Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(54)

“So, uh, okay,” I say. “This is spinach. This is kimchi. You guys know kimchi. This is kimchi too, but with cucumber. Same here, but with radish.”

“Can I ask what this is right here?” says Brit’s mom, pointing to the jelly.

“Mom,” says Brit. “Let’s just eat, okay?”

I stare at the jelly for answers. I love this jelly. But I have no idea what it’s made of.

“Uh,” I say. “Some kind of nut?”

“Oh, here comes a bowl of something interesting,” says Brit’s mom.

It’s the mul naengmyeon, a steel bowl of ice-cold noodle soup accompanied by side bottles of vinegar and mustard. It even has crushed ice floating in it, just how I like it. The waiter jabs into my bowl with the scissors, cutting the long noodles down to size.

“That is just wild,” says Brit’s dad. “What kind of noodles are those?”

I rack my brain. Finally I find the answer: “Buckwheat!”

“And the broth, what is that?” says Brit’s mom.

I rack my brain again. “I don’t know.” I laugh, but I feel like I’m failing as Tour Guide.

I glance at Brit. She’s staring at her mom-n-dad with a firm smile.

“Fewer questions, more eating, please,” she says.

Brit’s dad freezes, suddenly terrified that he might have been offending me. “It’s just that this is all so new for us, and we’re so curious,” he says.

“Maybe a little too curious,” says Brit’s mom with a laugh. “I’m sorry if we put you on the spot.”

All of this is totally fair. What’s new to them is familiar to me. But I can’t help wondering: if I were with Paul Olmo eating Filipino food—which I know nothing about—would I pepper him with questions too?

Would I?

“Dad, you love cheese, right?” says Brit.

“I do,” says Brit’s dad.

“And you’re a quarter French, right?” says Brit.

“So they tell me.”

“Do you know every last detail about what goes into making a good chèvre?”

“You’re saying so why should Frank know every last detail about all this,” says Brit’s dad. “Point taken. Excellent, excellent point.” He gives Brit’s hand a squeeze. And then, surprisingly, he squeezes mine too. He nods with this wistful sort of look that says, I learned something new today.

People who let themselves learn new things are the best kind of people.

“Brit’s right,” says Brit’s mom. “Her dad doesn’t know anything about cheese other than how to stick it in his mouth and chew.” She brightens the room with a chirpy laugh.

I join in. “Hey, I have no idea what buckwheat even looks like, let alone how to turn it into noodles. I just know they taste good.”

As soon as I say these words, I realize I’ve discovered the point. The point is not about playing Food Tour Guide. It’s not about peppering Paul Olmo with questions. The point is being able to say I have no idea. Without apology. With confidence, even. The same confidence Brit’s dad would have before a marble slab of unlabeled cheeses.

I have no idea, I realize, is a big part of who I am.

We eat too much, eat some more, and lean back in our chairs. Brit’s dad takes care of the check.

“Here’s to high SAT scores and fat college acceptance packets,” he says.

On the way out of the restaurant I feel the eyes of the kitchen on me. Were they listening to our table conversation? Did they expect me to have all the answers, too?

Whatever, I think, and smile.

Outside, me and Brit find a place to sit by ourselves while her mom-n-dad shop for antique glass floats and carved lighthouses and lobster mittens and so on.

“Sorry about all those questions,” says Brit. “My parents can be so ignorant sometimes. I had to save you.”

I touch her chin. “It’s all good. I’ve gotten questions before. You don’t have to save me.”

“You’re telling me I don’t have to save the boy I love. You would do it for me.”

This stops me. “I would. It’s true.” Say she were stuck in some conversation with an ignorant sexist bro. You bet I would stand up for her.

So why have I never stood up for Q?

I frown at this. Every time my parents have spouted their racist theories against black people, supported by their bullshit fake statistics, why haven’t I called them out?

Because my parents are the hand I was dealt, the hand I’m stuck with. I wish I could say something. For Q’s sake and mine. Mom-n-Dad will never really see the actual me if I keep my thoughts hidden away like this. But I’m scared to call them out, if I’m being totally honest. Because a child has to belong somewhere. What if you call out your parents, and all they do is slam a door in your face in response?

“The older I get,” says Brit, “the more my tolerance for dumb bullshit gets paper-thin.”

“Makes sense,” I say. But it doesn’t, not fully. There’s a tidbit I want to say, but it doesn’t feel like the right moment. I wonder if it ever will.

Here’s the tidbit I want to say but can’t find space for: if Brit’s tolerance for bullshit is paper-thin, mine is mantle-thick. Because unlike her, my parents’ bullshit is a core part of my life. My parents’ bullshit has the power to decide every hour of every day, on and on into the future.