Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(35)

“Brit,” says Q. “Get a racquet and get on my team.”

Brit gives me a look, Are you gonna be okay? and I respond with a nod: Go play. I stand next to Mom and help keep the meat moving.

“She should be wearing tee shirt, not dress,” murmurs Mom.

“She probably just wanted to be a little fancy for her first KBBQ,” I murmur back. The K in KBBQ stands for Korean. As does the K in K-pop, K-fashion, or K-dramas. There’s of course no such thing as ABBQ, A-pop, A-fashion, or A-dramas.

“Anyway,” says Mom. “Dress is pretty.”

I glance up at Brit. Mom thinks your dress is pretty, I want to yell.

Doesn’t that count for something? It must count for something.

Q serves, smashing the shuttlecock into a white laser blur. Brit catches a tricky return from Amelie, and Q flicks his racquet and sends it rocketing down. Paul dives for the save setup; Amelie smashes it to the ground.

“That one’s for Totec,” shouts Paul Olmo, high-fiving Amelie but missing. Totec was the name of his doomed mage.

In the end Paul and Amelie win. Q ducks the net to give Paul a crushing hug. “Good game, man,” says Q.

“I was wrong to swap out those gems,” says Paul Olmo into Q’s shoulder. “I understand that now.”

“You’re all right,” says Q.

“Dinner ready!” yells Mom. Then, quietly: “Why she not here yet?”

I shoot Mom a look: Who?

But I know she means Joy. “Oh, she can’t make it. It’s her turn to teach a rotating seminar webcast about 3D printing techniques using nonrigid biomorphic materials.”

I read somewhere that ultra-specific lies make the best lies, and it turns out to be true.

“Oh,” says Mom, frowning. She examines me for a moment, perhaps wondering if me and Joy are having a spat. She shrugs it off, puts on a smile, and yells again.

“Dinner ready!”

In an instant we’re all devouring food. To my horror, Mom offers forks only to Paul Olmo, Naima Gupta, and finally Brit Means. They all smile politely and demonstrate that yes, as hard as it may be to believe, they can use chopsticks just fine. I know this sort of well-intentioned ignorance is no biggie to Paul Olmo and Naima Gupta, who have awkward immigrant stories of their own. And Mom already knows Q and Evon—who has emerged to feed—can use chopsticks, despite their wacky African-Americanness.

But I feel bad for Brit, whose immigrant stories have most likely been washed away like surf erasing sandwriting. She may call herself European-American, but to most of the world she’s just white. As a member of the majority, she belongs everywhere. As the product of a long, mixed-up heritage, she belongs nowhere.

Right now I can feel her wanting to fit in. She picks up rice from her bowl like See? I can do it, but then drops it, perhaps from nerves. A little crestfallen look twitches her brow. So I pick up some rice, then drop it too.

“Crap,” I say, cleaning up my mess.

I find Q giving me a look like What a gentleman.

Brit stands up. “Anyone want more to drink?”

“I get it,” says Mom.

“No, please, you relax,” says Brit. “You’ve made this amaz—this stupendous feast.”

Brit winks at me and I’m a little starstruck.

“Hear hear,” says Paul Olmo.

“Thank you, Mrs. Li,” says Evon with uncharacteristic charm.

Brit fills everyone’s glasses from a pitcher of cold barley tea.

“Thank you, Booleet,” says Mom.

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Li,” says Brit. “What’s your first name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

I freeze. This is all Brit’s family talking right here. Most kids, never mind Korean kids, never ask about the first name of the adults in their lives.

“Eun-hee,” says Mom. “English name is Diane.”

“Your names are so pretty,” says Brit, and holy shit does Mom actually blush a shade. This is pristine territory Brit has discovered. And I was there to see it happen.

The doorbell rings, and I feel a squirt of bile in my gut. I know who it is even before she opens the door.

“Hello?” says Joy Song.

“Aigu,” says Mom, scooting away to the entryway. “You late.”

“I know, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Li,” says Joy.

“Shoes off,” says Mom.

Joy realizes she’s rushed halfway into the house in her boots, and now must backtrack. “Shit.”

“Frankie-ya, Joy here,” yells Mom. Then, to Joy: “You sit next to Frank.”

I can hear it. Everyone can hear it. Mom has switched from Polite Guest English to Family Casual, just for Joy. Brit glances at the door, then at me, oblivious. What in God’s hipster beard is Joy Song doing here? I close my eyes and will a hole to open up and swallow me.

Before any hole can appear, Joy takes a breathless seat next to me. Everyone scoots their chairs to make room.

“Hey, everybody,” says Joy. She quivers like a beetle has just snuck up her sleeve.

“Do you guys know Joy?” I say to the crystal salt and pepper shakers, which are purely decorative and never actually used. The shakers say nothing.

“I know Joy,” says Q. I shoot him a look. He looks back at me with naked fear.