“Hey, it’s better than mine,” Priya says cheerfully. She loves that her parents have already given up on her and labeled her The Child Who Will Not Get into MIT. “Seriously, don’t stress out about the app.”
It’s the only time Priya’s advice ever chafes me, really. Because it’s like she doesn’t even know who I am, to think that there’s ever a moment in my life when I’m not bummed out over one thing or another, or stressed in some way.
This Is My Brain on Delayed Gratification
WILL
“Dude, you’re hanging out with the wrong Wu,” Tim said the first time I begged off Xbox night because I was helping Alan study for a quiz.
Tutoring Jocelyn’s brother is exhausting sometimes. The first time it was easy. There weren’t any stakes—I was just helping a friend out—but now that I know what is riding on it, well, that is a whole new level of urgency. For Alan to get a B, he has to average at least 85 percent on all his tests, which means he can only afford to get about three questions wrong on every twenty-question exam.
The first time we did a practice quiz, Alan got three problems wrong just because he didn’t actually read the questions all the way through. Another two were calculation errors—his writing was such chicken scratch he got the columns messed up when he did his division. Only twice did he actually not understand the math, which was both awesome and nerve-racking. I can teach concepts, and even the general test-taking strategies that I learned from the SAT tutor my mom set me up with, like circling the verbs in word problems and taking the time to read every question twice. But half the time Alan’s biggest obstacle to doing well just seems to be his own brain, which has the focus of a plastic bag blowing in the wind.
“Does Alan have an IEP?” I ask Jocelyn after Alan gets a 70 percent on our second practice test. She gives me a blank look. “You know, an Individualized Education Program, for kids who have learning differences.”
“Well, no,” she says. “He’s not, like, dyslexic or anything.”
“Do you know if he’s ever been tested?”
Jocelyn screws up her face and shakes her head. “I remember this time when he was in third grade, my parents got mad after a teacher conference because his teacher recommended that he see a psychologist. Dad was so pissed that he wrote the principal.”
“So they never diagnosed anything?” I ask.
“No, my parents just yelled at Alan and took away some privileges and eventually he got his grades up. That’s kind of their MO.” She chews her lip. “My dad went off about how Chinese people didn’t have dyslexia and how ADHD was something made up by pharmaceutical companies to sell drugs.”
I grimace. It doesn’t sound too different from stuff my mom has said about anxiety. I know about IEPs because Javier has one that lets him take tests in a separate, quiet room without bright signs or any noisy vents. All in all, it’s the closest thing to a sensory deprivation chamber you can get in a high school. It was a simple fix, but he went from Cs and Ds to As and Bs when they started making accommodations for him.
When I tell Jocelyn as much, she shrugs. “I mean, that sounds good. I think my dad just thought it meant he’d get an asterisk on his diploma or something. He went off on this big rant about how administrators just want an excuse so they can do better in the rankings. Typical Dad conspiracy theories.” There’s a resignation to her tone, a sense that she sees a problem but doesn’t know what to do about it, that makes me suddenly very sad. For her and for her dad, but mostly for Alan.
“Do you think he’d reconsider if I told him that it’d help Alan’s grades?”
“If you want to fall on that sword, be my guest.”
I start off by writing an e-mail to Alan’s summer school teacher, introducing myself as Alan’s tutor and sending her the results of an online ADHD screening tool that I had Alan take. I tell her that I know that it is the summer session, and there is no time to institute a formal IEP, but ask if there is any way to consider even the smallest accommodations, like allowing him a fidget device, moving him to a corner seat, or giving him noise-canceling headphones for tests. I give her Mr. Wu’s e-mail address for if she has any questions, because I’m just a tutor, and she probably can’t institute any changes without Alan’s dad’s permission. What I’m hoping, though, is that when Mr. Wu sees the accommodations the school can make, he’ll realize that it can only help.
As I read my e-mail after typing it up, I hear a voice in my head that is some imaginary combination of my mother and Mr. Wu: Don’t coddle the boy. If you keep propping him up he’ll never be able to make it on his own.
I press send anyway.
JOCELYN
Aside from that time in fourth grade when Alan needed four stitches on his temple because I shoved him into our coffee table accidentally on purpose after he broke the cultured pearl necklace Amah had given me for my birthday, I’ve always thought that I was a pretty good big sister.
After seeing Will with my little brother, though, I’m not so sure. I have to wonder if I could ever have the patience that he has in walking him through his homework. Just watching them struggle their way through problem sets, I can feel myself getting annoyed at Alan’s space cadet act, but Will always stays calm, and his voice doesn’t get condescending the way I know mine sometimes does when Alan’s not listening to me.
Today, they’re working on basic probability, and it’s like Will’s learned to speak in Alan’s native language.
“So you know how in a game of Magic, if you don’t like your library, sometimes you can decide to mulligan?”
Alan nods, about 500 percent more engaged than he’s ever been when I’ve tried to slog through math with him.
“Right.” Will continues, “When you do that, you’re changing the probability that you’ll get an artifact.…”
It stings just a little bit, the connection they have. Isn’t he my brother? Isn’t he my not-boyfriend? Part of me also feels guilty that I didn’t figure out how to teach these concepts so they stick to Alan’s Teflon brain. I guess I just didn’t try hard enough. It leaves a sour feeling in my stomach.
But that’s the thing about Will. Watching him work with Alan, I start to realize that it’s not that I necessarily suck as a big sister—it’s that Will is a kickass big brother. He’s smart enough to be able to break down a complicated subject so it makes sense, but humble enough to tell Alan that he had trouble learning it, too. He notices when Alan’s energy is getting low and makes sure to bring out a snack or crack a joke, his wide genuine smile so infectious that it makes me grin across the room, where I’m staring at him like a creeper.
So sue me, I can’t take my eyes off him, especially now that he’s preoccupied with my brother. When he’s talking with me, no matter how good our conversation’s going, there’s always this barely visible layer of reserve over everything, like he’s so afraid of saying or doing something to turn me off that he’s holding back a bit. With Alan, he doesn’t hold anything back, so he can be as goofy or earnest or dorky as he wants.
He’s cute when he’s nerdy. When he comes across a problem he can’t solve right away he has this nervous tic where he makes a tiny, rapid head shake, like a dog throwing off water after a dunk in a pond. Then when he figures it out he does a little shimmy with his left shoulder. He likes to drum with the eraser end of his pencil to make a point, and he can do that pen-spinning trick that I can’t seem to get down no matter how many YouTube tutorials I watch.
The point is, Will is sure as heck more interesting than my Junior Business Program essay, which is why so far I only have the following haphazardly typed up:
1. Grew up with family business
2. Not afraid of hard work
3. Learned to be organized to balance school and the restaurant
I decided early on in the process that “have sacrificed any semblance of a life” would not make a good bullet point. I’m also not convinced that I should do what Priya suggested and talk about my recent “innovations” to
help the restaurant. Making social media accounts and ramping up outreach to the college sound pretty basic. What if bringing those things up just makes it more obvious that A-Plus is the loser business that it realistically is?
After five minutes where I mostly stare at a blinking cursor, Alan starts pacing nervously around the kitchen table like a Doberman puppy waiting for its owner to take it out for a walk. Will’s hunched over a question sheet, grading a practice quiz.
“I can’t watch,” Alan says, trotting over to me and bouncing up and down. “I hate this. This sucks so bad. Why can’t I just quit school and join the circus?”
“I… actually don’t think Ringling Bros. is in business anymore,” I say. I’m pretty sure I looked that up after watching The Greatest Showman. “Even when they were, they didn’t exactly have the best 401(k) plan.”
Just then Will lets out a whoop. “That’s what I’m talking about! Only three wrong! Eighty-five percent, baby!” Alan lets out a long “Yussssssss” and raises his hands up in the air, and the two of them do some sort of male bonding ritual dance that involves some disturbing bodily gyrations that will be burned in my eyeballs forever.
“I gotta go show Dad,” Alan says, and rushes off downstairs.
With Alan out of the room, it’s jarringly quiet, except for the sound of Amah’s Taiwanese soap operas in the background. Will takes in a shaky breath in the silence and smiles at me, coming closer but not too close, mindful of Amah, who’s sitting on the love seat just a few feet away.
Suddenly, I’m aware of how warm it is in our apartment. The baseboard heating and wall-unit air-conditioning have always made the temperature impossible to control, especially with all the hot air rising from the kitchen downstairs. I push up the sleeves of my shirt nervously as Will hovers a couple of feet away, glancing at my computer.
I push Alt-Tab automatically to toggle to my desktop. It’s an instinctive maneuver for me whenever any of my family members get near my laptop. I hate the creepy-crawly feeling of someone looking at my unfinished work. It’s like they’re seeing me in my underwear.
Will blinks and looks away when he sees my screen flicker out, as if he’s embarrassed, but he covers it up with a rushed, “So, your brother’s doing really well.”
“Guess it helps to have an actual academic star teaching you.” I hate myself for the hint of bitterness that comes through in my voice.
“I’m hardly a star. The opposite, kind of. I have to work harder for my grades than people like my sister, so I know all the tricks.”
That might be true, but there are plenty of people who work hard and don’t have an above-perfect GPA. It bothers me, a little, that he can be so blasé about being exceptional, like it’s just another thing that you can guarantee if you put in the hours and do the right things. It just doesn’t work that way if you don’t have the God-given brains to begin with, or don’t have the resources to do things like starting up solar power companies.
“Know any tricks for applying to business school?” I ask, only half-jokingly.
“You, uh, working on your application for the U?” he asks awkwardly, looking down while rubbing at his wrist. “I mean, I don’t want to pry.”
Aaaand I feel like shit for making him think that I don’t trust him. “No, pry away! You’re welcome to…” I shake my head. “What I mean is, it’s okay to talk to me about it. I was actually thinking about asking you to read my essay.”
He perks up at that. “Really?” he asks with a smile that is so delightedly sweet that it should come with a warning for diabetics. It should definitely come with a sign for me—CAUTION: ELEVATED HEART RATES AHEAD.
God, he is so cute.
“Of course,” I say, a little unsteadily. I have to stare down at my laptop to get my voice under control. I run my middle finger over the blank space where the “E” has worn off my keyboard. “Who else am I going to have go over it? You’re the editor after all.”
“Well, whenever you’re ready,” he says firmly. And there’s something in his tone, a certainty, a steadiness, a patience, that makes it impossible for me to keep my eyes away from him anymore. I look at him, at his head held high, a respectable foot and a half away from me even though he’s leaning in subtly toward me like I’m pulling him by an invisible thread. And I know with the utmost certainty that he’s going to give me—he’s going to give us—all the time in the world to get it right.
This Is My Brain on Numbers
WILL
Friday is our first day of reckoning.
I try to set expectations low as I bring out the spreadsheet. “Remember,” I tell Jocelyn, “it’s only been a few days since we started catering, and we’re not even fully implemented. But we’ve already had a ten percent increase in online orders compared to two weeks ago.” I pause. “The tricky thing is to figure out how much we’re cannibalizing from in-person ordering, which can be hard to get a handle on. Speaking of that, I’ve been asking around, and Manny says that when Amazing Stories switched to an iPad-based system for checkout they got lower credit card fees, and cash-flow and inventory tracking got a heck of a lot easier.”
“Fine, let’s get it in writing,” Jocelyn concedes, biting her lip. “Sure as heck would be amazing to get rid of all this paper. Half the time Alan forgets to stick the receipt when it’s paid and then the register’s all off.”
“I’ll start a proposal right now.” I’ve already opened a Word document to type up a pro/con list for Mr. Wu.
“I love it when you talk dirty to me,” Jocelyn whispers, glancing over to the propped-open door leading to the kitchen, where her mother is chaperoning while prepping vegetables.
For a few minutes the only sound is the lightning-fast click of fingers on the number pad Jocelyn’s hooked up to her laptop and the scratch of a ballpoint pen when she marks each one registered. When the noise stops, she’s beaming.
“No drop in in-person orders,” she says. “In fact, we’re up five percent.”
“Total customers, or cost of average order?”
“Both.” She scrolls through her calculations. “But average orders are up a bit.”
I bite my lip. “Do you itemize every sale, to see if some things are more popular? Like the pot stickers?”
Jocelyn shudders. “Are you kidding me? We can’t go into that level of detail. Two years ago my dad still did his accounts in a spiral notebook.”
I nod. “Another benefit of cloud-based point of sale. Your dad won’t know what hit him.”
JOCELYN
Who knew that a random set of numbers on a screen could make you feel so good?
I feel giddy, like I can’t get enough air in with each breath, electric at the idea that, according to the math at least, we’re doing it. A-Plus is doing better. Because of what we’ve done.
I want so badly to lean over and put my hand on Will’s cheek and see if he’s feeling it, too. Is there the tiniest ache in his muscles, as if they’re coiled with anticipation and ready to spring into action with the next step in our plan? Does he feel like his skin’s too sensitive, so that he feels the rub of his shirt too acutely when he moves his shoulders too much?
I want to do something spontaneous. I want to run a 5K. I want to go crash a kiddie party and jump in a bounce house. Trouble is, I can’t leave the restaurant to do anything because I can’t go out alone with Will. I look at him, studiously typing away at his freaking pro forma with an adorable crease between his eyes, and realize I’d rather stay here with him, both of us hamsters in an endless spreadsheet wheel, than be out and alone.
If that’s not a sign of true love, I don’t know what is.
This Is My Brain Off Script
JOCELYN
I’m still buzzing with low-level anticipation when Priya comes over bright and early Saturday morning to start shooting our submission to the All American High School Film Festival. I don’t know if I’ve ever had so much going on in my life: a new movie project, trying to save the restaurant, a not-boy
friend. Why does it feel like I’m at the top of a mountain, staring off a cliff?
We have a tradition now on our first official day of production: a selfie with our script. Every project has a working title that’s basically a code word; this one’s is Pot Sticker.
Amah, my chaperone for the day once Will gets in and finishes his tutoring session with Alan, is all set for her star turn, having traded in her around-the-house cardigan set for a somewhat newer one that doesn’t have frayed sleeves and a stain of unknown origin on the hem.
“I am ready for my close-up, Priya darling.” She puts her hand up to her mouth and whispers, “I put on rouge and steal some old lipstick from my daughter, do not tell her.”
“You look fabulous. The camera’s going to love you.” Priya fiddles with her camera, making sure that Amah is standing at the precise area I did when we did all our checks. “Mrs. Wu, can we start off with you just walking in? Okay, Pot Sticker, act 1, scene 1.”
I whack Priya’s homemade clapboard once, and we’re off.
Amah walks in the side door, shimmying down in a geriatric approximation of a model on the catwalk, and oh my God, the struggle to keep myself from bursting into laughter is real.
Priya carefully schools her face. “That was wonderful, Mrs. Wu, but can we take that again, where you just pretend that I’m not here? You don’t have to smile or anything; a neutral expression is actually best. And feel free to slouch a bit, like you’re already a little bit tired.”
“Buyong ting xiong,” I offer in Mandarin. It feels like payback to be able to tell her not to stand up straight.
“Okay, okay, I act natural.”
It requires about four takes for Amah to stop looking up at the camera when she walks by, but eventually Priya gets her B-roll, and we switch to taking close-ups in the kitchen. Around lunchtime we call it a wrap and head upstairs to our home kitchen to make some peanut butter sandwiches and go over our footage. Which is awesome. Somehow, the way Priya framed things, pulling in tight to the food, to the actions, makes our dumpy, badly-in-need-of-renovation restaurant look artistic, even cinematic.
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