Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(76)

“So you’re going to say you’re sorry, right?” I say to Dad, with a lilt of hope.

But Dad remains firm. “I’m not any wrongdoing having. Mr. Song must be apologizing me first.”

“Daddy, Bible say—” says Mom.

“He saying very bad thing to you, too,” says Dad.

“Me?” I say. “What did he say about me?”

“Aigu, never mind,” says Mom.

“He saying more better you buying bulletproof vest too,” says Dad.

I squint with confusion. Joy’s dad was talking shit about me too?

“I’m not be associating no more Song family,” says Dad. “Everybody knowing they wrongdoing having. Mrs. Song knowing it. Joy knowing it.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Wait. Dad.”

Dad says nothing.

I flick a lever, tic-tic-tic, and take our exit.

“Dad, are you saying you don’t want me to associate with Joy?”

“I am free man,” says Dad. “You free too. You going your own way.”

“Are you saying you don’t want me to see Joy because of your own bullshit with Mr. Song?”

“Frankie-ya, calm down,” says Mom.

“You own-your-way you going,” says Dad. “I’m not be stop you. You make your own decision, making own consequence, okay? You understand what I’m saying?”

“No, I don’t understand what you’re saying,” I say.

“Frankie, slow down,” says Mom.

“I don’t get what’s happening right now,” I say. “Are you or aren’t you saying I am no longer allowed to see Joy?”

“You own-your-way you must be going,” says Dad quietly.

I’ve almost gone completely insane at this point.

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” I say. “You wanted me to date a Korean girl. I dated a Korean girl. I gave you exactly what you wanted. Now you’re saying it’s the wrong fucking Korean girl?”

“Frankie, don’t using bad word like that,” says Mom.

“Slow down,” says Dad.

“No, really,” I say. “Which girl do you want me to be with? Just tell me. Okay? Pick the hair you want, the big eyes you want, all that shit. Go ahead.”

“Why you shouting?” says Mom.

“I don’t fucking get you guys,” I shout.

“Frankie,” says Dad.

“I take one wrong step, I make one wrong move, you gonna disown me too?” I say. “I can’t win.”

“Frankie, stop it,” says Mom.

“Are you?” I say. “Did you seriously come all the way here to this country, raise two kids, just to not fucking talk to them again ever?”

We hit a pothole. I want to hit all the potholes until this stupid car shakes apart. Dad makes a sound, like this burble, and when I glance at him, I see him wincing.

“Frankie, drive careful,” says Dad. “Please.”

My rage pauses at the word please. Dad never says please.

Dad looks sick with fear.

“Mommy,” says Dad. “Gimme cup, cup, cup.”

Mom glances at the wax paper collar and the crushed moon circle. “No more cup, Daddy,” says Mom. She’s gripping both Dad’s seat back and mine.

“Frankie, stop,” cries Mom. “Stopstopstop.”

I stop the car. Thankfully we’re on a long stretch of empty unlit road, because when Dad kicks the door open to throw up on the ground, there are no passing cars to see it.

“Are you drunk?” I say, even though I already know he’s not. Mostly I ask out of sheer confusion.

I look at Mom, but she doesn’t answer. Neither does Dad. He simply shuts the door.

“I am okay,” says Dad. “Going home now, Frankie.”

We arrive at our house. It abuts a cinder-block wall separating it from the nearby freeway. I park in our oil-stained driveway flanked by brown stubble lawn. They say immigrants bring their aesthetic with them wherever they go, and now I know it’s true. Our house would probably look like a mansion to Korean country kids from the eighties.

I step out of the car and help Mom lead Dad into the house.

“Did you eat something funny?” I say.

“I am okay,” is all Dad will say.

I want to punch him, but he suddenly looks like a single punch would kill him.

We make it into the house.

“I go lying down,” says Dad, and slowly vanishes upstairs.

I hear him settle into bed, and the house becomes silent. It’s just me and Mom, standing among all the shoes in our foyer.

“Mom, what’s going on?” I say. It’s almost a whisper.

“He is okay,” says Mom. She blinks. A tear hangs from her eyelash.

“Mom, is Dad okay?”

“Go sleep,” says Mom. “We talking later.”

“Mom.”

“Don’t worry about anything,” says Mom. “We talking later. We are okay.”

“What is this we?”

“Go sleep, Frankie,” is all Mom will say. She ascends the stairs, leaving me alone.



* * *



? ? ?

When I finally begin to drift off in bed, I dream a cool hand is on my forehead. Is it Joy’s? I open my eyes.