Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(88)

“Oh, Luis cousin doing so good job mopping,” murmurs Dad to the screen.

“We should be hiring sooner,” says Mom.

“We making less money,” says Dad.

“But more time we having, figure it out!”

“You right,” says Dad. “More time we having.”

“Guys,” I say.

Mom looks up. She looks like the girl in her yearbook. “Have a fun,” she sings.

Then she snuggles closer to Dad and returns to the tablet.

I’m so proud of myself I could puke rainbows.

“Ninety percent of Mexicans, they stealing,” says Dad to the screen, quoting his own fake statistics. “But Luis not stealing nothing.”

“Not ninety percent,” says Mom, armed with fake statistics of her own. “Something like seventy-five percent.”

“Luis cousin no steal nothing too,” says Dad, impressed.

I roll my eyes so high it hurts, and leave.



* * *



? ? ?

It feels good to be back to what I hope will become an old routine:


Pick up Q





Go to Joy’s, have Q ring the doorbell





Get in the Consta, floor it





Go over the plot synopsis of Dwarven Wars just in case





Park, then give Q a big group hug to let him know how much we love him for this





Grow uncomfortable with guilt as Q shrugs and says, What are single friends for?





Part ways for three to four hours





“What are you gonna do with yourself?” I say.

“Plan out our next big Dungeons & Dragons campaign at a cafe, maybe,” says Q, shifting his heavy backpack. “Paul wants to play one more before summer ends.”

“Nerds,” says Joy.

We look at her like So?

Everything is full tonight in the warehouse district: the food trucks, the shitty Burger Mac, that brand-new Sixth Taste, everything. A woman and her daughter are grilling bacon-wrapped hot dogs illegally on a converted shopping cart—delicious, illegal hot dogs—and even she’s got at least a forty-minute line of customers.

It’s pre-graduation madness. Has to be. There’s only one restaurant that’s remotely feasible.

Cheese Barrel Grille.

“Shoot me in the head and stuff it with socks,” says Joy.

“That’s super disgusting,” I say.

“Let’s just go,” says Joy.

They give us an LED buzzer coaster, which Joy hisses at. We head outside and down the street to see if we can get tickets to the Henry Gallery, but there’s a surging line there, too.

“Maybe it’ll be shorter by the time we’re finished with dinner,” I say.

“Grr,” says Joy. “I’m getting hangry, so call me on my bullshit if I bullshit.”

“Easy, wild beastie,” I say. “They said half an hour.”

The only thing to do is get a couple of sodas and stand around a cocktail table shaped like a barrel with a cheese logo stamped onto its side. Joy sips fiercely. I wrap an arm around her, put my straw in her drink, pretend we’re an old-tyme couple in an old-tyme soda parlor, and she softens a little bit. We even kiss a little, until we discover a family of four staring at us and stop.

“Ng, party of four?” says the thin, European-American hostess with flat eyes.

The dad from Ng Party of Four triumphantly offers the hostess his pulsating coaster, and they vanish into Cheese Barrel Grille’s neon-lit interior.

“We were here before them,” says Joy.

“Were we?” I say.

Joy stabs her ice cubes with a straw. “Definitely.”

“I don’t know,” I say.

Joy practically scowls at me. “Yeah, but I know. We were.”

I rub her back. “Hey, look, we have only like ten minutes to go. You want another soda?”

Joy cocks her hip and eyes the hostess podium. “I’m gonna say something.”

“Joy, come on.”

“Not gonna sit here and just take this kind of shit.”

The hostess comes bustling back, and suddenly Joy’s there to intercept her.

“Hey, we were here before the Ngs, miss—Becky?”

“Joy, hey,” I hiss, and slit my throat with my thumb.

Joy ignores me. “Why did they get to go first?”

The hostess gives Joy a blank look. “We seat our guests based on table availability. They’re four, you’re two.”

“So can’t you just split the table?”

“We’re unfortunately unable to saw our four-tops in half,” says the hostess, and begins dabbing at her podium screen.

“Are we next?” says Joy.

“I have you ready in about ten minutes,” says the hostess. “Would you like another soda?”

“I don’t want another soda, Becky,” says Joy.

Becky freezes in midtap and just stares at Joy. Is she considering kicking us out? Because that would make this already great night even better.

I lunge forward to grab Joy. “Ten minutes is great,” I say.