Frankly in Love

by David Yoon

  I’m guessing Brit’s mom is a hobbyist psychologist—both Brit’s mom-n-dad are smart enough to be hobbyist anything—and I wish I could have her work on my dad in an interrogation room. Maybe Brit’s mom could solve the riddle of him.

  Brit’s dad opens the menu, flips through it, puts it down. He turns to me. And here it comes: “Maybe it’d be easier if you just ordered for us, Frank?”

  I smile, but inside I’m irked. Brit’s dad, despite his very Anglo last name of Means, would never be able to explain everything about, say, Irish cuisine. More importantly, he would never be expected to. Brit’s dad is only ever expected to be one thing, and that’s plain old generic American.

  I’m not knocking Brit’s dad or anything. I’m just saying it must be nice.

  Because I’m still expected to be the Korean expert, whether I know anything or not. In other words, I’m still expected to be Korean first, then plain old generic American second. That damn hyphen in Korean-American just won’t go away.

  I can’t say any of this out loud, because I’m at lunch with Brit’s parents and I want to keep things nice and light. So:

  Hi, I’m Frank, and I’ll be your Korean Food Tour Guide for the duration of today’s meal.

  Our waiter brings us tiny glasses of not water, but cold barley tea.

  Brit’s dad fishes out his reading glasses. “Now what’s this we’re drinking here?”

  “Uh,” I begin. “It’s cold tea. It’s called, uh, boricha.”

  “Boricha,” say Brit’s parents, impressed.

  “Oh, this tea has a wonderful roasted body to it,” says Brit’s mom.

  I hand the heavy menus to the waiter. “We’ll just get three kalbis, a mul naengmyeon for me, maybe one of those small squid pajuns to start.”

  The waiter hollers out, “Kalbi segeh mul naengmyeon hana haemul pajun hana!”

  “Yeh!” the kitchen crew hollers back.

  The food comes at us with blinding speed. First, all the banchan: tiny dishes of spinach and roasted baby anchovies and potato salad and spiced jelly and so on.

  “Oh my goodness,” says Brit’s mom. “You’re going to have to explain all of these, Frank. I’m afraid we’re a little bit—”

  “We’re terribly white,” says Brit’s dad.

  “Dad,” says Brit, in the same voice I use for Mom-n-Dad. In my mind I can hear her say: It’s European-American.

  I vow to keep things nice and light.

  “So, uh, okay,” I say. “This is spinach. This is kimchi. You guys know kimchi. This is kimchi too, but with cucumber. Same here, but with radish.”

  “Can I ask what this is right here?” says Brit’s mom, pointing to the jelly.

  “Mom,” says Brit. “Let’s just eat, okay?”

  I stare at the jelly for answers. I love this jelly. But I have no idea what it’s made of.

  “Uh,” I say. “Some kind of nut?”

  “Oh, here comes a bowl of something interesting,” says Brit’s mom.

  It’s the mul naengmyeon, a steel bowl of ice-cold noodle soup accompanied by side bottles of vinegar and mustard. It even has crushed ice floating in it, just how I like it. The waiter jabs into my bowl with the scissors, cutting the long noodles down to size.

  “That is just wild,” says Brit’s dad. “What kind of noodles are those?”

  I rack my brain. Finally I find the answer: “Buckwheat!”

  “And the broth, what is that?” says Brit’s mom.

  I rack my brain again. “I don’t know.” I laugh, but I feel like I’m failing as Tour Guide.

  I glance at Brit. She’s staring at her mom-n-dad with a firm smile.

  “Fewer questions, more eating, please,” she says.

  Brit’s dad freezes, suddenly terrified that he might have been offending me. “It’s just that this is all so new for us, and we’re so curious,” he says.

  “Maybe a little too curious,” says Brit’s mom with a laugh. “I’m sorry if we put you on the spot.”

  All of this is totally fair. What’s new to them is familiar to me. But I can’t help wondering: if I were with Paul Olmo eating Filipino food—which I know nothing about—would I pepper him with questions too?

  Would I?

  “Dad, you love cheese, right?” says Brit.

  “I do,” says Brit’s dad.

  “And you’re a quarter French, right?” says Brit.

  “So they tell me.”

  “Do you know every last detail about what goes into making a good chèvre?”

  “You’re saying so why should Frank know every last detail about all this,” says Brit’s dad. “Point taken. Excellent, excellent point.” He gives Brit’s hand a squeeze. And then, surprisingly, he squeezes mine too. He nods with this wistful sort of look that says, I learned something new today.

  People who let themselves learn new things are the best kind of people.

  “Brit’s right,” says Brit’s mom. “Her dad doesn’t know anything about cheese other than how to stick it in his mouth and chew.” She brightens the room with a chirpy laugh.

  I join in. “Hey, I have no idea what buckwheat even looks like, let alone how to turn it into noodles. I just know they taste good.”

  As soon as I say these words, I realize I’ve discovered the point. The point is not about playing Food Tour Guide. It’s not about peppering Paul Olmo with questions. The point is being able to say I have no idea. Without apology. With confidence, even. The same confidence Brit’s dad would have before a marble slab of unlabeled cheeses.

  I have no idea, I realize, is a big part of who I am.

  We eat too much, eat some more, and lean back in our chairs. Brit’s dad takes care of the check.

  “Here’s to high SAT scores and fat college acceptance packets,” he says.

  On the way out of the restaurant I feel the eyes of the kitchen on me. Were they listening to our table conversation? Did they expect me to have all the answers, too?

  Whatever, I think, and smile.

  Outside, me and Brit find a place to sit by ourselves while her mom-n-dad shop for antique glass floats and carved lighthouses and lobster mittens and so on.

  “Sorry about all those questions,” says Brit. “My parents can be so ignorant sometimes. I had to save you.”

  I touch her chin. “It’s all good. I’ve gotten questions before. You don’t have to save me.”

  “You’re telling me I don’t have to save the boy I love. You would do it for me.”

  This stops me. “I would. It’s true.” Say she were stuck in some conversation with an ignorant sexist bro. You bet I would stand up for her.

  So why have I never stood up for Q?

  I frown at this. Every time my parents have spouted their racist theories against black people, supported by their bullshit fake statistics, why haven’t I called them out?

  Because my parents are the hand I was dealt, the hand I’m stuck with. I wish I could say something. For Q’s sake and mine. Mom-n-Dad will never really see the actual me if I keep my thoughts hidden away like this. But I’m scared to call them out, if I’m being totally honest. Because a child has to belong somewhere. What if you call out your parents, and all they do is slam a door in your face in response?

  “The older I get,” says Brit, “the more my tolerance for dumb bullshit gets paper-thin.”

  “Makes sense,” I say. But it doesn’t, not fully. There’s a tidbit I want to say, but it doesn’t feel like the right moment. I wonder if it ever will.

  Here’s the tidbit I want to say but can’t find space for: if Brit’s tolerance for bullshit is paper-thin, mine is mantle-thick. Because unlike her, my parents’ bullshit is a core part of my life. My parents’ bullshit has the power to decide every hour of every day, on and on into the future.

  Brit’s bullshit, on the othe
r hand, washes off easily. She’ll always be free to date whom she wants, study what she wants, do whatever she wants just how she likes. Her bullshit will only ever amount to life lessons during meals, and not much more.

  I’m not knocking Brit or anything. I’m just saying it must be nice.

  “Can I tell you a secret?” says Brit.

  I wait. Brit rests her cheek on my shoulder.

  “I’m embarrassed by my parents,” she says.

  “That’s not really a secret,” I say. “The real secret would be someone who thinks their parents are insanely cool. My parents embarrass me like it’s their job. But, you know. I’ll always love them.”

  We watch a huge pelican cruise just above the water, hunting.

  “You know all these unarmed teens getting shot by cops?” says Brit out of nowhere.

  I look at her. “Okay?”

  “I started seeing all these articles about how to have The Talk with your kids. Meaning black parents, with black kids, who have no choice but to have The Talk.”

  “Q’s dad gave him The Talk when he was seven.”

  “My parents don’t even know that a thing like The Talk exists. Whenever yet another kid gets shot, all they do is shake their heads, yell about systemic racist policies and the prison industrial complex, and get all fired up about equal rights—but then it always ends with You should feel lucky you don’t have to ever worry about this.”

  I don’t tell her what Mom-n-Dad would say about a police shooting. Usually it’s If making trouble, police shooting, that’s it. I once watched as Hanna tried to argue with Dad—this was pre-Miles—to no avail. It was like debating a giant baby. I want to tell Brit she should feel lucky that her parents even recognize injustice toward black kids. That’s way more than I’ll ever get from Mom-n-Dad.

  “They can’t even see their own privilege, and I hate that,” says Brit. She puts her cheek back on my shoulder. “I read somewhere that you need to hate your parents in order to leave them.”

  “Because if you loved them, then you’d never be able to leave?”

  I feel her nod. “Something like that, I guess.”

  The pelican soars, then dive-bombs the ocean like an anchor falling from the sky.

  “I love you,” says Brit.

  “I love you,” I say immediately, making sure to remember the I this time.

  chapter 21

  lime-green nebula

  The rest of the week flies by. I look at Brit a little differently now. Like there are more rooms than I realized in the house of her heart, and not necessarily neat-and-tidy ones.

  The next “Song for Brit” will be in a minor key, that’s for sure.

  Mom drives Dad to The Store, to keep him from straining his chest bandage, and they’ll work a full day together instead of in shifts. Other than that, nothing changes about those two. Dad’s been shot, but he just keeps on keeping on. Still not sure how to feel about that. But it’s not like my feelings can change what they choose to do.

  Our calculus teacher, Mr. Soft, cancels all homework to reward us for completing SAT round two and lets us play Bird Slingshot for the duration of class. He tells us to say It’s parabolas if anyone asks.

  In secret, I send Joy the photo of the phallic YOUNG DONG SEAFOOD sign.

  You’re my first dick pic, says Joy. Thank you.

  You already know why I send it in secret: so that Brit doesn’t think I like Joy or anything.

  Joy sends me a photo of a huge painting of a black iris flower by Georgia O’Keeffe from her Art History elective, accompanied with an intrigued-face emoji. The black iris looks like a close-up of a monumental vagina.

  You’re my first slot shot, I say. Thank you.

  All day I think about our little photo exchange and burp out little laughs at random times, like a crazy person.

  There’s no possibility of going out with Brit this weekend, because the whole thing is being swallowed up by Kyung Hee Chang’s wedding. To review: Kyung Hee is Ella Chang’s older sister, and the same age as Hanna. Kyung Hee was supposed to be an only child; Ella Chang’s appearance was something of an accident. Ella Chang always tells us she feels like the collateral fallout of her parents’ bottomless lust for each other.

  They fucked too hard for the condom, she says, and we Limbos all reliably reply with a big Ew.

  The most I’ll see of Brit this weekend is for a trip to the suit rental shop to get me fitted for the wedding. So after school I take Brit in the obstreperous Consta over to Just a Formality, where we wander through aisles of seemingly identical attire.

  Mom’s armed me with a blank check. And now Mom texts me:

  Pick suit whatever but NO MORE BLACK please Frank ok and also make sure you necktie matching Joy dress.

  She appends a photo: a sleek indigo cocktail dress laid out on a bed with matching silk shoes and a big amethyst necklace.

  The parents are playing dress-up with us now? Are we dolls?

  I would roll my eyes, but they’re busy staring at the photo. It’s gonna be so funny seeing Joy all dressed up. Not funny. Weird. Not weird. New. I don’t know.

  I put away the photo lest Brit get the wrong idea.

  “I wish I could go to this fancy party with you,” says Brit.

  “Eh, too much ethnic homogeneity,” I say.

  “It could be interesting,” she says. “Being the odd one out for once.”

  Inside I wince. Try being the odd one out for twice. Or thrice. Or forever. Be glad you have the luxury of going back to being the even one in whenever you want. But I shut up about that. I’m with Brit in a suit shop. I’m going to have fun.

  I make Brit try on a men’s vest—sexy—and a men’s fedora—also sexy—and a men’s velvet smoking jacket—maybe not so sexy. I find a trim-fitting charcoal suit, brown leather shoes and a brown leather belt, and an indigo-ish tie. I give Brit my phone to hold while I change. The necktie part takes forever. I close my eyes and visualize an instructional video from the Internet.

  I step out of the fitting room transformed. Brit drops my phone at the sight.

  “Marry me,” she blurts, then claps a hand over her mouth for her outburst.

  Then she body-slams me back into the fitting room, where suddenly her mouth and hands and legs are all over me. An ahem from the distant cashier counter forces us to spring apart.

  I straighten up, pose like a goofy pirate atop a mountain of treasure, and have Brit snap a photo. I take my phone and send it to Mom.

  Ok looks good, says Mom. You renting.

  I close the door to change. And in the privacy of the fitting room, I silently send the photo to Joy, too.

  I’d hit it, says Joy. Then quit it only to re-hit it

  I laugh once through my nose.

  I notice the scab on my once-bloody knuckle has fallen off. The skin underneath is perfect and healed. It’s like nothing ever happened.

  Knock-knock. “Are you jerking it?” says Brit from the other side of the door.

  “How’d you know?” I say, write back hahahaha to Joy, and then delete our entire conversation.

  * * *

  • • •

  The wedding is on a big boat that goes nowhere.

  It’s an old steam cruise ship made for an old rich white guy, from back when there was no such thing as income tax or HR departments.

  He was a self-made, self-educated millionaire who got to keep every cent he earned, said the tour brochure.

  I fold it into my pocket and remind myself to bring it out later for my regular discussions about American mythology with Q. Lately we’ve been covering the trope of One Day When I’m Rich.

  The ceremony takes place on the expansive open front part of the ship (the Internet calls it the bow), which looks like it’s been TP’d with satin ribbons and lace and bursts of white hyacinth that fill the air w
ith honey and vanilla. We sit in the halogen sun amid a vast layered arena of sound: the iron creak of ship parts, the plash of seawater, the distant ostinato—krr! krr!—of hundreds of dumb seagulls.

  The sounds are beautiful and rich and unexpected. I raise my Tascam to grab good lengths of it all. I’m not the only one hoisting a device. All three hundred attendees are taking pictures of everything. Kyung Hee’s wedding will be the most documented event in this ship’s history.

  Mom looks down her reading glasses at her phone to take a photo of Dad, who takes a photo of me. The only evidence of Dad’s injury is a bulge where his chest bandage is. Otherwise, he looks neat and trim and suited up like everyone else.

  There are other moms-n-dads, super-old halmeoni (grandmas) and harabeoji (grandpas) in traditional hanbok. Tiny sleeping babies. Small dogs in luxury dog strollers. Little boys and girls, kicking their sparkling patent leather shoes. Big boys like me, big girls like Joy, if she’s here yet.

  Every word of the ceremony is in Korean, so I only catch about 5 percent of what’s being said. I lean in close to Dad, and he whispers his insane translations.

  “He saying, ‘Woman body like church cathedral. Man is head, woman body. Cathedral womb make baby, so-called immaculate conception, jesus christ almighty. He born, he die, blood coming out, everybody contaminated with sin.’”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I whisper, and lean back again.

  Blood? Die? Sin?

  This is a wedding?

  Suddenly a string quartet breaks into song—good old Pachelbel’s canon—and the wedding party assembles. When Ella Chang steps forward in a silver dress, I whip around to find John Lim. There he is, recording her with his hand over his heart like a lovestruck Victorian.

  The rest of Team Wedding assembles. There is the groom, a chiseled K-drama star lookalike leapfrogging the ranks at Samsung North America. He winks at his buddies and mutters something in Korean, and they all chant something back, and the whole party chuckles in response. I lean in to Dad for answers.

  “Groom, he eating too many baby octopus, but he say don’t worry, soju killing them in stomach. His friends saying, ‘Drink, drink, drink,’ ha ha.”