Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(94)

Asshole light.

I lower myself off the edge of the deck and grasp the bar to dangle for a moment before my hand slips, and I find myself in midair. Well, that’s perfect, I think. I’m falling.

It’s the exact wrong thing to think, of course, because if I’m ever going to learn how to fly, I should focus my mind on something else, something entirely irrelevant, so that I’ll miss the ground and soar upward instead.





chapter 34


if you say so



MESSAGES



JOY SONG



EDIT



CLEAR CONVERSATION



ARE YOU SURE?



ALL MESSAGES DELETED




The doctor finally comes in, swivels a monitor my way, and shows the inside of my ankle.

“Nothing broken,” she says. “Except maybe your pride, ha ha!”

“Pthpthpthh,” I say.

“I’m joking, I’m a dad-joker, so, anyway. It’s an inversion sprain. Not too-too bad.”

“Not broken,” says Mom with relief. She punches my shoulder. “Aigu, stupid.”

“We get a lot of this sort of thing this time of year among a certain youthful demographic,” says the doctor.

“He going graduation party so late,” says Mom. “Not even he drinking!”

“Remember RICE,” says the doctor.

Racist, I want to shout.

“Rest, ice, compression, elevate,” the doctor says.

“So not racist,” I say out loud. Whoops.

“Someone’s feisty,” says the doctor, and looks me up and down. Is this mature female doctor really hitting on me in front of my own mother?

“Thank you, doctor,” says Mom, oblivious. “He getting into Stanford.”

“Ooh, gets real hot up there,” says the doctor.



* * *



? ? ?

I slip an elastic bag over my foot to shower because I’m too lazy to undo and redo the brace. Then I sleep until two. I could sleep until dinner if I wanted to. I could sleep until September and wake up just in time for convocation.

Because it’s summer.

Summer.

“So much for the summer of love,” I say to my pillow.

I hobble down the steps, Rest with a baggie of Ice on my Compressed ankle sitting Elevated on a cushion next to Dad resting with his legs elevated too, and post a short video to Snapstory in a totally depressing cry for attention.

Within minutes, Q says, I’m coming over.

I also notice Joy’s name among my dozen viewers of the video. I go to her feed and fling it up and down for a bit. And this, I guess, is our future.

Life got complicated, and Joy spooked. She gave up on our love. It makes me realize: love is a belief mutually held. As soon as that belief fades on either end, then poof, the whole thing falls face-flat like a tug-of-war suddenly gone one-sided.

I let my fartphone fall to the floor, then fall asleep again.

Ding-dong. I wake up. Dad’s gone. I’m alone.

“Frankie-ya,” says Mom. “Q here.”

“Don’t get up,” says Q. He drops his big heavy backpack and takes a seat close to my elevated foot. “What the heck did you do? No toes missing?”

“Remember, we were at that crazy warehouse party, and I slipped on that big puddle by the thing?” I say, making my eyes as big as I can.

“Ohhhh ahhhh riiiight,” says Q. “That thing was amazing.”

“I check on Daddy,” says Mom. We wait until she leaves to lower our voices.

“I went to see Joy last night,” I whisper, and let my eyes fall.

“Oh no,” says Q.

I nod.

“But—you—she—” says Q.

“We’re done. Dunzo. Donut disco.”

“Donut disco?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“I can get you donuts. Whatever you need right now.”

“I want Joy,” I cry, and shade my eyes with a stiff hand.

“Oh man, come here, come here,” says Q. “Let big papa Q hug it out.”

“I don’t want donuts,” I sob. “I don’t want any of this shit. I just want everyone to stay put. I don’t want Joy’s stupid Snapstory. I don’t want you three thousand miles away. I don’t want Dad to—”

“Oh man,” says Q. “Get serious now, really hug it all out.”

When I’m done, Q’s tee shirt is all wet.

“Sorry,” I say.

Q looks at the tearstains with an odd sort of pride. “Don’t be sorry. You’re lucky.”

“Jyeah right, so lucky, look at me.”

“You love hard enough to cry,” says Q. “I admire that.”

I just have to laugh at this, and Q joins in. “You know how weird you sound?” I say.

“You’re the one all diarrhea diapers and donut discos.”

I smile at my friend. My best friend. “You wanna go out somewhere?”

“You’re not going anywhere with that ankle,” says Q, “which you still need to explain. And besides, I have with me our completed, ready-to-play final campaign.”