Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(83)

“I don’t know,” says Joy.

I look at her.

Joy draws a circle on her thigh. “Here’s us. Kissy-kissy. But outside the circle is all this endless bullshit. And it just sucks. It makes me feel icky and tainted.”

“Like a forest covered in tar,” I mutter.

“Huh?”

“I said, ‘Me too.’”

I cover the circle with my palm, then place her hand atop mine.

“Can we agree not to let the endless bullshit get to us?” I say.

“Can you agree that it sometimes will, though?” says Joy. “I mean, I can’t believe I have a king dick for a dad. I’m so ashamed of him. His pride. Fucking with our lives.”

I raise the armrest and pull Joy closer. A brown leaf blows in from outside and lands on my thigh. The leaf’s cells have dried out and turned it into lace.

How long do our parents hold power over us? I wonder. Is it only as long as we let them?

As if in answer, Hanna finally texts back on my fartphone.

You can have anything you want in my room, she says. Are you wearing my clothes too? Bad joke, I would totally support you if you had gender issues to work out

Maybe the answer is forever: our parents hold power over us until they die and beyond.

I promise myself to call Hanna soon.

“Compose thine garmenture,” says a voice. “For here approacheth anon your humble servant Q with such light step that the snowflake herself wouldst grow heavy with envy at missing—”

“Ask him who he likes,” I say to Joy. “Blindside him.”

Joy pops her head out the window.

“Who do you like?” she yells.

“I shall whisper the answer to that mystery upon my last breath,” says Q, not missing a single damn beat. “And not a sigh ere. Motherfucker.”

“Grr,” says Joy. She climbs into the back seat so Q can ride shotgun. We arrange ourselves like this for a specific reason: for visibility.

As we gather the Bags of Holding.

We head to my house first. I park right in the driveway. Mom peeks out and flashes a frown at the sight of Joy in the irreproachable Consta. But she also sees Q riding shotgun, and smiles and waves like normal.

I run in, grab my Bag of Holding, and drive off.

We get to Joy’s house. Joy gives my right earlobe a pinch as she hops out, heaves open the front door of her house, and disappears for a long, soundless moment before reappearing. The great door is easing closed behind her when it stops.

It reopens.

Joy’s dad stands there. Impeccable. Intelligent. Penetrating.

I see Joy’s dad say something to Joy. Joy says something back. He raises a cautionary finger, still staring right at me, and says something more. Then he looks at Q, and suddenly gives an absurdly cheerful wave.

Jesus, what would this guy do if it were just me and Joy without Q?

I watch Joy groan, twirl her hair into a spinning umbrella of green underglow, and hustle back to the car.

“Let’s get the fuck outta here,” she sighs.

So I drive. Joy’s dad’s eyes follow us as we leave.

“You okay?” I say.

“Yeah-but-nah,” says Joy.

“I feel that,” I say.

“Our parents, who wanted us to date, no longer want us to date,” says Joy to Q. “Can you believe that shit?”

“Actually, yes,” says Q.

We hit Q’s house last. While Q runs up his four-hundred-mile-long gravel driveway, I stretch myself to the back seat to clock in a few more kisses with Joy. Hot twin sister Evon appears in one of the windows, rolls her eyes at us, and vanishes.

“That crazy wingnut has all my phone chargers,” I say.

“I’ll kill her,” says Joy.

When we reach Cafe Adagio, it’s nearly empty: no students with their laptops, no nothing.

“I guess the senioritis has hit this place, too,” I say.

“Inflammation of the senior,” says Joy.

We order our drinks and take over the biggest table we can find. Q instructs us to raise our Bags of Holding laden with envelopes.

There are two types of college admissions responses: Fat envelopes and Thin envelopes. Fat is good. You want Fat. Fat means we have lots to talk about, and we need all this space for all the words.

Thin, on the other hand, means they need space for only one word.

“This is it,” says Q. “Dump on the count of three. Joy, do not jump the gun this time.”

“I won’t,” says Joy.

“I mean it,” says Q.

“I won’t, jeez,” says Joy.

“One,” I say.

“IgotinIgotin,” cries Joy. Six envelopes now lie tumbled before her, two Thin, four Fat, and she holds up a Fat marked with the Carnegie Mellon University logo.

Q and I still stand poised with our Bags of Holding as Joy springs up and down.

“I knew you’d get in,” I tell her, beaming. “I knew it. You’re a rock star.”

“Thank you, Frankie,” says Joy, and kisses me. She gives me a look. I know what the look means, because I’m giving the same look to her, too. It’s the look that says I guess this is really happening.

“Come on, Frank, onetwothree dump,” sighs Q.

“Onetwothree dump,” I say.