Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(16)

“Hey, Frankie,” says the man. I’ve always wondered if he’s homeless. He looks—and smells—homeless.

My dad’s English name is Frank, too. Frank Sr.

“Charles,” says Dad.

Charles casts a wild eye at me and holds it.

“My son,” says Dad.

“I’ve seen you,” says this crazy Charles dude. “You going to college?”

“Gonna try,” I say as normally as I can, to offset the crazy.

“They teach you how to mop in college?”

“Uh,” I say.

Charles turns to Dad. “Only got a hundred, sorry.”

“No problem,” says Dad, and makes change.

Charles aims his blue-white eyes at me again. “I bet your folks keep you real clean,” he says, and makes to leave. But before he does, he gives me a tiny scroll of paper with icy hands.

“That’s for you, if you’re so smart,” says the man, and leaves, bing-bong.

Dad scoots me back behind the cash register. It’s like he’s worried I’ll fall prey to more Charleses if I’m exposed out among the aisles.

“He very unique person,” says Dad. “Million dollar, he having. He own house, too.”

“Wait, really?” I say. I want to examine the scroll, I want to hear more from Dad, but bing-bong, now here comes a young man with his wife, holding a small baby.

“Paco,” hollers the young man, and salutes Dad.

Paco is short for Francisco, which is Spanish for Frank.

“Luis,” says Dad. “You out today? When you afuera?”

“Yesterday, patron. I’m officially on probation.”

“Congratulation,” says Dad. “Beautiful baby, eh? Hey, consentida. ?Qué es nombre?”

“Veronica,” says the wife.

“Anyway felicitaciones,” says Dad. He tickles the little baby, and the wife holds her higher for him.

The young man, Luis, slides beer and diapers across the counter. “Gimme a loosy too, holmes.”

“You got it,” I say. I tap a cigarette from an open box under the counter and slide it over all sneaky-style. Luis feigns an itch and discreetly tucks it behind his ear. On his shoulder is a homemade tattoo: F People, the local gang.

“This your son?” says Luis.

“Frank, you saying hi,” says Dad.

“Hey,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

“Your dad’s a crazy dude, but he family,” says Luis. The words are kind, but he says them flat. He’s examining me: the quality of my skin, my hair, the quality of my clothes, my watch. We come from different worlds. I feel it. His wife is clutching a damp wad of bills and food stamps. That money, I think. There are invisible trails of money everywhere. I can feel those too.

It’s not a good feeling.

I start to ring him up, but Dad stops me. He bags the stuff in a flurry and shoves it all into Luis’s arms.

“Congratulation,” says Dad.

“Thanks, Paco. You know I’m gonna pay you back.”

“Whatever you want,” says Dad with a smile.

They leave, bing-bong. And The Store is quiet again. I touch the phone in my pocket, like a reflex: Brit should be back from her trip by now. I want send her a quick When can I see you tomorrow? But where? Our budding relationship can’t just be a clandestine series of greenhouses and minivans.

“Luis get out yesterday, eleven months sentence,” says Dad.

“For what?”

Dad wipes his face with a rag. “Oh, he carjacking, involuntary manslaughter.”

“Jesus.”

“He pulling white lady from driver side, he throwing her away, car hit her. She die.”

“No way.”

“Luis used to be very cute little boy.”

“Oh yeah? Like when?”

“Maybe six, seven years old. His daddy run away, maybe Arizona, they speculating. Anyway, no daddy, no money. He going gang. Mexican boy, all they going gang.”

“Dad, not every Mexican kid joins a gang.”

But Dad is already dream-talking in his own world. “All they going. Gang.”

Talking to Dad can be like this. You wonder if you’re actually talking to someone or just sitting in on an inner monologue that happens to be spoken aloud. In these moments I do a mental shrug, stop talking, and just try to let the jeong do its thing.

Jeong is kinda hard to pin down. I mean, I’m not exactly expert on all things Korean, but I guess the closest meaning would be something like bonding or affection. I mostly understand it as shutting the hell up and just being together.

Jeong is nowhere near as satisfying as all the hugs and kisses and I love yous other kids get from their parents, but hey, it’s what I got. So I’ll take what I can get.

We stare at the open doorway for a moment. Is the jeong building? I think so. Outside it’s getting to be dusk, and the world is just black silhouettes against a sky of fire.

I think about how Mom-n-Dad know the names of all their customers and their kids. They know who’s dating, who’s getting married, who’s pregnant. They know who’s been shot, who’s been arrested, who’s gone to jail. They know all these things sometimes even before the families themselves.

They are the keepers of all the news and gossip and drama that passes over the tree-ringed counter, and that makes them the only oral historians for a tiny world that might otherwise go unremembered.