Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(91)

But so much for that.

The speeches end, we all stand, and me and Q just kind of toss our caps over our shoulders and walk away.

“The diploma things are empty!” shouts a voice. It’s Wu, surrounded by hysterically laughing girls watching him through raised phones. “We’re still in school, guys!” says Wu. “It’s not over!”

We get them in the mail, I want to say, but I’ll let Wu have his moment. One of the girls cannot help but run her hand down his chest, the way a dazzled child pets a big beautiful Labrador. Wu glances at me, whips a quick chin-nod. I nod back.

Me and Q head to his parents, who give me a hug.

“We’re so proud of you,” says Q’s mom.

“Diplomas on fleek,” says Q’s dad with great rapidity.

Evon stops texting the world only to snap uncomfortably close-up photos of me, Q, and her own golden tassel before resuming texting the world.

Behind Evon stand fifteen of her and Q’s relatives, all looking out of place in their East Coast jackets and boots. They’re taking photos of everything: palm trees, the hills, grass, a seagull eating half a hot dog. Stuff I never even notice.

Q introduces me to each and every one of them. As I’m shaking hands, I notice one guy just a couple years older than me dressed in a rainbow of blacks, with black elastics around his wrist and a Ken Ishii tee shirt. He’s staring at me as intently as I’m staring at him. His name is Francis.

“They say if you shake hands with your twin, the world will cease to exist,” says Francis Lee, cousin of Q Lee.

“Air shake, then,” I say, and vigorously masturbate the gap between us.

The formalities completed, me and Q head over to where Mom’s standing, alone.

Mom has been live-streaming the whole event to Dad at home with her phone mounted to a colossal telescoping stick. She swings the stick, hits me in the face, then backs up to compose the shot.

“Congratulation,” says Mom. She spanks the air with her free hand. “You hugging Q. Hugging-hugging.”

So me and Q hug.

“Congratulation,” says the tiny voice of Dad through the phone speakers.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say.

“Thanks, Mr. Li,” says Q.

I glance over to Joy’s parents a ways away. They are watching us. They probably assume Dad was too busy at The Store to come to his own son’s graduation. They’re probably judging us.

Let them judge. Dad is here, just not how they think.

Mom sees me looking at them. She waves them off and laughs. “You pretending hugging Daddy,” she says.

Q and I look at each other, then decide to hug invisible columns of air before us like the world’s worst dancers.

“Ha ha,” says Dad’s tiny voice. “I hugging too.”

Hanna’s here too, at least in text message form.

Congrats, baby brother . . . Let me know when you get my care package Mom swings the phone around, strikes someone at the base of their skull. When Dad begins to have a coughing fit, Mom snaps the stick closed and whispers to him close against the screen. She shoos me away.

“Go have a fun,” she says. “You celebrating.”

Graduations are supposed to be celebrations, so me and Q wander off to join a circle of classmates and stand around.

“It is done,” says Q.

“I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End,” I say.

“Some biblical shit right there,” says a voice.

It’s Joy. Her robe is stupid—all our robes are stupid—but somehow she manages to make it look sexy.

She gives Q a friend-hug, then gives me a friend-hug as well. Her touch is like giving a desert wanderer the last snort of water in an empty to-go cup. Nowhere near enough.

But I don’t complain or try for more, because I can feel the eyes on me.

Joy’s dad, watching me through cop sunglasses.

“Dinner? Dinner?” I say, pointing. “Everyone have their respective fancy dinners to go to?”

“Yeah,” says Q. “Remington Resort.”

“Dang,” says Joy. “We’re going to Capital Steakhouse.”

“Ain’t you two fancy?” I say. “I guess I’ll catch up with you guys later, then.”

Inside, I wonder, How many more times will I be able to say such a thing, and with such ease?

“Where are you going for dinner?” says Joy.

“Eh, probably just gonna stay home and order delivery,” I say as casually as I can. Because it’s kind of a boneheaded question, and I see Joy quickly kick herself for asking it.

“Of course,” she says. “Right, duh.”

I stifle the urge to kiss her embarrassment away, let her know it’s okay, don’t sweat it. We make do with another friend-hug. I give one to Q too, just to quell any suspicions. I hope he doesn’t notice my ulterior purpose, or care.

We part ways.

Within fifteen minutes, the graduation lawn stands empty. It is done.





chapter 33


asshole light




I tell Mom-n-Dad, “Go rest. I got this.” I pack away the half-finished food containers into the fridge. I load the dishwasher, squirt in detergent, and hit Start. I unfurl my graduation gown and hang it in the closet next to winter coats that never get any use.