Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(62)

Q puts an arm around me and we walk slow, slower than we usually walk, like hospital patients doing a turn about the ward. Eventually we reach the school entrance.

From behind a column a tall, muscular prince with the eyes of a hawk sidesteps into our path.

Wu.

“This is for Joy,” says Wu Tang, and punches my head.

That makes no sense, I want to say, but the crack of the ground on the back of my head stops me. I go down with even timing, like the crisp pop-krak of an electro backbeat. A speck of ash falls into my eye from above. Saying This is for Joy might not make sense, but the punch does. The punch makes perfect sense.

I just have to laugh.

“What the fuck,” shouts Q. “Help!”

I turn to see Wu holding Q at bay. “You gotta let me do this, bro,” says Wu, before turning back to me.

“Fuckin’ steal my girl?” says Wu.

“No,” I say, shielding my face. “Yes. I don’t know.”

“Fuckin’ steal my girl?” says Wu.

“She stole me. We stole each other. I’m sorry, okay?”

“What the fuck is going on?” says Q.

“I thought we were buds, Frank Li,” says Wu. “Then Brit comes up to me.”

When I look up, I see that I’m the one who’s hurt Wu, not the other way around.

Shit.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m really, truly sorry. I mean it.”

Wu dismisses some dark thought with a flick of his cowlick hair. He straightens. Then he offers me his hand. He offers it like he’s remembering protocol from some Rulebook for Gentlemen: When a man is down, offer him a hand up.

I take his hand and rise. My eye is already throbbing.

Wu takes a step back and examines me. “You disappoint me so bad, bro.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nurse’s office is down that way,” says Wu to Q. “Take him there right now, get some ice on it.”

“Uh,” says Q.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” I say.

“Just go,” cries Wu, and turns his back to leave.

Wu walks with his fist cocked and raised, and one by one slams seven locker doors shut on his way out.





chapter 23


you eating melon




Traffic is hell—most of the roads heading into the hills are closed because of the brush fire—but Q and I hardly notice. We roll up the windows of the grumbling Consta, close the vents, and enjoy the AC. Three fire trucks go screaming by, whee-whee-whee.

We hardly notice because I’m busy telling Q everything, as instructed. I tell him:


How the words I love you never quite traveled the air right toward Brit





How I often found myself thinking of Joy first thing in the morning





How such signs are now obvious in hindsight





How the stupid touristy Landworth ship will forever mark the most romantic night of my short life so far





How this black eye is really a passport stamp on my face, finally letting me out of the purgatory of Love Customs and into the welcoming area of Gate J Arrivals (the J stands for Joy)





“Your metaphors are giving me the pre-puke drools,” says Q. “Please don’t ever try to become a writer.”

“I think I’ve been through a lot.”

Q smiles at me. “Now that I know the whole story, you clearly deserve that eye. But Joy feels right. I’m happy for you.”

Q puts the car into Park to give me a side-hug. Someone honks at us from behind.

“Eat my butt cheek,” shouts Q to the rearview mirror.

We get to Q’s, crunch the white gravel path to his Byzantine double front doors, and are greeted with howls of worry and concern from his mom.

“It was a tetherball accident,” I say.

“You need to stop taking tetherball so seriously,” says Q’s mom.

“Tetherball is not a sport,” says Q’s dad, with a pair of glasses atop his head, another pair on his face, and another around his neck. “But that does not mean it’s harmless.”

We eat—this incredible osso buco—forget to clear our dishes, and run upstairs so Q can show me this Pax Eterna game everyone’s talking about.

“Poor Brit’s gotta be heartbroken,” says Q while the game loads. “But the heart wants what it wants.”

“I hate myself for hurting Brit,” I say. “But I had to be honest with myself.”

“I’m really, terribly, awfully happy for you, old bean,” says Q.

“It would’ve been worse to string Brit along, right?”

The game is ready. But Q can’t seem to shake a nagging thought. “You didn’t choose the tribe, did you?”

“That’s a valid question. But no way.” I switch hands to hold my ice bag. But now I find myself wondering: Did I fall in love with Joy because we have more in common?

A favorite book of mine, the sci-fi comedy classic Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, says the secret to flying is simply to fall toward the ground without actually hitting it. The way you do this to forget the fact that you’re falling, even as you’re falling.