Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(34)

White people can describe themselves with just American. Only when pressed do they go into their ethnic heritage. Doesn’t seem fair that I have to forever explain my origin story with that silent hyphen, whereas white people don’t.

It’s complicated. But simple. Simplicated.

Brit Means refuses to call herself white, and uses European-American instead. Because Brit is wise and aware.

B-R-I-T

I turn the water off and hear voices.

Voices!

I scramble to dry off, run a hand through my hair, and get dressed. I hop downstairs. I’m still sweating from the hot shower. I can hear Mom has switched to Polite Guest English, the dialect she saves for non-Gathering visitors.

“No, why you bringing so expensive one? You don’t have to doing.”

“It’s for everybody.”

“What it is?”

“It’s a French fruit tart with a, um, crème patissière filling.”

“Oh, you French?”

“Haha, no, um.”

“Anyway, very very pretty. Thank you, okay?”

“You’re so welcome, and thank you for—”

“Should be put in refrigerator.”

I rush in. “I’ll do it.”

Mom nods at Brit. “Booleet? Bleet? I’m sorry.”

“Brit, that’s right,” says Brit.

“Hard to pronouncing,” says Mom as she heads out into the backyard with a tray.

“Hey,” I say to Brit.

“Hey,” says Brit to me.

And we execute a Standard Friend Hug. It’s the worst hug ever. I can feel Brit’s restraint. I can feel her being careful in front of Mom, who can still peer at us through the sliding glass.

Only then does my mind calm down enough to notice what Brit’s wearing. Not her usual jeans, or ironic tee shirt, but: A dress.

An honest-to-god dress. A simple cotton thing, nothing fancy, but to me she looks beautiful enough to send a fleet of seamen off to their doom. It’s a dress for a grown-up dinner.

“You look amazing,” I say.

“Aa-aa,” says Brit, wagging a finger at the word amazing.

This is impossible, this urge to kiss her. I take a mental step back: here is Brit Means, standing in my kitchen, infusing it with her exotic scent.

“You look . . . beguiling,” I say.

Brit smiles at a nearby bronze figurine of a bronco bucking an astonished infant cowboy. “Your parents have super-weird taste.”

“I don’t even see it anymore.”

“Humanity’s greatest strength—and also the reason for its ultimate downfall—is its ability to normalize even the bizarre.”

“Brit Means, everybody.”

Brit takes a breath for courage. “Where’s your dad?”

“He’s at The Store. He’s always there. But you get to meet Mom, so that’s a start.”

I touch her shoulder, then feel Mom’s eyes through the glass, and lean back to fake a more platonic posture. Just friends.

Brit shakes off some thought and powers up a bright smile. “I’m just happy to be here. With you. And Cowboy Baby. Really just Cowboy Baby.”

I want to hold her badly, like a boy who believes a hug can convince the world.

Brit keeps on smiling. “I’m dying to try this barbecue.”

The doorbell rings, and all the Apeys come wandering in: Q, Paul Olmo, Amelie Shim, Naima Gupta. Even Q’s smoking-hot sister, Evon, is here, wordlessly noting her surroundings like a trained assassin.

Q looks around, too, perhaps spotting what’s changed since he was last here. It feels strange having him over. I wish it didn’t. I wish it felt more like when I’m at Q’s house.

“Hi, Brit, hi, Frank,” shouts Naima Gupta.

Amelie Shim points at a four-foot-tall bronze statue of a giraffe wearing a pith helmet and says, “This is like he’s dressed up for safari but what’s he gonna see like humans right because that would be ridiculous to have a giraffe go on safari to see other giraffes.”

“I think this is a genuine Wyatt Thomas original,” says Q.

“No,” I say.

“Shut up,” drawls Q, his eyes still on Amelie.

The glass door slides open and Mom pokes her head in. “Dinner not ready. You playing meanwhile.”

“We playing meanwhile,” whispers Amelie with a giggle. It’s okay because her parents have even worse accents than Mom-n-Dad.

We migrate to the backyard—all of us except Evon, who borrows my Grape-Escape? purple charger so she can ignore the world with her phone on a couch—and Q unrolls a small duffel on the grass to reveal a serious badminton set.

Badminton, the sport of nerds.

It takes a while to set up; it takes a while to start playing. I toss glances at Brit every now and then; she catches them, then tosses them back underhand. We bring out a gentleness in each other. It’s a gentleness that glows unwavering even as the Apeys roll and holler around us and Mom barks for help over the sizzling grill cover, shaped like a hubcap to let the excess grease drain away.

“I’ll go help,” says Brit.

“I don’t want your dress getting splattered,” I counter.

“I don’t mind.”

“Polite fight,” shouts Naima Gupta. Naima shouts a lot.