Frankly in Love

by David Yoon

  “I shall whisper the answer to that mystery upon my last breath,” says Q, not missing a single damn beat. “And not a sigh ere. Motherfucker.”

  “Grr,” says Joy. She climbs into the back seat so Q can ride shotgun. We arrange ourselves like this for a specific reason: for visibility.

  As we gather the Bags of Holding.

  We head to my house first. I park right in the driveway. Mom peeks out and flashes a frown at the sight of Joy in the irreproachable Consta. But she also sees Q riding shotgun, and smiles and waves like normal.

  I run in, grab my Bag of Holding, and drive off.

  We get to Joy’s house. Joy gives my right earlobe a pinch as she hops out, heaves open the front door of her house, and disappears for a long, soundless moment before reappearing. The great door is easing closed behind her when it stops.

  It reopens.

  Joy’s dad stands there. Impeccable. Intelligent. Penetrating.

  I see Joy’s dad say something to Joy. Joy says something back. He raises a cautionary finger, still staring right at me, and says something more. Then he looks at Q, and suddenly gives an absurdly cheerful wave.

  Jesus, what would this guy do if it were just me and Joy without Q?

  I watch Joy groan, twirl her hair into a spinning umbrella of green underglow, and hustle back to the car.

  “Let’s get the fuck outta here,” she sighs.

  So I drive. Joy’s dad’s eyes follow us as we leave.

  “You okay?” I say.

  “Yeah-but-nah,” says Joy.

  “I feel that,” I say.

  “Our parents, who wanted us to date, no longer want us to date,” says Joy to Q. “Can you believe that shit?”

  “Actually, yes,” says Q.

  We hit Q’s house last. While Q runs up his four-hundred-mile-long gravel driveway, I stretch myself to the back seat to clock in a few more kisses with Joy. Hot twin sister Evon appears in one of the windows, rolls her eyes at us, and vanishes.

  “That crazy wingnut has all my phone chargers,” I say.

  “I’ll kill her,” says Joy.

  When we reach Cafe Adagio, it’s nearly empty: no students with their laptops, no nothing.

  “I guess the senioritis has hit this place, too,” I say.

  “Inflammation of the senior,” says Joy.

  We order our drinks and take over the biggest table we can find. Q instructs us to raise our Bags of Holding laden with envelopes.

  There are two types of college admissions responses: Fat envelopes and Thin envelopes. Fat is good. You want Fat. Fat means we have lots to talk about, and we need all this space for all the words.

  Thin, on the other hand, means they need space for only one word.

  “This is it,” says Q. “Dump on the count of three. Joy, do not jump the gun this time.”

  “I won’t,” says Joy.

  “I mean it,” says Q.

  “I won’t, jeez,” says Joy.

  “One,” I say.

  “IgotinIgotin,” cries Joy. Six envelopes now lie tumbled before her, two Thin, four Fat, and she holds up a Fat marked with the Carnegie Mellon University logo.

  Q and I still stand poised with our Bags of Holding as Joy springs up and down.

  “I knew you’d get in,” I tell her, beaming. “I knew it. You’re a rock star.”

  “Thank you, Frankie,” says Joy, and kisses me. She gives me a look. I know what the look means, because I’m giving the same look to her, too. It’s the look that says

  I guess this is really happening.

  “Come on, Frank, onetwothree dump,” sighs Q.

  “Onetwothree dump,” I say.

  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 smile
s.

  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?

  —Shut up.

  —I figured if I placed a telephone call, you would pick up because you’re old.

  —Isn’t hearing my voice nicer than texting?

  —So how’s Boston?

  —This way we get to actually be present with each other, unlike these two Bradys here not even fucking watching where they’re going? Heads up, bros, there’s a whole world around you?

  —Your voice sounds different. Are you getting sick?

  —Are you Frank or Mom right now?

  —How’s Miles?

  —He’s the best, he says hey, and oh shit, he wants to meet up in SF when you go to Stanford, what what, congrats, homie!

  —Hey! That was my big news.

  —Mom emailed me already.

  —That makes like two whole times this year.

  —It’s like I’m her daughter or something, right?

  —Jeez.

  —Sorry.

  —So, uh, did you and Mom, you know, get to talking about stuff or anything?

  —Oh, Frankenstein, can we just celebrate you right now? You’re a total rock star.

  —Thanks.

  —Rock star. You.

  —Thankyouthankyouthankyou.

  —So, uh, Mom emailed me about the other stuff. With Dad.

  —I was gonna tell you.

  —

  —Hello? You there?

  —Dad’s really sick, huh.

  —I mean it’s, basically, um . . .

  —I know.

  —It’s so fucked up.

  —My doctor friend’s been helping me look up a bunch of shit about small-cell and she thinks the prognosis is right.

  —It’s so fucked up.

  —I just don’t know what to think.

  —I know. I don’t know. I wanna say I wish you were back home in Cali.

  —I wanna say that too.

  —Your room’s the same.

  —

  —Hello?

  —Change of subject. How’s Q? He got in too, right?

  —Dude. Stanford rejected him.

  —No! Is he okay?

  —He got into MIT.

  —Pthpthphtpt, whatever then. Tell him to come hang out with me and Miles when he gets here. What about Joy?

  —CMU.

  —So, summer of love and then that’s it, huh.

  —Change of subject.

  —Joy’s dad didn’t pull any shit with you, did he?

  —No.

  —It wouldn’t surprise me.

  —It wouldn’t?

  —He’s been driving Dad crazy for years.

  —Huh?

  —The guy’s a rich prick!

  —You knew about that this whole time?

  —Kyung Hee told me forever ago! It’s a bunch of city mouse, country mouse bullshit!

  —Why didn’t you tell me?

  —Oh, you know what else that peg-legged pirate whore said?

  —Hanna!

  —Kyung Hee’s all, You’ve chosen a difficult path to love outside your race and You need to be prepared to deal with how that affects all parties around you and Don’t just think about yourself and blablabla! She’s such a fucking super-Korean!

  —Hanna!

  —What?

  —We need to talk more!

  —I know, I know, I know.

  —I like talking with you.

  —I like talking with you too.

  —And you’re my sister. You know how rare that combo is?

  —Oh, Frank.

  —Because with Dad and all . . .

  —Stop.

  —I just think about when we’re older and stuff.

  —Don’t make me cry.

  —Okayokay. Wanna hear a joke?

  —You’re my favorite person in this whole shitty world, and I love you.

  —

  —Frank?

  —I mean, I love you too. You know?

  —

  —Hey, are you crying?

  —No.

  —What did one nut say to the other nut it was chasing?

  —I’m pregnant.

  —That makes no sense.

  —I said I’m pregnant.

  —Wait.

  —

  —Are you serious?

  —It’s only a month in, so you’re not really supposed to tell anyone because anything can happen and you never know, but I really needed to tell someone, and besides, anything has already been happening for a super-long time now and it’s been nothing but you never know forever. So I’m telling you.

  —Oh my god, Hanna!

  —We find out the sex around month three. I really want a girl.

  —What the fuck, congrats!

  —You’re gonna be an uncle, Frank Sinatra.

  —Do Mom-n-Dad know?

  —Hell no.

  —Want me to say something?

  —Hell no.

  —But don’t you . . . ?

  —I’ll handle it. Just gotta work up to it.

  —You are?

  —Wull, I have to, don’t I? It’s six to twelve, right?

  —Fuck.

  —I know.

  —Your room’s the same.

  —You already said that.

  —Maybe you could come home with Miles and like stay in a hotel or something, I don’t know.

  —Maybe. I want to. Miles says I should.

  —You could meet Mom-n-Dad at The Store or like someplace neutral.

  —You know what I hate, Frankerchief?

  —What.

  —I hate that I miss home. And Mom-n-Dad too. I fucking hate that I feel that.

  —So just come the fuck home, then.

  —It’s way more simplicated than that.

  —I miss you. Does that help unsimplicate things?

  —But you don’t know. You’re still in the high school bubble. Out here, love strikes whenever it wants.

  —Love chooses you.

  —What?

  —Hanna, just come home, say your piece, and let Mom-n-Dad deal with it, the sooner the better so they have more time to get over their brainlock before—you know—before—

  —I’m just saying it’s extremely, extremely simplicated is all.

  —Tell me about it. Me and Joy have to lie low.

  —How come?

  —There’s enough tension between the parents already.

  —Right, right.

  —Kinda sucks the fun out of things.

  —I wish this whole shitty world were d
ifferent.

  —This sounds weird, but sometimes I feel like I’m cheating on Mom-n-Dad by sneaking around with Joy. Does that make sense?

  —Unfortunately, yes.

  —You gonna make it home before I head up to college?

  —I’ll try. I don’t know. Just gotta work up to it.

  —Okay.

  —Okay.

  —Do you guys have any baby names picked out?

  —Shit, my T’s here. Probably gonna lose you.

  —What’s a T?

  —My train. I love you, Frankie.

  —Hello?

  —

  —Hanna?

  —

  —

  chapter 31

  oobleck

  When we were little, we used to make oobleck.

  You know oobleck: one part water, two parts cornstarch, green coloring for flair. This mixture creates a substance known as a non-Newtonian fluid. It’s named after a substance in a children’s book by Dr. Seuss. The Oobleck is a big ball of ruinous, sticky goo that arrives and almost destroys everything after a king, bored with his too-perfect realm, fervently wishes for something—anything—new.

  It’s a careful-what-you-wish-for story.

  It’s also an appreciate-what-you-have-before-it-turns-into-what-you-had story.

  Isaac Newton was a groundbreaking scientist from the seventeenth century. But he was also super into the occult, and wrote a lot about creationism and how there must be some way to turn lead into gold.

  Dr. Seuss was a groundbreaking children’s book author beloved for his antifascist humanism. But in his early career, he drew a lot of racist cartoons depicting black people as savages and mocking Japanese-American internment victims. He was full of remorse for this earlier version of himself for his entire life.

  Nothing is just any one single thing. In fact, what starts out as one thing can turn out to be something completely different.

  If you press hard on oobleck, it feels like a solid. Same if you strike it. You can even run across a big trough of oobleck, if for some reason you (a) have a big trough lying around and (b) enough oobleck to fill it.

  But here’s the weird thing about oobleck: if you gently pass your fingertips through, it yields just like liquid.

  SO . . .

  If walls of oobleck block your way,

  don’t punch and slap and kick all day.

  Just hold your breath and close your eyes

  and simply ease yourself inside.