at work, I say, and add a sad face for extra sincerity. She must not think for a second that I’m blowing her off.

Q has paused the game. He’s making eyebrows: at me, at my fartphone, at me again.

“Almost done,” I say.

“Sure.”

“Really, almost done.”

“Like our friendship.”

Q turns back to his game. He’s up against a huge sudden wave of attacking aliens (I mean indigenous peoples) and frantically clicks to defend himself (I mean commit genocide).

I’ll see you Monday, I say finally.

I don’t know if I can wait that long, says Brit.

“I’m dying,” says Q.

I stash my phone. I could text all night, but: enough.

“I’m dead,” says Q.

“Let me try.”

“That’s the guilt talking, right there.”

“If I exterminate the aboriginals, will you be a happy exploiting camper again?”

“It’s a game. I don’t make the rules.”

“I know,” I say. “I know.”





chapter 7


planet frank




I’m back at The Store. The three flies buzz above me. It’s not as hot today, so the chocolate can sit outside the walk-in cooler.

It’s quiet. I look around, examining things. There’s a security camera system, aimed right at the counter and cash register. Beneath the counter is a little white button—press it, and the cops show up in minutes, at least in theory. Beneath that is a drawer, and within that is a loaded .38 Special revolver Dad has fired only twice: once at the firing range, and once into the sky during New Year’s Eve.

I snap a pic of scrolls of lottery scratchers encased in Plexiglas and post it with the caption Stupid tax?

My dad is mopping the floor when I see him stop, thump his aching arched back with a fist three times, and then resume.

“Dad,” I say. “Let me do that.”

“You know how to doing?”

“It’s mopping.”

He makes a point of showing me anyway. He holds the mop handle lightly, with just his fingers, and works it to one side like a gondolier would. He rinses the mop in a wheeled bucket, squeezes it in the vise, and continues on with an almost-easy stroll. It’s a weird way of mopping, to be sure, and when he finally lets me do it I can feel the strain in my back after just a few long sweeps.

Dad works the cash register from his tall stool. An antique alarm clock radio from 1982 plays Korean AM church music and preaching. I understand none of it.

It’s relaxing, this mopping.

Bing-bong. A crazy-haired white man enters, dressed all in black, with plastic bags attached to his every limb. Mom-n-Dad have mentioned him before: The Store’s one and only white customer. Without a single word Dad grabs two six-packs of beer—Porky, the cheapest brand—and bags them: plastic, then paper, then plastic again. He’s got everything ready by the time the man even reaches the counter.