Read Frankly in Love for Free Online

whoever you’re talking to. But it’s not just about adaptation, as Ms. Chit explained. People can code switch to confuse others, express dominance or submission, or disguise themselves.
    I’ve always thought I’m pretty good at code switching. Butthe way Brit does it is true mastery. It’s like watching her become a different person entirely. It makes me wonder what other codes she can speak.
    “This one . . . No, there’s a blinking light on the dash,” she says. “This one, maybe.”
    She pops the door open: “Aha.”
    “I am jacking cars with Brit Means,” I say.
    “Tell me, though: is it jacking if they’re unlocked?” she says.
    “How long has this been a hobby of yours?”
    “Only a couple months. I’ve found alcohol, cash, just cash lying out in the open. An old instant camera. It’s crazy.”
    “Wait, are you keeping this stuff?”
    Brit unearths something. “Look. High-fidelity compact discs. Who listens to CDs?”
    She flings one at me and I fumble to catch it like a Frisbee. It’s all in Armenian.
    “Dude, put this back,” I say. I wipe the disc clean of my fingerprints, just in case the FBI gets called to investigate, and start to fling it back to her when she quickly hits the car’s lock button and slams the door shut.
    “Too late,” she says, giggling. “You’re stuck with that.”
    “I already said you’re insane, right?” I say, and slip the disc into my back pocket.
    “And to answer your question, no, I don’t take the stuff. I just redistribute it to other cars.”
    “That’s hilarious. It’s like a metaphor for something.”
    “For what?”
    I think for a moment. Metaphor not incoming.
    Is this bad? Sure. It’s just a little bad. To be sure, it’s nothing compared with what other kids are doing, like failing out or getting pregnant or arrested or, in the case of Deckland Ayers, drunk-racing his brand-new Q2S sport coupe into a pole and failing out in the most permanent and tragic way.
    But for Apeys, it’s just bad enough.
    And I love it.
    “Hey, a minivan,” I say. “A trove of treasures.”
    The minivan is the same as Q’s mom’s, so I know it has sliding doors on both sides. I guide Brit to the minivan’s shadow, quell her sputtering giggles by squashing her cheeks with both hands, and then try the handle with practiced familiarity.
    Click, whoosh.
    Inside the van are toddler seats and stuffed animals and spilled puffed crackers and so on. I guide her in and can feel every sinew of the small of her back with my open hand. And together, we slowly slide the door shut behind us. The silence is absolute and ringing. I can hear her every breath. I can hear the brush of her fingertips on my shorts.
    “It smells kinda good in here,” she says.
    And it does, because here we are, crushing toasted Os beneath our knees. Releasing their stale aroma. The space we are in is small and new and secret, and no one else in the world knows about it because no one else in the world is here but us two.
    Brit is waiting. Brit is nervous . As nervous as me.
    I find our mutual nervousness strangely comforting. It makes something in my heart loosen its grip and let go.
    I pull her in and our mouths fit perfectly.
    This is really happening to me. I am kissing Brit Means.
    And, I realize, this is really happening to Brit Means, too.
    Has she been planning this? How long has she liked me? To think, we’ve been friends all through high school, and this—this kiss—has been waiting in plain sight the whole time.
    “Hi,” I say, breathing.
    “Hi,” she says.
    Her gray eyes are dilated wide to see in the night. We kiss deeper this time, and I don’t care that she can now taste the garlic pita in my mouth because I can now taste it in hers, too. The silence focuses in. Every shift in our bodies crushing another piece of toasted cereal. The fierce breathing through nostrils flared wide. It takes me forever to realize the dome light has come on.
    The light is on inside the