YOURS,
WILL
I pour the contents of the bag into my hand and stare at them. It’s been days since I’ve smiled, and I can feel the strain of my face muscles as they pull into a grin so wide I could be in a toothpaste commercial.
Will misses me. And screw John Cusack and his boom box, these pins are even more of a grand gesture. Best of all? They get my wheels turning on a Big Idea.
Head buzzing with ideas, I package up the gift bag, brush my teeth, and go back to my room. I have a sales pitch to create. But before I start that, I add a postscript to my letter to Will.
PS: Got your buttons. They’re amazing. I have a plan. Come to A-Plus tomorrow afternoon at 4:30, with your game face on.
This Is My Brain on Business
JOCELYN
With how disorganized my dad’s accounting is, it takes me almost a whole day to pull all the numbers together. I spend another couple of hours following up on our old leads at MVCC and then make a call to a dear old frenemy.
When my plan—my business plan—is ready, I rummage through my closet and find some of my ninth-grade English honors projects. That year, one of my group learning partners was Brenda Litwin, who insisted that presentation meant everything. “If your work looks professional, teachers take it more seriously and they’re more likely to give you extra points for all the intangibles, especially for something as subjective as English.”
I don’t know if the five-dollar frosted polypropylene report covers really helped us get As on all our projects, but they were pretty and are really easy to repurpose.
By the time four thirty rolls around I’ve put on the outfit I used to interview Will and have three copies of my plan bound in Brenda Litwin’s supremely professional manner.
When Will comes in, he looks as if he’s ready to run the gauntlet. Nervous but determined. But the second he sees me, his vibe changes from anxious to excited. His eyes light up, and for the first time I actually understand the idiom. I always thought it was the stupidest phrase—like, it’s not like people’s eyes actually illuminate? But when I see Will, and see his reaction to seeing me, I can understand where the saying comes from. It’s like a switch flips—his spine is straighter, the muscles in his jaws tensed and ready to speak.
There’s a part of me that’s kind of smug to see what I do to him—I’m a switch flipper. And if the acceleration in my own chest is any indication, so is Will.
I wonder if people can see it in me, too: the crackling of electricity under my skin, the slight flush in my cheeks that I can already feel, like I’ve got the beginnings of a fever. I can hear it in my voice, grainier, breathier, when I lick my suddenly dry lips to say, “Hey.”
Will’s eyes go to the button I’m wearing (“Show them your love. Buy them Chinese tonight.”), and he smiles, getting impossibly brighter. He glows. “You like them?” he asks.
“They’re perfect, and you know it.” I can’t be serious with him right now. I’m giddy, buzzed with emotion. “They’re part of the plan.”
“Yeah, tell me about this plan.”
Wordlessly, I hand him the report.
My dad is the first to walk in, and I brace myself for the thunderous scowl he normally wears when he finds that Alan or I have been bu guai (literally, not good). He never explicitly said that he didn’t want me to see Will anymore, but it was certainly implicit. So I’m shocked, and maybe a little unsettled, when his eyes flicker to Will, and my dad’s expression barely changes. “Hello, William. Xiao Jia, ni ganshenme?”
Just barely, I stop myself from blurting out, “I have a plan.” Instead, I take a deep breath and say, “I’ve got some ideas for how A-Plus can increase profitability even more. I wanted to run them by you and Mom.”
“Ta weishenme lai zheli?” he asks, head nodding to Will.
“You know that Will has some skills that can really take A-Plus to the next level. He made these pins, you know—I think they’ll be a great advertising tool.” I hand him a cheery red button that says, “Choosy Moms Choose A-Plus.”
My dad grunts noncommittally and nods as my mother finally joins us. He looks suspiciously at Will and switches to English. “You know no money to pay you, right?”
“Well, Mr. Wu, I have to say that I’m not really doing this for the…” Will says at the same time I raise my hand to cut him off. My dad is playing right into my hands.
“Remember, Baba”—I always call him by his Chinese honorific when I want something from him—“we’ve got a new source of passive income through the website. The convenience fee should more than cover a modest salary, plus it’s a built-in incentive—the more online orders he drums up, the more he makes.”
To my own ears, I sound like a child trying to be a grown-up. The business school jargon that I whispered to myself yesterday evening in front of the mirror in the bathroom sounds stilted, so obviously trying too hard. I kind of hate myself.
My mom is nodding, but my dad looks unimpressed, and Will clears his throat and jumps in. “Mr. Wu, I’ve got a lot of experience writing copy and crafting headlines. The buttons are only the tip of the iceberg—I can work on some ads to place at the college, and I think I’ve got a good shot at placing a personal essay in the O-D. One of the things I’ve been kind of reading up on is how restaurants can drum up publicity, basically marketing that you can’t really buy, that you have to earn. One of the things that a lot of the local restaurants around here do is take advantage of special events—like how Senorita’s has a Cinco de Mayo party, and the Celtic Harp has a Saint Patrick’s Day fest. If we worked with the local Chinese Association to plan some programming around Lunar New Year and the Moon Festival in the fall, we could increase awareness significantly.”
I nod, taking a deep breath. These are all ideas Will and I have tossed around before, so it shouldn’t surprise me that he’s bought into my business plan 110 percent. “Basically, Baba, we need to increase our profile. These tent pole events will raise awareness, and there are two main areas that I think are growth targets: the college population and the catering population.
“You’ll see on page two that we have a lot of actionables.” This is one of the catchphrases that I know will get my dad’s attention. Whenever we had family gatherings in New York, he would always find some way to mock my cousin Yi-Ping for being a stuck-up NYU MBA, but there was always a twinge of envious resentment in his voice. “We’ve already gotten a little bit of a foothold in MVCC just from the Boilermaker, and this fall we can really push our study group special.” I tell him about how Will’s contact at University of Utica said we could pass out flyers at their activities fair, and how we would make a push to try to have a food booth there.
“An even bigger untapped revenue source, though, is the catering aspect. One catering job a day would be the equivalent of five to ten walk-ins. I’ve reached out to someone in the medical field who gave me contacts for the pharmaceutical people who bring lunches to doctors’ offices almost every day.” In what seemed like karmic retribution for six years of putting up with her Little Miss Perfect routine, Peggy Cheng came through for me in a big way with a copy of her mom’s office manager’s drug rep list.
WILL
Jocelyn is on fire. She’s blazing with ideas and so passionately ambitious I can actually see her father’s skepticism thaw, despite his best efforts.
As she lays out her ideas, her energy fills the entire room. After working at the restaurant for several weeks, I’d gotten used to the vibe of the place being—well, “homey” is the nicest way to put it. There always seemed to be a frenetic kind of desperation in the air: Were they going to hit budget? Did they have enough broccoli/green beans/carrots? Every day seemed to hum with a baseline level of anxiety.
With Jocelyn on stage, though, I’ve never felt more hope in the room. Her mother’s looking at her with a quiet pride, and her dad’s moved on to nonverbal communication that almost sounds approving.
I feel like I’m in the middle of a hurricane
of hope and desperation, of ambitious calculation and passion, all of it with Jocelyn at the center. I feel unhinged. I feel alive. I am absolutely, terrifyingly in love.
JOCELYN
When I finish my presentation, my fingers clutch at the edges of my report like it’s a lifeline. I’m afraid to look up at my parents. My mom, always so stoic, didn’t make any noise at all while I was laying out my plan, just listened and waited with that half smile that she plasters on whenever she is at the restaurant, no matter how harried or tired she is. I don’t know if it is something she learned from TV or that was drilled into her in her first job, that Americans don’t like to buy things from people who look unhappy, as if dissatisfaction can taint a product.
I can’t read my dad’s expression, though there was a moment or two during my presentation that his frown could’ve been read as grudging approval. He makes a show of flipping through my report before running his hand through his thinning hair and sighing. Finally, he swivels his head toward me and waves his hand at Will.
“So what, all that is so you can see this boy?”
I stiffen, indignant on Will’s behalf; I’m ready to snap at my dad that Will’s not just some boy, but something stops me when I see the expression on my dad’s face. It’s not the thinly veiled contempt that I’m used to seeing there. It’s a mix of curiosity and maybe even something bordering on respect.
“No,” I reply, lying only a little. “I still believe in this restaurant, and that we can do better.”
My dad’s shaking his head already.
“Dad, just listen. My plan…”
For the first time all afternoon, my dad raises his voice. “Your plan?” he says, scowling. “Your plan. You keep talking about your plan. Remember, it still my restaurant. Still my family.”
I feel like I’ve been slapped. Of course his stupid pride is in the way. But then my dad sighs and brushes his hair back one more time.
“Xiao Jia, your plan, it not bad plan, but risky. Risky because you be distract. Big men in Chinatown say, business takes much dan.” It takes me a second to place the word, pin it down as the Mandarin word for guts.
“So. I will let you do this plan, but you must stay focus. It too much risk if you get distract. You and Will, you cannot do hanky-panky. No kiss. No hug. No nothing. All business, you understand?”
Wordlessly, I look over at Will, who gives me the slightest shrug, the barest smile. It galls me to have my dad telling me what I can and cannot do, but it’s honestly better than I expected. So yeah, I’m okay with no PDA at A-Plus. But my dad’s got something coming to him if he thinks he can stop me from doing what I want.
“Got it,” I say. “No hanky-panky.” In the restaurant, I add in my head.
My dad eyes me a little more shrewdly than I’d like, and then his eyes flit over to Will. “How about you, Mr. Domenici? I know you are man of honor. You also say no hanky-panky?”
Shit, I think.
Will looks at him with big brown eyes. “Yes, Mr. Wu. Of course, sir.”
“Good.” My dad turns back toward me, knowing triumph in his eyes. He knows that I might sneak around behind his back, but that Will won’t, now that he’s promised not to.
For a moment, all I can do is stare at my father in shock. He can’t hide his faint look of satisfaction, and a bubbling fury builds up in my chest. I want to scream with frustration, that my dad of all people could outmaneuver me like that. I had a plan.
Then my dad leans forward and gestures at Will.
“The day after I catch you in your car, my friend Mr. Cheng come see me.” That’s Peggy’s father. “I so mad he can tell straightaway. When I tell him what upset me, he tell me I need to be more modern, accept that boy and girl in America go on date. Everyone has boyfriend or girlfriend, he say. If you don’t, other people think you strange. Is that true?”
“Um,” Will says, his eyes flitting back and forth in panic between my dad and me. “Well, kind of, but not really. Sure, a lot of the social scene in high school is about people pairing off, but there are some people who are single, too.”
Dad is laser focused on Will, like he’s an anthropologist interviewing an obscure indigenous tribe. “But if you no have girlfriend or boyfriend, people think you…” He scrunches up his face. “… what is called, ‘loser’?”
At that point my anger fizzes out into a level of confusion and embarrassment that I have never in my life experienced, and hope to never experience again. I have no idea what my dad is getting at, why he’s torturing Will like this. Poor Will looks completely baffled but is too polite to cut off the conversation.
My dad plows on anyway. “Mr. Cheng say that if I don’t let Xiao Jia go on date, she will become rebel. She will learn to hate me, will get angry and do thing behind my back.”
The truth is a hot, stinging pain that I feel not in my chest, but in the place just behind my ears where the worst headaches start. My dad’s eyes sharpen when he sees the guilt on my face, and he looks over to my mom, who nods.
“Your mother and I am decide. Xiao Jia can date when she prove that dating will not be distract. So this is my plan. Three thing must happen.”
Wait, what?
My father waves at my report. “Number one. If A-Plus revenue increase by thirty percent.” Next, he points a judgy index finger at me. “Number two. You need to show you serious about your future. If you get University of Utica Junior Business Program Scholarship, that is second requirement.” Finally, he turns back to Will. “Number three. Alan must get B plus or higher in summer school.”
“Wait, what does Alan have to do with this?” I don’t get it; how do I have control over what my brother does? I look over to Will, who doesn’t seem fazed at all. He’s nodding in acceptance, in fact.
“This business plan is only start,” says my dad, staring at Will. “You must earn right to date Jocelyn. I see you working with Alan other day. He need lot of help, and tutoring too expensive. If you keep helping him, and he passes his math, I will approve you to date my daughter.”
For a second I just gape at my father, who is looking at Will with a wary respect. Will is still nodding.
“Wait a second, so you are literally proposing that Will do three tasks for the ‘Standard Hero Reward’ trope?” I’m still processing things—how could Will have come to terms with my dad’s “plan” so quickly? “Are you sure about this, Will? Isn’t this kind of extortion?”
“It’s not coercion if I volunteer to do it,” he says slowly. He rubs the inside of his wrist absentmindedly for a moment, pausing before he continues. “I did a little bit of work with your brother last night when I dropped off the buttons, and he’s a good kid. I’m happy to tutor him.” He looks at me, and—God help me for this metaphor, which is so cheesy, why is my brain making me barf—it’s like staring into a well of love. “I’m happy to do anything I can.”
There’s not much I can protest about after that. The phone rings in the background, and my mother excuses herself to take the first order of the evening. My father picks up his copy of my report and puts it in the file folder we have next to the cubby where we put bills and kitchen catalogs.
So the only things left to do are to negotiate with Will when he’ll come in tomorrow and to pack up my stuff. As I go back to help put together our first order, I tell myself that I’ve won. That they’re going to go with my plan. But can you blame me if I can’t help marveling at how perfectly I was played?
This Is My Brain on Second Chances
WILL
The morning before the first day of my second life at A-Plus, I’m thrumming with nerves, ping-ponging back and forth between euphoria and anxiety. I’m going to do this. I’m going to prove myself worthy. Or, I’m going to screw up massively, and play the fool.
When I tell my sister that I’ll be working all summer and tutoring Alan, too, she gives me her patented boy-are-you-shitting-me stare. “Didn’t you say that they didn’t have enough money to pay you for more than a month?”<
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I hedge a little and tell her about the commissions from the online ordering.
“Little brother, that’s work you already did. They should have been paying you for that all along. Haven’t you heard Mom complain a gazillion times about how white people always expect brown people to do things for free?”
“Mr. Wu’s not white,” I say, trying to keep a level tone. I do not want to get into this argument with my sister.
Grace waves her arms. “White-adjacent. Same thing.”
“You did an unpaid internship with dad’s firm.”
“That was the summer after freshman year,” she scoffs. “Plus, that job paid for itself with the letters of recommendation and networking. Who’re you going to schmooze with at a Chinese restaurant? The guy who delivers the fortune cookie shipment?”
“It’s all research, remember?” I insist weakly. If I told Grace the real reason I was going back to A-Plus—for Jocelyn, plain and simple—she’d just tease me for being a desperate pushover schmuck who has no concept of self-worth when it comes to relationships with the opposite sex. And there’s part of me that would wonder if she was right.
When I call to ask Manny if I’m doing the right thing, he’s more direct in his assessment.
“I’m happy for you, man. That’s what you wanted, right? To be able to see her again?”
“Yeah,” I say. That is all I really wanted. And to be honest, I’d be willing to do a lot more to prove to her father that I’m datable.
The minute I walk into A-Plus, my nerves settle. I don’t know if it’s the underlying redolence of garlic, soy sauce, and sesame oil that’s so comforting, or if the slightly off-tune beepbeep of the electronic door sensor triggers my relaxation. It’s all familiar and associated with laughter and good food and a girl who is as sweet as she is sharp.
This Is My Brain in Love Page 14