Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(52)

“Tickles,” I say. But really I’m still laughing because of Joy.

Me and Brit wait for her dad to come pick her up. She tried telling him not to bother, that she and I were going to spend the rest of the day out together, but by then he was already in the car, and he’s apparently the only one on the planet who is disciplined enough to not even look at their phone while driving.

I realize I’m hungry. I reach into my bag and unwrap a little circular pastry from a square of wax paper. I offer Brit one.

“What is it?” she says.

“Homemade marzipan. Someone brought a bunch to The Store yesterday for Dad.”

When I take a bite, Brit peers in close to examine the result.

“What’s in it?” she says.

“No idea,” I say. “Just eat, don’t think.”

I unwrap one for her, and she takes a bite, then another, then another, and it’s gone.

After a beat, Brit says, “So how’s your dad?”

I feel a twinge—short and sharp, but with long sustain that takes time to ebb from my chest. Brit senses it, of course. She touches her thigh to mine to let me know: I forgave you a while ago now. We’re okay. And I relax. Body language is a real thing.

“Dad’s good,” I say, reaching for another piece of marzipan. I have a dozen. “He’s frickin’ back at work at The Store. He got himself a padded stool to sit on, though—woo-hoo.”

“Really pampering himself,” says Brit.

We laugh for a few seconds and dangle our legs off the wall. I find myself smiling sadly. I keep thinking, Shouldn’t Dad be doing what he loves? Not working his life away at The Store all the time? But then I think, What is it exactly that he loves most? He has no hobbies. No friends. What if The Store is it?

“He’s a weird guy,” is all I can say.

“He just speaks a different language than you,” says Brit. She unwraps another piece of marzipan. Brit Means likes marzipan: noted. “And I don’t mean Korean versus English.”

“Do you feel like you speak a different language from your parents?”

“I feel like everyone speaks a different language from everyone else.” Brit smiles. “Except us.”

“We finish each other’s—”

“Sandwiches,” says Brit.

“Come here.” And I kiss her.

“Wait, I’m still eating.” Brit gulps down her pastry to continue kissing me. Our legs stop moving. Everything goes still. This stillness is something to live for.

When I open my eyes, I see someone watching us from around a corner. It’s Joy. She crosses her eyes and tongue-kisses the air, then vanishes. I snort.

“What?” says Brit.

“Nothing,” I say. “Your shirt is funny.”

“I love you,” whispers Brit.

“Love you too,” I say. I realize I left out the I part of that sentence—I love you too—but correcting myself would be strange, so I just leave it.

“I could feel you wanted to say more about that evolution question on the SAT,” she says. She says it in that whispery, intimate Brit Means voice of hers. “But you stopped yourself. Why? I want to hear what’s on your mind.”

Okay.

“It’s just,” I say. “Being me? My whole Korean-American situation?”

Brit squeezes my arm and waits.

At first, I can’t tell why this is so hard for me. But really I’m lying to myself. I know exactly why it’s hard for me. Because down this conversational road is the acknowledgment of a fundamental difference between me and Brit—a fundamental difference of being—and I can’t bear to admit that such a difference exists. Brit—wise, awakened, aware Brit—belongs to a white majority whether she wants to or not, and is entitled to all its privileges—also whether she wants them or not.

“I feel like I don’t belong anywhere and every day it’s like I live on this weird little planet of my own in exile,” I say all in one breath. This is impossible to talk about. But I force myself to. “I’m not Korean enough. I’m not white enough to be fully American.”

As I think of what else to say, Brit speaks. “My dad called you an honest-to-goodness, red-blooded, all-American kid. He said it was obvious from the moment he met you. He really likes you.”

Obvious? Really? Because for most people all-American means—

“For most people, all-American means white,” says Brit.

I lock eyes with her and see infinite recursive reflections of the two of us. Suddenly I feel like we’ve stepped into a new land. Brit and I are starting to talk about the hard stuff. It’s a step toward giving her the hardest truth of all: my parents are racist.

“I love my dad,” she says. “But he can be a lefty bullshitter sometimes. I don’t doubt he sees you as this all-American boy. But I also know that if it weren’t for me, seeing you as you-you and nothing else, it probably wouldn’t occur to him to call you all-American. Just like it wouldn’t occur to him to think of himself as anything but white.”

Her nothing else makes me wonder what exactly I am, but I shake off the thought. Because Brit sees me. As in really sees me. That’s a rare thing.

There’s a car approaching.

“And here he is,” says Brit.