Frankly in Love

by David Yoon

She was brave—braver than me—but now I wonder if being brave is worth it. The brave go first into battle. But that makes them the first to go down, too.

I think about how Mom-n-Dad know the names of all their customers and their kids. They know who’s dating, who’s getting married, who’s pregnant. They know who’s been shot, who’s been arrested, who’s gone to jail. They know all these things sometimes even before the families themselves. They are the keepers of all the news and gossip and drama that passes over the tree-ringed counter, and that makes them the only oral historians for a tiny world that might otherwise go unremembered.

Let me tell you something. I live to make people laugh. Parents, siblings, friends, lovers, doesn’t matter. I just have to. If you for some reason don’t know how to make someone laugh, then learn. Study that shit like it’s the SAT. If you are so unfortunate as to have no one in your life who can make you laugh, drop everything and find someone. Cross the desert if you must. Because laughter isn’t just about the funny. Laughter is the music of the deep cosmos connecting all human beings that says all the things mere words cannot.

“I am blessed to have you as a student, Mr. Q,” says Mr. Soft. “Pound sign blessed.”

I smile at him. “You’re so great, you make that wall in China feel like a chain-link fence.” Q smiles back. “You’re so cool, global warming’s scared of you.” “You’re so bomb, they had to evacuate the building.” And so on. This is our version of the Dozens, except instead of insulting each other’s moms, we hurl compliments back and forth. We call it the Baker’s Dozens. In a round of the Baker’s Dozens, no one ever loses and everyone wins.

Brit smiles at a nearby bronze figurine of a bronco bucking an astonished infant cowboy. “Your parents have super-weird taste.” “I don’t even see it anymore.” “Humanity’s greatest strength—and also the reason for its ultimate downfall—is its ability to normalize even the bizarre.”

We bring out a gentleness in each other. It’s a gentleness that glows unwavering even as the Apeys roll and holler around us and Mom barks for help over the sizzling grill cover, shaped like a hubcap to let the excess grease drain away.

Do I love Brit? I do. I think I do. But there’s a gap that keeps my love from seating properly. It wiggles. It is imperfect. Is it something I can fix? I don’t know. If not, is it something I can get used to? Is it something I can live with? I realize this gap is my problem. Brit does not have this gap. It is easier for her to love—simpler, less complicated. My love is slightly misshapen. My love is nonstandard. It requires workarounds. Is it the same love, then? Does it matter? I have no idea. I’ve never been in love.

“I love you too,” I say. Saying it makes it feel more true. I get the feeling that the more I say it, the truer it will feel over time. And eventually this truth I’ve created will weave itself into every fiber of my reality, until it moves naturally with my every gesture like a favorite shirt I can’t help but wear always.

My heart does a lazy flop. I am thrilling inside—or is it quaking? Am I in love? Or am I in fear? Are they two sides of the same coin?

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

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.

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?

Now I wonder: what other dramas were happening with our parents, right under our noses?

Suddenly I’m dying to learn who these parents really are. Because that’s what kids do, isn’t it? Watch their parents. Learn. See what parts of you came from them.