Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(55)

Brit’s bullshit, on the other hand, washes off easily. She’ll always be free to date whom she wants, study what she wants, do whatever she wants just how she likes. Her bullshit will only ever amount to life lessons during meals, and not much more.

I’m not knocking Brit or anything. I’m just saying it must be nice.

“Can I tell you a secret?” says Brit.

I wait. Brit rests her cheek on my shoulder.

“I’m embarrassed by my parents,” she says.

“That’s not really a secret,” I say. “The real secret would be someone who thinks their parents are insanely cool. My parents embarrass me like it’s their job. But, you know. I’ll always love them.”

We watch a huge pelican cruise just above the water, hunting.

“You know all these unarmed teens getting shot by cops?” says Brit out of nowhere.

I look at her. “Okay?”

“I started seeing all these articles about how to have The Talk with your kids. Meaning black parents, with black kids, who have no choice but to have The Talk.”

“Q’s dad gave him The Talk when he was seven.”

“My parents don’t even know that a thing like The Talk exists. Whenever yet another kid gets shot, all they do is shake their heads, yell about systemic racist policies and the prison industrial complex, and get all fired up about equal rights—but then it always ends with You should feel lucky you don’t have to ever worry about this.”

I don’t tell her what Mom-n-Dad would say about a police shooting. Usually it’s If making trouble, police shooting, that’s it. I once watched as Hanna tried to argue with Dad—this was pre-Miles—to no avail. It was like debating a giant baby. I want to tell Brit she should feel lucky that her parents even recognize injustice toward black kids. That’s way more than I’ll ever get from Mom-n-Dad.

“They can’t even see their own privilege, and I hate that,” says Brit. She puts her cheek back on my shoulder. “I read somewhere that you need to hate your parents in order to leave them.”

“Because if you loved them, then you’d never be able to leave?”

I feel her nod. “Something like that, I guess.”

The pelican soars, then dive-bombs the ocean like an anchor falling from the sky.

“I love you,” says Brit.

“I love you,” I say immediately, making sure to remember the I this time.





chapter 21


lime-green nebula




The rest of the week flies by. I look at Brit a little differently now. Like there are more rooms than I realized in the house of her heart, and not necessarily neat-and-tidy ones.

The next “Song for Brit” will be in a minor key, that’s for sure.

Mom drives Dad to The Store, to keep him from straining his chest bandage, and they’ll work a full day together instead of in shifts. Other than that, nothing changes about those two. Dad’s been shot, but he just keeps on keeping on. Still not sure how to feel about that. But it’s not like my feelings can change what they choose to do.

Our calculus teacher, Mr. Soft, cancels all homework to reward us for completing SAT round two and lets us play Bird Slingshot for the duration of class. He tells us to say It’s parabolas if anyone asks.

In secret, I send Joy the photo of the phallic YOUNG DONG SEAFOOD sign.

You’re my first dick pic, says Joy. Thank you.

You already know why I send it in secret: so that Brit doesn’t think I like Joy or anything.

Joy sends me a photo of a huge painting of a black iris flower by Georgia O’Keeffe from her Art History elective, accompanied with an intrigued-face emoji. The black iris looks like a close-up of a monumental vagina.

You’re my first slot shot, I say. Thank you.

All day I think about our little photo exchange and burp out little laughs at random times, like a crazy person.

There’s no possibility of going out with Brit this weekend, because the whole thing is being swallowed up by Kyung Hee Chang’s wedding. To review: Kyung Hee is Ella Chang’s older sister, and the same age as Hanna. Kyung Hee was supposed to be an only child; Ella Chang’s appearance was something of an accident. Ella Chang always tells us she feels like the collateral fallout of her parents’ bottomless lust for each other.

They fucked too hard for the condom, she says, and we Limbos all reliably reply with a big Ew.

The most I’ll see of Brit this weekend is for a trip to the suit rental shop to get me fitted for the wedding. So after school I take Brit in the obstreperous Consta over to Just a Formality, where we wander through aisles of seemingly identical attire.

Mom’s armed me with a blank check. And now Mom texts me:

Pick suit whatever but NO MORE BLACK please Frank ok and also make sure you necktie matching Joy dress.

She appends a photo: a sleek indigo cocktail dress laid out on a bed with matching silk shoes and a big amethyst necklace.

The parents are playing dress-up with us now? Are we dolls?

I would roll my eyes, but they’re busy staring at the photo. It’s gonna be so funny seeing Joy all dressed up. Not funny. Weird. Not weird. New. I don’t know.

I put away the photo lest Brit get the wrong idea.

“I wish I could go to this fancy party with you,” says Brit.