Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(17)

“You study hard, okay?” says Dad. He begins mopping again, even though the floor is already clean. I’ve never seen him truly idle at The Store. “You bringing book here, you reading. Right now it’s quiet time, everybody they eating dinner.”

I think about how determined Mom was to have me here at The Store on Sundays to hang out with Dad. I can’t bring a book and ignore the guy.

“I’m okay,” I say.

“You reading some poetry. You know John Donne? So-called metaphysics.”

We covered those guys in AP English. “Come live with me and be my love” and all that. Most of it sounds like dudes trying to get laid, to be honest.

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “We studied John Donne.”

I don’t know why I say this. Here’s a conversational opening, and all I want to do is cut it off: yeah, been there, done that, nuff said. I can see Dad’s face fall a millimeter. My ears get hot, like they always do when I realize I’m being stupid. Me and Dad bonding is like trying to spot-glue two jagged rocks together. There are only so many points of connection. Plus I had no idea Dad even read poetry.

So I say, “What about John Donne?” and Dad instantly brightens.

“He write poem, so-called ‘Flea.’ He say, ‘Mark but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is.’”

I like this poem, actually. It’s a weird one. The guy is trying to use a bloodsucking flea as a metaphor for getting some chick to have sex with him. He’s got game—a weird, sixteenth-century kind of game.

“‘It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,’” I say.

“‘And in this flea our two bloods mingled be,’” says Dad.

He repeats the last part to a phalanx of glass Guadalupe candles. “‘Two bloods mingled be.’”

Bing-bong. Another customer. But something’s wrong. I see Dad freeze up and stare.

A white girl has entered The Store.

It’s Brit Means.

“Hi,” says Brit, and scoots behind the counter—behind the counter—to give me a hug. All I can do is stand frozen and watch as Dad’s eyes go big, then shrink, and then harden.

“Heyyyyyyy,” I say.

“Aha,” says Brit. “There are those lottery tickets.”

She saw my photo, duh. And my exact location.

She touches a small ice-cream fridge and raises an eyebrow. “And you have Chocolate Bobaccinos.”

Normally, this would be cause for celebration. A cry for attention on social media, answered in person with a hug by a beautiful girl.

Normally.

Brit finally notices Dad leaning against his mop handle, and I can see her take a moment to code switch. She stands a bit more erect. She clasps her hands together.

“Hello,” she says. “I’m Brit.”

Dad looks at her, then at me. “You friend?”

Your turn to speak, Frank. “Yeah, well, we’re in Calculus, we had, um, have, an assignment together, so.”

“You same classmate?”

“Yes,” says Brit Means slowly. “We’re in class together. It’s the same class. It’s Calculus.”

My feet leave the ground. Just an inch. My soles can’t find any purchase.

Brit is talking like you do with an exchange student, or someone hard of hearing.

I try to stomp my feet back to earth, because this code switching shouldn’t bother me. Everyone talks different with parents. Even if it’s the same language.

It’s a tiny shameful wish that keeps me suspended in the air, a white-noise whisper: I wish Dad could speak English right.

Dad seems satisfied with Brit’s credentials. “Nice meet you,” he says.

“It is very nice to meet you too, Mr. Li,” says Brit.

I give Brit a little helpless look, and she clues in. Brit’s not stupid. She can tell I haven’t told my parents about her yet. She can tell Dad’s not as open about all this boyfriend-girlfriend stuff as, say, her druidic dad is.

So Brit plays along. She seems to recognize that hugs don’t happen around here. So she crosses her feet and hugs herself tight instead.

Dad finally lowers his gaze and pretends to mop the floor. He turns his back. He busies himself away.

Brit leans in an inch. “Hey,” she says.

“He understands English fine, you know, he just sucks at speaking it,” I say quietly. “You don’t have to talk slow or anything.”

Brit looks slightly horrified. “Did I? Oh god, I didn’t even notice.”

“You’re good,” I say.

“I’m that person.”

“You’re good, really,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye I see Dad mop his way farther toward the back of the store. I find her eyes, smile into them. “Hey, I’m really happy to see you.”

She brightens. I’m itching to touch her. I can tell she’s itching to touch me, too. It’s ridiculous. “Can you take a break or something?” she says. “We could go for a walk.”

I shake my head, probably a nanosecond too quickly. “I don’t know if we should. I mean, not around this neighborhood.”

Does that sound terrible? Fuck, it sounds terrible.

But it’s true. One lap around the block for her would be a fool’s parade. Same for me, too, but everyone knows I’m Frank Sr.’s kid, even if I don’t remember who they all are, because I’m here so infrequently, which somehow makes me feel kind of like a dick.