Frankly in Love by David Yoon Read Free Book Online Page A

waters, and performs the most perfect dad-dance along the way. Q’s house is always filled with music and dad-dances. Q’s mom-n-dad even kiss sometimes.
    Dinner at my house is a goddamn wake by comparison.
    Q’s sister, Evon, wanders in like a doe appearing in a wood, rose-gold headphones and all. She glances down with mild astonishment: Dinner is happening? Oh my.
    The Lees pray before dinner. But they do it quickly, with eyes open. They don’t even bother to turn the music down. They go to church on Sunday, but not if there’s a big game on. They’re postseason Christ fans , Q likes to say.
    “Good Lord in heaven bless this food and bless this family and bless Frank for blessing this table and our house with his blessed presence,” says Q’s dad so quickly it sounds like he’s muttering to a sink yet again full of dirty dishes.
    “Amen,” says Q.
    “Amen,” say Q’s parents.
    Evon is too hot for amen s, and says nothing.
    “Amen,” I say. Being Korean-American, I’m technically Presbyterian by default. But I couldn’t even tell you what a Presbyt is or what it tastes like, to be honest.
    Another KidzRock! song comes on, scrubbed of any bad words. It’s cute how Q’s parents still play this music for us even though we’re technically adults at this point.
    “Q says you have a girlfriend now,” says Q’s mom.
    “Jesus christ almighty hang gliding up in heaven,” I say to Q.
    “Do you deny it?” says Q.
    “No, I supply it,” I sigh.
    “Then what’s there to hide?”
    “I’m happy for you,” says Q’s dad, chewing with alarming speed. His glasses slip, and he pushes them up, and chews and chews, making his glasses slip again. “Is she very dope?”
    Q and I laugh so hard that a noodle comes poking out of one of Q’s nostrils.
    “You’re so funny, Mr. Lee,” I say.
    “Frank, come on,” he says. “Call me David.”
    “Okay, Mr. David.”
    “Oh, so, Dad,” says Q, “I need you to write to the teachers about next week.”
    Next week is this geek trip Q is taking up north to Stanford—also known as The Harvard of the West—where his geek uncle is doing a PhD. Q’s plan is to get into Stanford and shoot lasers into live monkey brains to see how they react. This is called optogenetics .
    “I bet you’re crunk for the trip,” says Q’s dad.
    “Yes, Dad, I am extremely crunk,” says Q.
    “Should be tight,” says Q’s dad.
    “So tight,” says Q.
    I cough into my noodles.
    “Okay,” says Q’s mom. “Now you’ve got me laughing.”
    Q’s dad simply sits and chews and feigns obliviousness. He excels at being king of the dorks; he is proudly aware of this particular genius of his.
    “So do your parents like this Brit girl?” he says.
    “Honey,” says Q’s mom.
    “We haven’t set a date for the wedding yet,” I say.
    That gets a nice laugh. Except for Evon, who’s still lost in her own private musical world. Q’s mom waves a hand in front of her face.
    Evon takes off the headphones and takes a small bite. Meanwhile, Q scrambles to finish his food.
    “Yesssss,” he says. “I win.”
    “Win what?” says Evon.
    “Yeah, I didn’t know this was a race,” I say. I share a quick look with Evon.
    “Q is a baby,” she says.
    “We’re literally the same age,” says Q.
    “Body of a teen, mind of a baby,” says Evon.
    “Although technically,” says Q, “I’m older since I emerged from the vagina three seconds before you did.”
    “Lord, I beg you have mercy on me,” says Q’s mom.
    “Come on,” says Q. “Let me show you my game.”
    “Okay,” I say.
    We bolt up from our seats and dash off, but a mighty ahem stops us.
    It’s Q’s dad, eyeing our dirty plates. “Ten years and I still have to remind you, Frank?”
    “Holy cow, is it really ten?” I say.
    “It is really ten,” says Q’s dad. He’s looking at us with gooey eyes, and I know he still sees us as little kids flinging our bikes down onto the front lawn.
    Q and I look at each other and