Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(36)



“I know Joy,” says Brit.

I can feel the world tilting—tables and chairs sliding to one side of the room, trees outside groaning with the increasing angle. When Brit showed up to The Store, it felt like two worlds colliding. Now she’s here in my house, meeting Joy, and it feels like a third planet has joined in.

Mom slams the world level again by plonking a plate before Joy. “You eating.”

I dare a quick glance: What the fuck, dude?

Joy looks back with helpless eyes. It’s not my fault.

Are the Apeys staring at us? No—they’re all back to happily devouring their food. Evon finishes, excuses herself, and disappears behind a high-backed lounge chair.

“Oh,” says Brit to Joy, realizing something. “Are you one of the Gathering friends?”

“Yeah,” says Joy. “I’ve known this bozo since we were little.”

“Brit means it, mothafucka,” says Brit with a quiet smile.

Joy smirks. “That was me, ha.”

“That’s incredible that you’ve been such good friends for so long,” says Brit.

“We’re not like friends-friends, though,” says Joy, and it’s the wrong thing to say, but she can’t close her stupid mouth fast enough to trap the words. So she keeps going, especially now that Mom is examining her performance. “We’re like family friends, like family-family. Anyway, I guess you could say we’re really close.”

This seems to satisfy Mom, who smiles and waddles out of the room with two kitchen trash bags.

Joy has just misted the room with bullfart, and I’m so convinced Brit can smell it that I want to facepalm the table to see how high I can send the plates. Instead, I stomp on her foot.

“Wow,” cries Joy to no one. She tries to stomp me back but only hits bare hardwood. “Wow, this tastes amazing,” she shouts.

This is getting stupid quick. I have to break up this table. I point at Q. “Is it time?”

Q springs to attention. He digs in his bag and produces a small game console.

“Time for Let’s Heart Dancing?” he says.

Everyone groans, but once Q has it set up and is dancing in his strange—but infectious—blind shaman style, people can’t help but join in. Brit grabs a controller and begins punching the air with her elbows. She glances at me, and I want nothing more than to be her dancing partner in a vectorized video game world of our own. But a jab in my ribs jolts me out of my dreaming.

“Your fuckin’ mom called my fuckin’ mom,” hisses Joy. “She’s all, Frankie invite you too, right? What the fuck was I fuckin’ supposed to do?”

“Fuckin’ pretend you were sick or some shit!” I hiss back.

“Fuck you, like I had a fuckin’ choice!”

“Go Brit, go Brit,” shouts Naima Gupta over the thudding music.

“You need to evac in five,” I whisper. “I’m fuckin’ trying to do something here.”

“What the fuck do I say?” says Joy. “I can’t just eat and run.”

“SAT study. Go.”

I get up, grab a controller, and dance with Brit. We face the screen and move in sync. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Joy bowing to Mom with both hands on her thighs, the picture of meek apology. She’s doing it: expressing regret for having to leave early, adamantly refusing leftovers, impressing upon Mom the urgency and importance of not keeping her fictional SAT study buddy waiting, gracefully berating her own lack of planning and rudeness.

She’s good.

“Frankie-ya,” says Mom. “Say bye to Joy.”

“Bye, Joy,” I say, not missing a beat.

“Aigu, Frankie, stop playing and say bye.”

“It’s okay,” says Joy. “Isn’t he so silly?”

Joy holds a finger-phone up to her ear—Brief me later—and leaves.

We’ve reached the part of the song where Brit and I must actually dance touching each other, and we do—just both palms joined, practically puritanical in its innocence, but to me it feels like getting married. Me and Brit, making asses out of ourselves with everyone as our witness. Including Mom, who just shakes her head with bemusement.

The dance ends. Brit and I heave our chests and watch the score rack up.

“Frank ninety-two, Brit one hundred,” shouts Naima Gupta. “Purr-fect.”

I’m so happy for Brit that I thrust my hands in the air to cheer, and immediately punch a solid wooden ledge by the fireplace.

Brit snatches up my hand. “Ouch. Are you okay?”

“I’m purr-fect,” I say, laughing. I’ve skinned my middle knuckle, but who cares.

I feel like I’ve dodged the swing of a huge razor-sharp pendulum. Tonight was a close one. But it was worth it. Brit and I sit jammed tight next to each other on the couch with the others, and she rests her sweaty arm on top of mine, and for a long moment I can picture things how I’d like them to be. Not how others think they should be, but how I want them: my terms, me, me, me.

One day, I’ll sit on this couch and kiss Brit Means like it’s nothing.

Suddenly Brit springs up. “I’ll help,” she says to someone. To Mom.

For Brit has spotted Mom clearing the table. When she tries to help, Mom holds her at bay with gentle refusal. But Brit leans in, armed with powerful manners of her own. A spectacular polite fight ensues that culminates with Mom awarding Brit an apron and a place at the sink. Brit’s good. Really good.

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