Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(57)

“It’s nice one,” says Dad.

“Pretty soon you,” says Mom.

“Mom,” I say.

Mom tugs my jacket straight, then glances with astonishment past my shoulder. “Omona. So pretty.”

Omona means Oh my god.

And Mom’s right: there’s Joy, peering at me with plum lipstick and crushed onyx eyeliner, luxe goth. Just standing there in that dress.

Not just standing. Joy is ___________.

A) shimmering

B) coruscating

C) scintillating

D) effervescing

E) freaking gorgeous


My IQ drops to ten. “What the fuck,” I whisper.

Mom nudges me forward. “Go.”

“Have a fun,” says Dad.

Dad is smiling. Mom is smiling.

I ignore them. The reception hall is a gallery of silhouettes surrounding a single shaft of violet luminescence, and in that light awaits the maiden of— “Frank,” says Joy.

“Yo,” I say.

Joy folds her arms and examines me, then admits, “All right, you look hot.”

“You look”—I fish for the right word but come up short, so fuck it—“you look amazing.”

“I don’t feel amazing,” says Joy, casting sidelong glances with her elaborate, glistening eyes. “I feel exposed. This dress is all like, boobs!”

“Ha ha ha ha ha,” I say. “Hahaha ha ha haha ha.”

The forest around us turns into a constellation of eyes, all watching. Cheshire-cat smiles flicker on and off. People are watching. I catch a glimpse of Joy’s parents. Their clothes look like they cost ten times as much as Mom-n-Dad’s.

“This is a live-fire situation—we should get into character,” I say. For some reason I add, “Hold my hand.”

“Copy that,” says Joy.

We clasp hands. Hers is ice cold, like when it was on my cheek at the hospital. It would be ice cold running up my bare arm for sure.

There’s a flowery table with a guest book. There’s a pyramid of champagne glasses. A futuristic DJ rig manned by a huge guy in a tracksuit. There’s a parade of sumptuous flower wreaths on tall stands, gifts from families and local businesses, all flanking a sliding pile of impeccable gift envelopes—probably tens of thousands in cash, just sitting there. There’s an eight-foot-tall ice sculpture of a— “Of a,” I say, squinting hard at it.

“It’s a tiger,” says Joy.

“Getting attacked by this eagle up here.”

“So goddamn random,” says Joy.

“I love it,” I say.

“I hate it,” says Joy. “But so much that I love it?”

“I feel you.”

Her hand has gone hot and moist in mine, so I switch to warm up the other one.

There’s another table I can’t quite understand, made of bare steel and full of gray pinwheels and tubes and what look like dead flowers. It stands in front of plain sealed blackout doors. Maybe it’s some weird Korean thing I don’t know about?

“Torture table,” says Joy.

“Blood carnival game,” I say.

“Traditional Korean meat bingo,” says Joy.

“Self-serve acupuncture,” I say.

And so on. We do this until our faces hurt from giggling.

Eventually we go sit at the kids’ table. Andrew Kim, John Lim, and Ella Chang are already there. Our table must be too big, because there’s a couple free chairs. We sprawl out and claim it in the name of the Limbos.

“Dude, there are like no non-Koreans here,” says Andrew Kim. He’s wearing a maroon prom tux, because every wedding has that guy. He throws an arm over one of the empty chairs and scans the room. “She’s hot. She’s hot.”

“Please explain this whole thing you’re doing,” says Joy.

Andrew leans forward to explain. “Right now I’m inhabiting my character. I’m helping out with an indie thing up in LA. I play this super-shallow bro type, but who is secretly a kickass spy?”

“But?” says Joy.

“Yeah, how is that a but?” I say.

Andrew just looks at us.

Joy explains. “You’re implying that a bro is diametrically opposed to a kickass spy.”

“What she said,” I say.

Andrew thinks, then comes up with his checkmate move. “I got eight hundred on the Writing section.”

It’s moronic banter, the kind Hanna would love, and suddenly I miss my big sister. I take a selfie in my suit and send it along with Miss you. Hanna of course probably won’t write back until tomorrow or next week or whenever.

“You look like a princess,” blurts John Lim to Ella Chang.

Ella Chang smiles, then sweetens it with a nose wrinkle. “You look like a magician.”

“Wanna dance?”

“There’s no music right now, John.”

“When the music starts, that’s what I meant,” says John Lim.

I can’t take any more, so I lean in to Joy. “Wanna ditch and pretend to smoke cigarettes?”

“Heck yeah,” says Joy. “Just one rule: no talking about him.”

She must mean Wu. “Oh no.”

“Don’t make me cry. My makeup.” Joy dabs at her eyes with the tip of a napkin.