Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(27)

“Joy and I are good friends,” I say. “Just up until now I didn’t know how good of friends we could be.”

“So you’re just really good, really brand-new friends.”

“Basically.”

Q’s phone buzzes, but he ignores it. “Why didn’t you just say that, then?”

I feel Q’s words pinging around in my brain.

Why didn’t you just say that?

Why didn’t you just say?

Why didn’t you?

Why?

I should tell Q everything. I don’t want to deceive him about my . . . deception.

That sounds weird.

“So listen,” I say. “There’s something you should know about me and Joy. Let’s just say we have a special relationship. With special benefits.”

Q’s eyes widen.

I put up jazz hands. “Whoa whoa whoa. Not special benefits special benefits.”

Q’s fartphone buzzes again. It’s his mom, who Q puts on speaker.

“Will?” says Q’s mom. She still calls him that. “Please do not put me on speaker.”

“Too late, Mom.”

“Can you pick up your sister from the dojo on the way home, please?”

“I’m in the middle of a very important conversation, Mom.”

“We’re happy to do it, Mrs. Lee,” I say. Q punches me and I barely feel it.

“Thank you, Frankie.”

Q hangs up and aims a finger at my eye. “Continue.”

“More like to be continued,” I say back. “Let’s get your sister first.”



* * *



? ? ?

We shovel our way through dinner, sweating heroically from the spice. Evon is apparently too smoking hot to perspire the slightest bit, even after seconds.

She offers me a napkin. “So. Brit.”

I look at her, but her beauty is too painful and I must avert my eyes.

“I think that’s sweet,” says Evon. “Although isn’t she a little young?”

“She’s literally three months younger than me.”

“Anyway, it’s cute.”

“Wait,” I say. “You know I’m like a month older than you, right?”

“And I’m three seconds older, because—” says Q.

“Stop,” says Q’s mom.

We forget to clear our dishes, are reminded to, go back to clear our dishes, and run upstairs to Q’s room to start cramming for the SAT. I can tell Q is dying to ask me questions about Joy, and I too am dying to tell Q everything, but we get the work out of the way first because we are those kids and the test is only a couple days away.

The SAT is a ridiculous exam, written as if it were geared toward aliens visiting Earth for the first time.


Valentine’s Day is an important celebration of love and deep friendship where people send each other traditional “valentines.” If there are 110 valentines to be sent within a group, and each member of that group must send one valentine to everyone else in that group, how many people are in the group?


“It’s eleven,” I say. “Each person sends ten valentines, because you don’t send a valentine to yourself, and eleven times ten is 110.”

“Yay, your logic is mind-altering,” says Q. We close our books. “Now: about your special relationship with Joy. Are you or are you not playing two girls at once?”

“That’s awful, no!”

“Are you one of these so-called players, plotting to use Brit to make Joy jealous enough to leave Wu and get together with you?”

“No, but that is impressively complicated.”

“Give me the straight dope. Don’t make me wrassle you.”

“Listen.”

“I’ll take you down.”

“We’re dating, but it’s all fake.”

Q stops. He makes a stank-face. “Hah?”

I take a breath and continue. “We made our parents think we’re dating, so that way I can go out as much as I want with Brit, and Joy with Wu.”

“Because Brit is—”

“Mmm.”

“And Wu is—”

“Right.”

“And your parents don’t—”

“Exactly.”

“Ahhhh.” Q nods and nods, appreciating the cleverness of the setup. But his face contracts. “You’re swapping gems.”

I think about Paul Olmo, waiting to unload his sachet of glass baubles while the rest of the party was asleep.

“I am not swapping gems.”

“A gem swap this is.”

“Did you steal my charger?” says a voice. It’s Evon, dressed in a shiny outfit that could be meant for either sleep, exercise, or a night out.

“You’re rudely interrupting a prolonged dialogue of great intensity,” shouts Q.

I toss her a Loco-Lime? green charger from my bag. “Use mine.”

Evon snatches the charger out of the air without looking—impressive—and points it at me. “At least some boys are gentlemen.” She shuts the door behind her.

“Shut the door,” says Q, too late.

“Anyway,” I say, returning to Q. “It’s a win-win setup.”