Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(84)

We dump. The envelopes spill onto the table like fish.

I sift through my pile. UC Berkeley, in. Yes. I pump a fist. Goal achieved. UCLA, in. Too close to home, but I’ll keep it in my back pocket. Princeton, no, whatever, and The Harvard, no. Also whatever. I was expecting nos from those two. Plus, at the moment I could not care less.

Because now I see a big red S and a tree: one of the stupidest logos ever created, but to me it transforms the envelope it adorns into a priceless work of art.

It is a Fat.

It is Stanford.

The Harvard of the West.

Actually, fuck everybody: Harvard’s the goddamn Stanford of the East.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” says Joy, and leaps onto my back. I stumble to keep my balance. I feel dumbfounded, like my face has just been hit by a flying bag of marshmallows, and I slowly turn to face Q.

“We’re gonna be roommates,” I say.

“My man!” screams Q, and hugs my neck.

Now there are two people hanging off my body. My two best friends on the surface of this unfair, messy, and tragic planet Earth.

“Ow,” I say.

Q lets go; Joy slips off as I tip backward, hitting her butt on the floor.

“Let me see yours,” I say to Q. “Where is it?”

We sift through his prodigious pile—Q applied to fifteen schools—using all six of our hands to spread everything across the whole table surface.

“Where is it, where is it,” I say. I’m scanning for the big red S and its tree. Howard, Georgia Tech, Cal Tech, Cornell, all Fats, and finally there it is: Stanford.

It’s a Thin.

Everything’s gone quiet. Even the baristas say nothing. They eye us nervously from behind their big coffee machines.

“Q,” I say.

Q’s knees buckle once and he catches himself at the edge of the table.

“I don’t get it,” says Q. He carefully picks up the envelope and tugs at its edges, like maybe it shrank in the wash. Then he lets it drop.

“But my uncle does research there,” says Q to no one. “Even my stupid sister got in. This makes no sense.”

“Oh, Q,” says Joy.

Now it’s our turn to hang off of him. He doesn’t handle the weight so well, and falls into a chair.

“Stanford was my only West Coast school,” says Q. “I just assumed.”

“You didn’t apply to Berkeley?”

Q shakes his head. “I just assumed.”

“What’s your second choice?”

Q shrugs and nudges a Fat on the pile. “Well, I guess I got into MIT, but.”

My eyes go flat. “You got into MIT.”

He shrugs at the envelope. It is most definitely a Fat. It’s the most Fat one there.

“You got into MIT,” I say.

“We’re gonna be so far away from each other,” he says.

Q, I decide, is the stupidest smart person I know. I take the envelope, hold it by two corners, and give it a generous backswing.

“Don’t,” says Joy.

“I have to do this,” I say, and score a clean hit to Q’s temple.

“You got into MIT,” I say, hitting Q over and over again. “You got into MIT. You got into MIT.”

“I guess that’s something to be proud of, huh,” says Q finally.

There’s a pitter-patter of applause coming from behind the counter as the glamorous baristas clap their finely boned hands together.

“You kids are, like, smart,” says the male barista.

“Jyeah,” says the female barista through her chewing gum.

Me, Joy, and Q huddle in close for a group forehead hug.

“We did it,” I say. “I’m happy and sad at the same time.”

“Sappy,” says Q.

“Had,” says Joy.



* * *



? ? ?

When I get home, I flop the Stanford Fat onto the kitchen counter. Mom smiles like I knew it. Of course Mom knew. She’s the one who’s been dutifully packing the Bag of Holding in the first place. She takes the Thin from Harvard and simply rips it in half and smiles.

Dad’s at The Store. I call him with the news.

“You doing good,” says Dad.

You doing good means Mom and I are so, so proud of you and all of your hard work and diligence. Don’t sweat all that Harvard stuff. We love you.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say.

I go upstairs.

I flop onto my bed. I never hit it, though, because I’m as light as a toy balloon. I just kind of float an inch above the comforter. I’m an astronaut, and this is my first exciting night aboard the International Space Station, where of course they have normal beds that look just like mine.

School is done. Admissions are done. I did great. So did everyone else: the Limbos, the Apeys.

We all doing good.

I see the rolling meadow full of people and picnics and kids, and hey: Joy’s there too. All that’s left to do is be with her as long as I can until the sun sets and the streetlights come on.





chapter 30


a land called hanna li




—It’s Frankie!

—Dude!

—Du-u-u-de.

—Does your portable texting device not work in Boston?