Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(32)

I realize I’m gripping the doorjamb, hanging on to her voice.

Mom screeches from below. “Frankie-ya! Dinner ready!”

“I gotta go.”

“I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you more.”

“Oh my god,” says Brit. “We’re becoming those people.”

We hang up. I stare at the small chandelier glowing above the staircase landing.

“Illuminating,” I say to the chandelier.



* * *



? ? ?

Dinner is a little bit of everything: Chinese-American beef with broccoli and fried rice, Japanese sashimi and miso, Korean chapchae and eun daegu jorim, and finally Italian-American lasagna.

Dad passes out more beer to us at the kids’ table, again to Mom’s protests. But everyone’s well into the party spirit, and she lets it go.

“It’s nice one,” says Dad. “So-called Belgian Trappist ale.”

“So you get these at a wholesale discount?” says Joy’s dad. His accent is there, but his English flow is light-years ahead of Dad’s.

“It’s most expensive one we selling,” says Dad.

“Then I’ll take three, Mr. Li,” says Joy’s dad, and pulls a hundred from his wallet. I want to roll my eyes and say, You’re rich, we get it. You’re the richest, smartest, most hard-working immigrant in American history, ever.

“Aigu, you put away money right now,” says Dad.

They laugh, and finally Joy’s dad accepts a bottle with both hands and says, “Well, thank you very much, my sunbae.”

“You welcome, hoobae.”

Sunbae—as in senior, mentor—is what Joy’s dad calls Dad, since Dad got to America first. Dad calls Joy’s dad hoobae—as in junior, understudy, noob. They’ve been calling each other this for decades, and now it’s become this little comedy routine they like to perform. I guess it’s funny because they’re both the same age?

I guess it’s funny because Joy’s dad has so clearly outgrown his mentor in every way?

Joy pours a glass. I eye her: You sure you should have another?

Something changes in Joy. She becomes almost coquettish. She hoists the bottle with both hands, aims it at my empty glass, and says loud and clear: “Let me pour you a glass, yubs.”

The entire room dips for a second, then comes roaring back up with an Aaaaah.

Yubs is a Konglish (Korean-English American Casual) abbreviation of yeobo, which means honey. Not honey like beespit, but honey like what couples say to each other.

Impressive. I tilt my head to concede her brilliance, and slide my glass toward her like a player relinquishing his stack at poker. I lift the glass, then take a sip. It’s absolutely terrible. I can’t understand why anyone would drink water that has had hops and twigs and shit rotting in it for weeks.

The adults lose themselves in their own conversation, and we Limbos lean in close around the table.

“Dang, Joy,” howls Andrew. “You need to get into acting.”

Joy bats her lashes. Her face is getting nice and red from the booze.

“Not if it means doing this China doll crap all the time,” she says. She lets her face fall, and it becomes regular Joy again, complete with wry smile.

“So it really works,” says John. “I mean, why wouldn’t it work—it makes perfect sense.”

“Maybe we should all fake-date,” says Ella. “John, be my fake-date buddy.”

“Why, is it because, who do you like?” says John.

“You first,” says Ella.

“Nice try.”

Joy and I exchange eyebrows. Are they flirting?

I frame the air with my hands to grab the Limbos’ attention. “You guys. Just to reiterate, just so we’re absolutely clear, I need you to promise us that—”

Mom appears at the kids’ table. “Everybody have a fun?”

She of course gives me and Joy little back-and-forth glances, cha-cha-cha.

I need her to leave. Just for this next part. So I say, “Word.”

“What word?” says Mom.

Joy flashes me a look: she’s clued in. She says, “We have an all-in type conversating happening right here.”

“What?” says Mom, and leans back an inch.

The slang is working. Hanna and I used to do this, and I know the other Limbos can, too. If you ever need to hide sensitive conversations from your particular mom-n-dad, one of the easiest ways to do it is to start going heavy with the California Teen Tribal. Hides words right in plain sight.

Hanna and I used to do lots of things. Now she’s gone, and now check me out: master of my parental universe. I am behaving like Ideal Son in Mom-n-Dad’s eyes. I have cheated my way into their favor. Hanna, meanwhile, lives in exile.

What’s that called?

Survivor’s guilt?

I turn to the Limbos. “Before we get all ratchet up in this bitch, I need formal verbal confirmation from the entire squad to keep a certain setup on the DL. Don’t go posting on main. You feel me?”

Mom looks around and around, her brains nicely scrambled.

“I feel you hard, bro,” says Andrew.

“Hard AF,” says Ella.

“Spank you, guys, I mean it,” says Joy. “Hashtag Spanx.”