Frankly in Love

by David Yoon

  Oy mate, been waiting 45 minutes now.

  Where the bloody hell are you two?

  “Shit,” I say. Me and Joy hurry back down the street to where we parked. Back away from all the couples, away from the lights, away, away to where the car sits all by itself beneath a single sad streetlamp lashed to a telephone pole.

  “Q?” I say. “You here?”

  Q emerges from behind the car.

  “Were you hiding?” says Joy.

  “You know cops shoot kids like me when they’re alone on streets like this,” says Q.

  “Fuck,” I say. I throw an arm around him. “I’m sorry. I just lost track of time.”

  Q ducks away, his face a mixture of irritation and fear and relief.

  “We should go home,” says Q. “It’s late.”

  So go home we do.

  We drop off Joy first. Q sits shotgun, for visibility. Joy gives me a blue little wave bye.

  Next is Q. He jogs away backward to wave at me before breaking into a sprint.

  Last is me.

  Everyone is asleep when I get into the house. I flop onto my bed and stare at the stained popcorn ceiling. I close my eyes and see Joy’s face.

  There are moments in time, and this is a moment in time for sure. Joy’s face, shining with glee, with tears, with anger. Joy’s face gone dim with melancholy as she waved bye earlier.

  “Tonight was pretty much a disaster,” I say to the ceiling. I take out my phone. My thumbs begin tapping away all by themselves.

  Tonight was pretty much a disaster, I say. I’m sorry.

  Next time we’ll have proper fun.

  And the time after that, and the time after that.

  We will defy the fates, me and you.

  Let the summer of love begin!

  My thumbs finally stop. I rest the phone on my belly, satisfied, and let the glass slab rise and fall with my breath. Minutes pass. No response from Joy. Maybe she’s asleep?

  Buzz-buzz. There she is. I check my screen.

  If you say so, yubs, says Joy.

  Joy types some more. I watch the speech bubble do its little One Moment, Please dance to let me know she’s typing. Finally her message appears: a cartoon character of herself in pajamas, yawning. Good night.

  I like this idea of If you say so. If I say so, so it shall be.

  I’m talking about will.

  If you have the will to do something, and you keep at it, and you don’t give up, you can do anything. And there’s no greater will than the will to love who you want.

  So I say it again: Let the summer of love begin!

  I watch for a moment. I yawn. Joy doesn’t respond. She’s probably asleep.

  I don’t want to wake her, so I write I love you without hitting Send. I just know in my heart that somewhere in those sleeping circuits my speech bubble is there, doing its little One Moment, Please dance.

  chapter 32

  alpha & omega

  T H A K Y O C O F E

  Graduations are supposed to be celebrations. But why? Why would you celebrate the end of close friends? Why would you celebrate leaving your academic home, bless this mess, of four years? Or your parents’ home, which had its rules to be sure but also all your stuff plus free food?

  Most students fake it: the smiles and hat tossing and all that.

  Me and the Apeys? We’re doing it right.

  Look at Amelie Shim, with her phone upheld to record a tearful Snapstory.

  Or Paul Olmo, sitting with a heavy arm draped over Q’s shoulders.

  And look at Q, just kind of examining his sneakers under his purple robe in a catatonic state, probably looking for some clue about why he never made a move with his mystery girl. Now it’s officially too late.

  John Lim is missing, probably bickering silently with Ella Chang behind a hedge or something. John is the letter N and Ella is the letter U.

  Brit Means sits alone, staring at the school buildings with her ancient and gray and eternal eyes in a never-ending farewell gaze. She turns to me for a moment. She observes me. Then she’s finished observing, and turns away again. Brit is the letter F.

  Now look at me, and look at Joy. We sit on opposite ends of our aisle—that was intentional. I catch glimpses of her catching glimpses of me, but there’s no way we can risk any looks longer than that. Both my mom and her parents sit close by in the audience. I want to sneak her away for one last sad and desperate make-out session by the AC units, but as of today that’s officially no longer an option.

  I’m the letter T, and Joy is a far-off E.

  The only happy one of us is Naima Gupta, who long ago abandoned our aisle to dance around handing out sour gummy worms to everyone. I think Naima grew up until she was thirteen, decided that was enough, and just stayed there. I find myself envying that. Naima must’ve heard some version of Go do you and taken it to heart.

  Naima is the other E.

  All together our mortarboard caps were supposed to spell out the breathtakingly witty joke:

  T H A N K Y O U C O F F E E

  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.

  I head up to my room, change into my reddest blacks and reddest-red sneakers, and quickly rummage to find a head-mounted flashlight. I tiptoe and check on Mom-n-Dad. They’re both asleep in Dad’s lazy chair. I scribble out a note.

  GONE TO GRADUATION PARTY

  Outside, I silently heave the Consta out of the driveway in neutral, waving hi as one of my unknown neighbors watches with his head cocked, and wait until I’m down the street to coax the engine to life.

  I’m still a good climber, I think.

  By the time I get to Crescent Cove, it’s night. There’s no official parking at this tiny local beach. Just a long shoulder flanked by blond grass tall enough to hide a car, which is good. Opposite the shoulder is a flimsy gate—easily hopped—and a fire road winding its way up.

  She must be in bed by now, back from her big graduation dinner. She must be alone by now.

  I want to pick up where that graduation-ceremony-appropriate friend-hug left off. I have in my bag this glass teardrop-shaped terrarium filled with moss and lichen as a gift for Joy. I will give it to her, and I know she’ll love it more than any bouquet of flowers. I’m getting this summer of love started right now, despite the hour. Because I say so.

  I’m talking about will.

  I know this fire road. When the Songs hosted Gatherings, me and the rest of the Limbos would jump the balcony above and hike down to the water with flashlights dancing.

  Me and Joy.

  Now, years later, I am the only Limbo here. My flashlight is steady against my forehead. And instead of down, I’m heading up. The dirt road dips and rises gently; I pass through rivers of warm and cool air as I travel. When I reach the huge concrete pilings beneath Joy’s house, I click my light off.

  It’s easier coming down than going up, because of the climb. But I remember—my ten-year-old body remembers for me—how to brace myself on the massive I-beam and shimmy up to the narrow diagonal cross support, which, once traversed on tiptoe using the square rivets for extra grip, leads me up to the only scary part: a pull-up from a bar with nothing beneath it for fifteen feet.

  Jesus, I think. We used to do this as kids?

  Anyway, turns out I can still do pull-ups.

  I throw one leg over and find myself staring at acres of pristine wood deck flooring. The house lights are off. I listen. Amid the warm breeze and faintly sighing ocean I can hear the far-off blabbering of a television, which means the Songs are home.

  I tiptoe along—tripping a rude cone of light.

  I make a pathetic attempt to hide behind a small cylindrical planter—the Songs always were so goddamn minimalist and tasteful with their decor—and wait for my heart to go from sixteenth, then to eighth, and finally back to quarter notes as no one appears to investigate.

  I duck out of sensor range, wait for an eternity for the stupid light to go off, and press myself against the back wall of the house. Twenty feet to go.

  A face floats in the black glass when I get there.

  It’s Joy, reading a book by pinlight.

  I tap as quietly on the glass as I can, just inches from her head, and give her a heart attack.

  “It’s me, it’s me,” I hiss. I turn my flashlight on myself to prove it.

  Joy stops herself from throwing her book through the window. She marks her page, opens the window, and then hits me across the face with it.

  “You almost made me shit the bed,” she says.

  “Doesn’t this bring back memories?” I say.

  Joy’s eyes widen. “You climbed up here?”

  I nod.

  “Using the old way we used to?”

  I nod.

  “Oh, Frank,” says Joy, and looks about to cry.

  “Are you okay?” I say.

  “We need to talk,” says Joy.

  She shoves a big beanbag against her door, locking it but not locking it, and perches on the open windowsill. She removes a sensor the size of a pill from the sash frame, tapes it to a corresponding sensor lodged in the side jamb, and hops outside.

  “Last thing we need is the alarm going off,” she says.

  It’s a badass bit of hackery that makes me grab her waist for a kiss. But her lips are limp. Her body is tense.

  “Come on,” she whispers.

  She leads me hand in hand into a moonlit clearing hidden among three Monterey cypresses. They form a kind of tent, hidden to the land but open to the sea before us. I can see the white of waves tumbling below.

  We duck inside and sit. If I had a fool’s head full of fantasy, I would think she was taking me here to make love with this view of the ocean.

  But right away I can tell this is no fantasy.

  She tailor-sits, and waits for me to tailor-sit too. I look at her hand. There it is, placed right on top of mine. She painted her nails. In the dim light I can’t tell what color.

  I am just thinking to myself, I need to kiss her now before she can say anything when she says it.

  “I think we should stop seeing each other.”

  “No,” I blurt, like a child.

  “Frank.”

  “You didn’t call me yubs,” I say with wonder. “I knew something was wrong.”

  “Frank, listen.”

  “This is a breakup, isn’t it.”
>
  “How long do you think we can sneak around before something really bad happens?”

  “Holy shit, we’re breaking up right now.”

  I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes until the ocean sounds like it’s roaring.

  “You’re really doing this,” I say. “Our dads get into some stupid fight, and now you’re really just giving up and walking away.”

  What is happening to my face? Whatever it is, Joy becomes slightly fearful of it. Do I look angry right now? Betrayed, and out for vengeance?

  “We just graduated,” I say. “We only have three months of summer. If we’re just super careful and get coordinated and time things right, we can make the most of it.”

  A touch from Joy stops my babbling. “Listen to yourself.”

  “We can make this work,” I say.

  “This is the situation,” says Joy, and clutches her hair. I’m sure it’s flashing green, but again: this light is so dim. “This is my life they’re messing with,” she says. “It’s yours, too.”

  “So let’s just ignore them,” I say. “Fuck the tribe. Let’s just walk away.”

  “You can’t just walk away.”

  “You can do whatever your soul wills you to do,” I say. “Fuck everyone else.”

  “Is that really what you want?” she says. “Just fuck everyone else? Do you even know what fuck everyone else would entail? It’s not just about me and you. I don’t want our families fighting. I don’t want things to get weird with my dad for god knows how long. I don’t want that for you, either.”

  I laugh to myself. “You’re saying it’s not worth it.”

  “What’s not worth it?”

  I look at her. “Love.”

  Joy looks hurt. “That is not what I’m saying.”

  But I just keep looking at her—

  “That is not what I’m saying,” she says again.

  —because it is.

  “I’m only saying there are other, bigger things to think about,” she says.

  “There’s nothing bigger than love,” I say, and draw my knees in close so I can press my eyes into them until the green-and-black checkerboards appear.