Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(72)

How is that?

I don’t know. The first hard part is crossing that ridge. It’s also the simplest.

The other hard part—learning how to actually live life on the green windward side, well. That’s more complicated.

Pretty good scroll this time, Charles.

“Dad,” I say. “Were you scared when you first came to the States?”

“Me?” says Dad. “No.”

“Really?”

“Mom scared. Me, maybe little bit scared. Anyway, scary.”

“Wait. So you were scared.”

“Yeah, I’m scare long time. We first coming, no nothing. English? Only so-so. Only menial job we can getting. Money? Aigu. Three hundred dollars only we having. Almost two years we staying—”

“Then you stayed at Dr. and Mrs. Choi’s house for two years eating nothing but ramyun and kimchi rice, mhm.”

Dad smiles at the ground. He knows I’ve heard this a million times.

“I’m just curious, Dad. What were you scared about when you first got here? What was your single greatest fear?”

Dad smiles, thinking. He’s not necessarily happy, though. He just tends to smile when put on the spot. It’s more wincing than smiling.

“We scare,” says Dad, “maybe we coming all the way to United States, no nothing we having, maybe we borrowing money from friend, maybe we borrowing money from family. Maybe no success business, kids going bad school, maybe no house having. Waste time. Go back to Korea, aigu. They trouble making. Whole family becoming financial burden to everybody. Everybody say you failure making, better stay Korea first place.”

“So, shame.”

Dad nods gravely. “Paek family—you never meet them—car wash business they trying. Total money they losing. Finally? Go back Korea. Oh boy. Whole their family they prisoner, so-called financial bondage. Mr. Paek have heart attack. He die.”

Dad slices the air with the back of his hand. “Not me. No way.”

“Are you not scared of anything anymore?”

Dad laughs. “No.”

“You’re all set?”

“We doing okay, Frankie. You going college? Nice girl meeting? Make beautiful baby? That’s it. I die, oh, Frankie-ya, you doing good, I smiling smiling. Final breath I taking before shuffle off this mortal coil.” Dad laughs his cuckoo laugh.

I laugh too. “Dang, Dad, why you gotta go straight to death?”

I have the urge to ask him straight up about Hanna. This feels like a chance to do that. Or maybe not—because he stops laughing on a dime. He gets this weird lost look. Scared, almost. Is he thinking about her right now too? Is he wondering if he’ll never see Hanna again before he dies?

Dad can’t seem to figure out where to set his eyes, so he looks at the clock.

“Hey, you organizing walk-in cooler yet?” he says.

“Uh, no.”

“Ya, you go doing right now. We going Gathering soon.”

“All right, all right, I’m going.”

“Hurry up,” he barks.

“Okay, Dad, jeez.”

I grab my jacket and shut myself into the howling cold of the giant fridge. Things with Dad always go like this. We’re talking, everything’s great, and then suddenly he’ll get all psycho about something and shove me away. It makes me feel like a lunar lander on approach that only winds up slingshotting away instead of making contact.

I slam cases of beer and juice around. I marry loose cans to form complete six-packs; I rotate in new milk and set aside expired cartons. I’m so annoyed that I’m working at double speed, so fast that when I emerge out into the heat, I catch Dad doing something with a guilty look.

He’s got a skinny plastic orange container. It’s pills.

“What are those?” I say.

“Just vitamin,” says Dad. He’s already in his Gathering-appropriate polo shirt. “Medicine bottle I reusing. B12, calcium, fiber. You better taking vitamin too.”

“Teenagers don’t need vitamins, Dad.”

“Anyway we going now. Pali kaja.” Hurry up, let’s go.

“Let me see those vitamins.”

“Pali kaja,” says Dad, pocketing the bottle. “You driving, okay?”

We get in Dad’s old QL5. I notice the front edge of the driver’s seat has frayed and split open.

“Fine, let me take some of your vitamins, then,” I say. I say it too loud, like I’m insisting on picking a fight. But I know those are not vitamins.

“This one only old people special taking,” says Dad. “I buying regular multivitamin tomorrow, for you taking.”

And then Dad’s quiet the whole drive. Normally he’d be pointing out the fluctuating ethnicities of the passing neighborhoods, or how all small businesses everywhere are struggling except ours thanks to Mom-n-Dad’s hard work and sheer guile, but not this time. I want to figure out what the hell’s going on with him. I want to ask:


What are those pills really?





Are you mad I came home so late last night?





Are you feeling guilty about Hanna?





Are you feeling weird about me leaving soon for college?