This Is My Brain in Love

by I. W. Gregorio

  “Dude, you’ve been staring at that screen and rocking back and forth in a modified fetal position for fifteen minutes.”

  I look up, and Manny’s got the empty can of Pringles in his hand. He tosses it into the trash can with a hollow clank. He’s got pity in his eyes, and I want to say something, but instead my gaze shoots right back to the computer screen. I hit the refresh button before I even realize what I’m doing.

  “Man, you are so far gone.”

  I don’t even bother arguing. Instead, I check to make sure the Wi-Fi connection is still on. Manny sighs and reaches over to slam my computer shut.

  “Hey!” I sputter. “At least let me shut it down properly.” Keeping computers on standby is a waste of electricity; Manny knows that.

  “Listen, Will, I know you’re new to this game, but you’ve gotta learn how to make like Elsa and let it go. If she’s into you, she’ll find a way to let you know what’s going on. If she’s not, she’s not worth it anyway.” Apparently I don’t look convinced, because suddenly, he brightens and puts on his faux innocent face, the one that means my goat’s about to get gotten. “You know what Javier would say in a situation like this. If you love something…”

  My eyes widen. “No! Manny, don’t say the bird thing! Anything but the bird thing.”

  “… set it free. If it’s yours, it will come back. If it doesn’t, it wasn’t meant to be.”

  It’s a running joke in our group that Javier Diaz is the king of inspirational refrigerator magnet wisdom. His kitchen is littered with them, the majority purchased by his spinster aunt Maritza, who dispenses them to everyone in his extended family as stocking stuffers each year, along with saint-themed Christmas ornaments. Javier first trotted out the “If you love something” chestnut in seventh grade, after Tim became the first one in our group to get to first base when he made out with Natalie Silverman in the coatroom of his cousin’s bat mitzvah. Since then it’s been endearingly, annoyingly applied to dozens of “relationships” ranging from e-mail flirtations to friendly text messages with lab partners to that time when Manny had a lunch date with Madison Nguyen when they both represented Turkey at a Model UN conference.

  “Screw you, Manny,” I say. “I’m not going to get Jocelyn back by listening to advice that came off a refrigerator magnet.”

  “Aw, Will—don’t knock the wisdom. And I don’t think it was from any of the Diazes’ appliances—I think it was from a poster. Or at least a button.”

  At the beginning of high school, Javi upgraded from magnets to buttons, which eventually covered every bit of canvas on his backpack, even the straps. This past year he convinced the school librarian that a button maker would be a good purchase for the media department, and he started making his own. This was also the year his school counselor gave him exercises to study irony and humor: He ended up making buttons of a smiling Captain America saying things like, “I’m so happy that the POTUS appreciates the ‘very fine’ Nazis in America today!”

  “I don’t think the bird quote was from a button,” I tell Manny. “You know what a button would be great for, though?” I ask in a burst of inspiration. “I bet we could make some kickass swag for A-Plus to use the next time we have a booth. Something like, ‘Use Your Noodle, Order Chinese Tonight,’ or ‘Keep Calm and Eat Dumplings.’”

  Manny gives me a weird look. “Yeah, I’m sure they could do that. You gonna be okay, buddy? I know it can be tough to move on sometimes.…”

  “It’s not like that,” I say. “I’m not in denial or anything.” If anything, I’m experiencing the opposite of denial: I’m hyperaware of every possible negative outcome from being caught parking by Jocelyn’s dad. I know things are messed up right now and they might never go back to the way they were—but I can’t just turn off my brain when it comes to ways to help their business. If the business fails, and the Wus move to New York City, Jocelyn and I will never have the chance to see what we could become.

  The button idea is the thing that gets me through the days of uncertainty that follow. I spend hours making three different designs, and when I’m done I e-mail Javi to see if he can hook me up with some prototypes. I can’t talk to Jocelyn, or text her, and the green check mark that’s supposed to come up next to her e-mail whenever she reads it never appears.

  Once the buttons are done, I open up my “Restaurant at the End of the Strip Mall” file. I looked up the developer online and have had the name and number of the property management contact for days. I even have a list of questions I’ve been planning on asking her: What’s the average duration of tenancy? Is it lower for restaurants than for retail outlets? How much does your rent typically rise each year?

  I pick up my phone and input the number, ignoring the single buzz of my watch. I know that my pulse is up.

  I take a deep breath and hit the call button. With each ring, the pressure builds in my forehead. My watch makes a double buzz.

  There’s a click as the call connects, and my throat seizes up.

  It’s an answering machine.

  I hang up without leaving a message, telling myself that I’ll call back the next day.

  That evening, after an Xbox marathon, I let Javier get a ride home with Tim. I call in a take-out order and walk down to A-Plus. They may have fired me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t go there as a customer. As usual, there’s only one booth occupied by a solo diner but a line of take-out bags ready to go behind the counter, where Jocelyn’s brother is checking the orders. I see at least four stapled printouts indicating someone who ordered online.

  I jiggle the paper gift bag I’m holding to settle my nerves.

  “Hi, Alan.”

  When Alan clocks who I am, his baseline deer-in-the-headlights look is replaced by a brief moment of happiness at seeing me, before morphing into an uncomfortable shiftiness.

  “Uh, hey, Will. Long time no see.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Not bad. We’re past rush hour.” His eyes flit nervously to the door to the kitchen.

  “So, is Jocelyn around?”

  “Yeah,” he says at first, before shaking his head and stuttering, “I mean, she’s busy. Actually, I think she went out on a supply run. We, uh, we’re running out of sugar. And, uh, I don’t think she’s going to be back for a while.”

  I get the message, which sits like a chunk of sour pineapple in my gullet. It’s not like I’m surprised. I just thought that Alan would be able to come up with something better than an emergency sugar run when the night’s half over.

  “Well, I’m glad you guys are busy.” I try to be gracious, try to moderate my tone, but I can still hear the resentment in my voice. “Can you just give this to your sister? I made some buttons for, you know, a little promotion. I think she could have a lot of fun with it.”

  Alan looks panicky when I try to hand over the bag, but eventually he takes it and stuffs it into the book bag that’s in the booth strewn with his homework. Suddenly I feel rotten for putting him in a situation where he could get in trouble with his dad. Not rotten enough to take the bag back, but bad enough that I want to show him that I’m grateful.

  I nod toward his homework. “Things going okay with summer school?”

  Alan’s shoulders slump and he moans. “It’s so painful. And my teacher’s a sadist. We have to do fifty problems every night.”

  “How many have you done so far?”

  “Twelve. And I can’t just make up answers. She wants me to, like, show my work.”

  I take a look at the clock, and at the familiar counter. It’s only half an hour until closing. Usually at this time the Wus are busy getting a head start on cleanup in the kitchen.

  “That’s rough,” I say. “So here’s the deal. Why don’t you do your homework. It’s getting late. I can cover the counter for a little while. And if you can’t get a question, just ask.”

  “Really?” Alan’s eyes are like saucers, and I can’t help but grin as I nod. “Yussssss.”

  It’s not
a hardship to give out bags when people come in to get their takeout—most of them have already paid online, which is part of why it’s such a no-brainer. I even fold a few menus for old times’ sake and worry a little bit about the fact that I only have to pick up the phone twice in half an hour.

  “Have you had any other people come in with Boilermaker coupons?” I ask Alan.

  He shrugs. “Maybe one or two a week.”

  “We need to keep on tracking that. How about the e-mail list? Is anyone updating that?” The little spiral notebook I left at the front of the restaurant where we leave the magazines for people waiting for pickup has at least two or three new names.

  “Uh, I don’t think so,” Alan mumbles. He’s squinting down at his homework like it’s written in hieroglyphics. “I don’t get this problem,” he whines. “What do you know about proportional relationships?”

  The seat of the booth squeaks as I sit down and try to remember the finer details of seventh-grade math. Alan’s mind reminds me of those gel-filled slippery snakes—as soon as he catches on to an idea, he’s slid on to another topic. About halfway through solving a multistep word problem he’ll start blinking more often and spinning his pencil around. His eyes will flit to the wall-mounted TV and the silent CNN tickertape. Invariably he’ll make a multiplication error, or forget to carry when he’s adding. As he muddles his way through the problem set, I hear my mother’s voice in my head, judging him (judging me). Stop being so careless, she would say. You need to focus. Pay attention to the work, or the work will not pay. And then finally, when I’ve just given up on the problem and moved on to the next assignment: Not to know is bad. Not to wish to know is worse.

  My dad would be gentler. He’d suggest moving to a quieter room without distractions, and he’d bring me some mint tea to help me concentrate. I was lucky—I only struggled with math once in all my schooling, when I had a particularly ineffective fourth-grade teacher. After that, things started coming easier, but I’ll never, ever forget my first mixed fractions quiz and how the edges of my vision seemed to white out in panic when I realized that I just didn’t understand. I’ll always remember how helpless—and worthless—I felt, how utterly betrayed by my brain.

  The homework that Alan’s been assigned is the worst kind of math—problem after problem with no progression of difficulty, no creativity in how concepts are presented. It’s busywork, pure and simple, and it’s painful to watch Alan struggle through it.

  “Okay, hold on. Can you explain to me what you’re doing with this problem?”

  He stumbles through about two-thirds of a half-hearted explanation before trailing off and shrugging.

  “That’s a good start.” In Big Brothers Big Sisters they always emphasized the need for positive reinforcement. “You’ve got the big picture—we just need to work out the little steps and the order you need to take them in.…”

  It’s past nine by the time Alan’s done with his homework, but he actually does the last ten on his own. I’ve handled a few more pickups, and a group of five college students came in and ordered two dinner specials to share among them. At least they left a 20 percent tip. On my way out, I slip the money into the COLLEGE FUND jar when Alan isn’t looking.

  I don’t see Jocelyn. But I manage to avoid Mr. Wu, too, and when I leave, Alan makes sure to tap his book bag as he mouths, “I’ve got your back.”

  The next day Priya shows up at my door.

  This Is My Brain on Communications Lockdown

  JOCELYN

  It takes me a while to get a message to Will. I’ve got to give my parents credit. Neither of them has a college education, but they clearly have graduate degrees in soft incarceration, surveillance, and obstruction.

  Then again, it’s not rocket science—they just don’t let me out of their sight. Literally. They managed to get my amah on their side, which is frankly unfair. Because she isn’t as distracted by the business as my parents, she’s the perfect (read: worst ever) babysitter when they’re at the restaurant. When we’re in the living room she parks herself by the router so I can’t sneak by and turn it on. She even makes me put Priya on speakerphone when I call her on our landline to schedule time to work on our project. I don’t know what exactly Mom and Dad said about my infraction when they made her their enforcer, but Amah doesn’t say anything when I give her my best “et tu Brute” look, just clucks her tongue and shakes her head.

  So I resort to the old-fashioned way to communicate. Snail mail. It makes me feel like I’m in a Victorian novel, engaging in an epistolary relationship with Will. It’s scarily vulnerable, writing my thoughts out by hand. I wonder what he’ll read into the shape of my letters, the way they don’t quite travel in a perfect line. I think of the thank-you cards that Peggy Cheng always sends after her birthday parties, and her immaculate handwriting that is literally straightedge (you can see the faint marks from where she couldn’t quite erase the pencil lines she drew on the card).

  My dad isn’t quite awful enough to make my amah sleep in my room with me, but he does make me leave my door open the entire night, as if Will could climb through my second-story window. The rule is: lights out once I enter my room. So I write my letter by moonlight. How romantic is that?

  Dear Will,

  So I guess you’ve figured out by now that I’m on lockdown. No cell, no internet. They’ve even turned my grandma against me (she’s my babysitter when I’m not at the restaurant). Sorry for going AWOL.

  You’ve seen a lot of my parents in the past month, so you know that they’re kind of—

  I have to think hard about the word I want to use. “Conservative” makes it sound like they’ve got a religious opposition to me dating. “Protective” might be more accurate, but it might be too generous. What are my parents? They’re fearful, and out of touch with American culture. They’re super suspicious of anyone not related to us by blood, regardless of their race or religion. And they’re desperate that Alan and I not make any mistakes that will affect our future—the future that they’ve worked so hard to create.

  You’ve seen a lot of my family in the past month, so you know things are kind of complicated. My parents’ priorities are different from a lot of other people’s. It’s an immigrant family trope, right? The “Overprotective Parent”? But it’s a trope because there’s a kernel of truth to it.

  I’m working on getting back to how things were. Or to even better than they were. It might take a while. But I hope you know that—

  What do I hope Will knows? I hope that he knows that I miss him. That I really, really like him. That I want to kiss him, and to run my fingers along his forearm and make him shudder. That I want to figure out what comes next.

  I’m too chickenshit to write this, of course. It’s been over a week since we kissed, and there have been no grand gestures or attempts to break my family’s barricade. He hasn’t shown up under my window with a boom box, a la John Cusack in Say Anything.… For all I know he could have taken one look at my dad’s Rage FaceTM and decided that no girl was worth it. Let alone me.

  I hope we see each other soon.

  I put it in a security envelope, the kind you use to send bills that don’t come with a self-addressed one. I’ll give it to Priya, because I don’t want to get Alan in trouble for aiding and abetting if my parents catch him with it. He’s on almost as short a leash as I am, and I don’t want to make him my mule.

  Color me surprised, then, when he shows up in my room before bedtime.

  He shuffles into my room. “Good night, Jiejie,” he says loudly, turning his head so his voice projects into our hallway. “I’ll see you in the morning. Do you think you could check my homework?”

  With his face still turned, making sure no one else is coming in from the family room, he hands me a crumpled gift bag, whispering, “Actually, I don’t need you to look over my math. Will stopped by tonight looking for you, and he helped me with it.” He grins, then scuttles off.

  I grab my bathrobe and wrap it around me to
hide the bag pressed up against my chest as I go to brush my teeth and get ready for bed. I can practically feel my heart beating against the heavy paper of the bag. A shivery thrill of excitement starts in the back of my neck and electrifies my body. Will came. He brought me something. And he tutored Alan before he left.

  My hands shake as I open the gift bag and dig through the purple tissue paper. The card is one of those over-the-top laser-cut three-dimensional cards that’s basically a work of art. I never really understood why someone would want to pay the price of a matinee movie ticket for what is, for most people, really just a label for a gift, but now I get it. When you package something like that, it’s basically fanfare for your words. It’s a neon sign flashing: HEY, LOOK, HERE’S AN IMPORTANT MESSAGE. Before you even open the thing, your antennae are up, you’re eager to see what’s inside.

  It makes me embarrassed by my own letter, written on college rule. Does it mean that my words are worth less?

  I open the front flap, with its intricate cutout of a garden superimposed on a lattice background. There are butterflies with purple plastic gemstones on their bodies, and if I framed it and put it on my wall it would be the prettiest thing in my room.

  My heart’s pounding when I open it, but thank God, it’s a blank card. There’s no sentimental platitude, no trying-too-hard-to-be-funny joke. It’s just Will’s words.

  DEAR JOCELYN,

  I MISS YOU AND HOPE THAT YOU’RE OKAY. I DON’T WANT TO PRESUME THAT YOU EVER WANT TO SEE ME AGAIN, AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOUR PARENTS HAVE TO SAY ABOUT YOU AND ME BEING MORE THAN JUST FRIENDS. BUT I ALSO DON’T WANT ANOTHER DAY TO GO BY WITHOUT YOU KNOWING THAT I’M THINKING OF YOU, AND THAT ALL I WANT TO DO IS MAKE THINGS RIGHT.

  SO, WHAT’S IN THE GIFT BAG? IT’S NOT THE MOST ROMANTIC GIFT IN THE WORLD, BUT THE OTHER DAY I WAS TALKING WITH ONE OF THE GUYS AND I CAME UP WITH THE IDEA TO MAKE SOME BUTTONS FOR THE RESTAURANT. YOU AND YOUR BROTHER COULD WEAR THEM, OR YOU COULD GIVE THEM TO YOUR FAVORITE CUSTOMERS, OR HAND THEM OUT IF YOU EVER DO ANOTHER BOOTH SOMEWHERE. I DON’T KNOW IF THEY’LL BE USEFUL, BUT IT MADE ME FEEL BETTER TO MAKE THEM.