This Is My Brain in Love

by I. W. Gregorio

  My mother gave me these fact-checking tools to show me how complicated the search for medical truth can be. I was taught in school that science is objective, but she wanted to illustrate that scientific research isn’t always perfect, which means that the conclusions that people draw from it can be flawed, too.

  It was a frightening realization, and one that explained why my mother has always hated taking any medications. When she comes home with her neck and shoulders aching from standing over an operating table, she just warms up a heating pad and waves off my dad’s offer of ibuprofen, muttering about wanting to protect her kidney and how she doesn’t want to get an ulcer. She chastises my nne nne, too, for the metric ton of dietary supplements she consumes every year. “You are just wasting your money,” she says. “Most of those pills are essentially expensive placebos!”

  Of all the things that my mother has tried to teach me about the ins and outs of medical research, I’ve found the idea of the placebo effect to be the most fascinating. I’d known for years that the mind has far more control over the body than most people realize. So, it came as no surprise that, to a certain extent, people can sometimes think themselves better, and that taking a sugar pill can improve everything from chronic pain to an overactive bladder to someone’s perception of how bad their asthma is.

  The next morning before work, I go to our drugstore and get some fish oil tablets. The evidence, my mother would tell you, is not convincing that omega-3 fatty acids can help prevent ADHD symptoms any more than, say, eating a fiber gummy.

  That does make it a pretty perfect placebo, though.

  And oh, hey, placebos have been shown to improve ADHD symptoms at about 50 percent of the level that actual drugs have. With none of the risks.

  A couple of years ago, the sisters at St. Agnes started talking about Ritalin abuse in their health lectures, and there were the occasional rumors of kids stockpiling them to give away at the kind of exclusive parties that I wasn’t invited to and would probably have hated in the first place. We’ve all seen those ads for ADHD drugs that end with a dulcet-toned voice-over artist rattling off twenty side effects in as reassuring a tone as possible. But I’ve also seen how they turned around my cousin Lonnie when he started meds in eighth grade. One year at the family Thanksgiving dinner he broke three wineglasses on two separate occasions and left in screaming tears at the end of the night; the next he was like a mini-adult. Was it maturity or was it the drugs?

  The problem is, on a case-by-case level, there’s no way to really know. So, the people who don’t have access to their parents’ medical journals can only go by their cousin’s story, or their friend’s mother’s nephew’s, or by a glossy magazine’s human-interest story about celebrity X’s recovery from stimulant addiction.

  Still, I’m desperate. So for our next study session I bring snacks that are free of food dye and print out a five-minute mindfulness/yoga plan to do before the study session. I filch a Days-of-the-Week pillbox from our medicine cabinet to repackage the fish oil tablets as a “traditional Italian concentration enhancer” that boosts focus.

  Alan turns up his nose when I offer him some snacks. “What is that, rabbit food?” He breaks his yoga poses to scratch his elbow, or behind his knee, or (once) at his butthole. But he fidgets with the rainbow-colored pillbox, opens the Monday compartment, and pops two tablets like they’re M&M’s.

  I’ll take it.

  This Is My Brain on Interviews

  JOCELYN

  Exactly forty-eight hours after I submit my application, I have a heart attack.

  I log in to my e-mail at lunchtime to see if our contact at MVCC has come through with our query about providing food for the student activities fair, and I actually feel chest pain when an e-mail from UUJBP@uticauniversity.edu pops up. The subject line is: “Request for Interview.”

  I look so stricken that Will is immediately concerned. “Are you okay?” he asks.

  Mute, I flip my laptop around to show him the e-mail. It only takes a few seconds for him to break out into one of those smiles of his that I love so much, the kind that are so radiant, so focused on me that I have to look away.

  “I knew the admissions committee would love your essay!”

  I bite my lip, and it stings a little, so I know I’m not dreaming. Okay, so I’ve jumped through the first hoop. I’m still a long way from a scholarship. “It’s only an interview,” I remind Will, and myself. “They didn’t say how many they offered. They could be bringing in everyone.”

  “But it shows that they’re interested at least. You’re not even a little proud?”

  It’s a tougher question than it should be. It’s a relief to not be rejected, but I’m already stressing out about what I’m going to wear and imagining how badly I’ll flub their questions. It’s hard for me to envision any scenario other than one where they realize the minute I open my mouth that I’m not B-school material.

  I haven’t said a word, but all of a sudden Will nods, as if he understands. “Did I ever tell you how I felt when I got your e-mail to come in for a job interview?”

  “No.”

  “Kind of elated. And kind of like I wanted to vomit.”

  “That pretty much sums it up,” I say.

  “You know who’s sickeningly good at these kinds of things? My sister. Can I ask her if she wants to help you prep?”

  Aaaand now my anxiety is replaced by a different kind of panic. Will has met every single one of my immediate family members and my best friend. But I’ve yet to meet anyone in his life. On the one hand, it’s thrilling to know that he wants me to meet his sister. On the other hand, it’s basically another interview, except this time it’s not some college administrator who I’ll never see again if they reject me; it’s the person who has known Will as long as he’s been alive, who he’s probably closer to than anyone else.

  I am so screwed.

  “It’s about time you and Grace met. You kind of remind me of her, you know. Both of you have that older-sister-who’s-always-cleaning-up-after-their-screwup-younger-brother vibe.”

  I scoff. “You? A screwup? Please.”

  “Everyone’s a little screwed up. Some people are just better at hiding it. Grace, for example. She’s always given me good tips, even if I can’t always implement them.”

  It’s a measure of my terror that I’ll crash and burn in my interview without some serious coaching that I finally say yes.

  The day I first talk with Grace, I wear the outfit I threw together for Will’s interview. It was her idea to have our meet-up be a run-through of the real deal.

  Since I’ve already been to the Domenici house I don’t feel the same level of intimidation that I did before, but it’s still a nerve-racking decade before Grace opens the door.

  “Hello, Jocelyn. I’m Grace. Nice to meet you.” She reaches out her hand and I do my best to avoid the “limp noodle” grip described by Forbes.com as implying a “weak inner-being.” When I was reading up on good first impressions for interviews, they talked about the perfect handshake, and they could’ve been describing Grace. Within two seconds (confident posture, direct eye contact, smile, firm-but-not-too-firm pressure) she gives off the impression of being competent, trustworthy, and likable.

  It’s kind of annoying.

  Grace is a little taller than me, though not as tall as Will of course, and slimmer. She’s wearing a blouse with three-quarter-length sleeves that shows off bangled wrists. Her skin tone is a shade lighter than Will’s, and she’s rocking a gorgeous Afro.

  I think about my own lank hair and wish that I had at least thought to blow-dry it this morning. Grace ushers me to an office in the back of their ground floor, overlooking their pool. It’s got chestnut-stained built-in bookshelves filled with legal textbooks—basically it looks like a stock photo office or an old-timey home “library” like the one that Don Corleone presided from in The Godfather.

  Grace takes a seat behind the massive glass-covered oak desk. I have to hand it to her�
�this definitely feels like an interview. Or an interrogation.

  “So, Jocelyn, Will says that you’re applying to some sort of scholarship program and are trying to get ready for the interview?”

  “Yeah, it’s the University of Utica Junior Business Program.” When she smiles and raises her eyebrows for me to elaborate, I struggle to come up with a good description. “It’s, like, you can take some courses at the college. And you come up with a project. They have mentors and stuff.”

  “I think I’ve heard of that,” Grace says. “One of my friends did it last year—it develops future business leaders and encourages creative entrepreneurship.”

  It’s like she memorized their website, and it’s hella intimidating. “That’s the one,” I say weakly.

  “So, tell me about your proposal. Will says that you’ve been doing some amazing things and really turning your family business around. A-Plus, right? Your dumplings are to die for.” When she smiles she reminds me so much of Will that I instinctively relax.

  “Yup. My grandmother’s pot stickers are our claim to fame.” That’s as good a segue as anything. “I’m looking to expand the business, using the pot stickers as the kind of concession-friendly food that will allow us to do more catering and events. I think what we need to do is eventually buy a mobile unit, a food truck really, so we can participate in things like farmers markets and big sports events. We have a decently loyal customer base, but not much foot traffic. And you know how it is. Rent goes up every year.

  “My real dream, though?” I pause. I’ve never said this out loud to anyone, have barely allowed myself to think it. “My real dream is for us to move beyond the daily grind of food service. There’s a huge market out there for affordable, ready-to-eat meals and frozen dinners, particularly with the growing Asian population in the area. That would give everyone in my family a break from having to run a storefront twelve hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred sixty-five days out of the year just to scrape by.”

  I’m thinking of my amah and the way the skin on her fingers cracks every winter from the constant hand washing and forced-air heat. My mom has started to fill old pillowcases with rice to make hot packs that she slings over her shoulders every morning after she wakes up and every evening before she goes to bed. My dad has always complained about everything from his worsening nearsightedness to indigestion to his “whole body ache” without ever bothering to see any sort of medical professional, but even he broke down recently and visited a primary care doctor, who prescribed him some blood pressure medications that he reluctantly takes every night.

  Grace looks at me thoughtfully for a while after I finish. “Well, you’ve convinced me that you want it,” she says at last. “You’ve got a great story, clear motivation. What you and I have to do today is figure out how to maximize their confidence that you’ll follow through with your ambition. Here’s what you’ve got to do. First of all, you should make sure to review the program so you can make clear to them how they’re going to help you.”

  She explains what she means: I need to know specifically what courses I want to take, and why. I need to have a mentor picked out already and be able to show them that I’ve done the research to find the faculty member who’s the best fit. I need to be able to parrot back the program’s mission statement, making sure that I know exactly which points of my story align with their “core values.”

  Then she takes me downstairs to a closet off the basement where she sorts through a pile of shoes that she’s grown out of, and she finds me a pair of Mary Janes that are the right size if I wear thick socks. Afterward, we go upstairs to her room and she comes up with a camisole and a black blazer that matches my pants almost perfectly.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” I say when it’s time for me to leave. I’m clutching my bag of spoils like it’s a lifeline. “I don’t even know what to say to tell you how amazing you are.”

  Grace smiles, looking even more like her brother than she did earlier. “You can thank me by kicking their asses and showing them that women of color are the hardest-working Bs in B-school.” Then she shakes her head. “But I should be thanking you. Will hasn’t been this good for years. All the luck, okay?”

  “I kind of feel like someone just gave me a massive cheat code,” I confess to Priya that night. “Also, like I’m some kid playing dress up.”

  “That is literally what we do when we go to college, J,” Priya says. “We try to figure out how to adult. Why are you feeling bad about it?”

  “Because I put on that outfit that Grace gave me, and at first I think I look really good, and five seconds later I feel like a giant fraud. I mean, I look in the mirror and I don’t even recognize myself. It’s just not me.”

  “Not yet,” she says. “But it could be. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “What, the JBP?” I snort. “It’s what my dad wants.”

  “But what about you?”

  The thing is, I have no idea. Priya and I have always had that dream of moving to LA, but I’ve also recognized that as the tropiest small-town desire ever, and if I’m being honest, it’s one that Priya is more likely to realize than I am.

  The things I want more than anything are simple. I want to get out of this town, and I don’t want to be tied to the restaurant forever. Anything else is just gravy. Considering that, JBP isn’t the worst idea ever.

  “I don’t not want it. I mean, it’s part of that damn contract,” I say after a moment. I think of the rush I got when we sold out at the Boilermaker and the humming satisfaction in my chest when I saw those spreadsheet numbers spike. “I guess I could live with it.”

  Priya’s quiet for a minute then gives a huff of breath. “I guess we could all do worse than having lives that we can live with.”

  This Is My Brain on Unsolicited Advice

  WILL

  I’m at A-Plus when Jocelyn has her “interview” with Grace, because we still aren’t allowed unchaperoned time together. The lunch rush is slower than usual, which makes me feel a faint anxiety about whether we’ll hit our target for the week. It’s as good a reason as any for me to finally pull up the contact info for the plaza’s property manager.

  Just looking at the number on my phone makes me feel nauseated. I take a lap around the restaurant, doing my breathing exercises, pepping myself up by saying phrases like, “You’ve got this” and “She’s not going to know what hit her.”

  Like Dr. Rifkin once suggested, I come up with a script to use. It’s supposed to give me control over the situation, something to fall back on if my brain short-circuits the moment the conversation gets awkward and turns me into a stammering mess.

  “Hello, Ms. Ross,” I practice. “My name is William Domenici and I’m a staff writer for the Spartan. I’m working on a feature article on the microeconomics of Waterford Plaza.” I know I have to reveal my conflict of interest, so I rehearse what I’m going to say about working for A-Plus.

  I end up with a five-hundred-word speech, and still, when my thumb hovers over the green call button, I’m flooded with self-doubt. No way Rebecca Ross is going to give an interview to a high school student, even if I mention that previous Spartan articles have been picked up by the O-D. She probably couldn’t tell me any meaningful intel anyway. What, do I think I’m going to do some investigative reporting and come up with something to save the Wus’ business?

  I close out the Word file with my script.

  News flash: I don’t make the call.

  When Jos comes back to the restaurant, she has no apparent signs of trauma and is carrying a shopping bag full of clothes.

  “She didn’t eat you alive?” I ask, only half joking.

  “No, she was great. I feel a lot better about the interview.”

  Later on, at home, Grace says pretty much the same thing. “She seemed a little nervous at first, but then she settled down when we actually started talking about what she wanted out of the program.”

  “Thanks for meeting her,” I say
.

  “Naw, she’s a good egg. I can see why you two get along.”

  There’s something in the tone of her voice that feels like a tiny barb—something flippant, almost indulgent. Lately, Dr. Rifkin has been working with me to try to “verbalize my sensitivity in order to defuse its consequences,” which is a fancy way of saying that I should speak up when something bugs me, so I ask, “What do you mean?”

  Grace looks up from the New Yorker she’s reading on our couch and sets it on the coffee table. She shrugs. “Your neuroses complement each other.”

  As my eyes begin to narrow, Grace puts her hands up. “Don’t get upset, it’s an observation, not a criticism.” She takes in a deep breath, a sign that I’ve always teased her to mean that she’s gearing up to expel a lot of hot air. “The way I see it is that she’s probably got some self-esteem issues—as do we all—and that you’re a really good fit with her because you’re super sensitive and aware of other people, so you’re less likely to play into said self-esteem issues.”

  She’s not exactly wrong, though it still irks me that she’s so right.

  “Also, Jocelyn seems like a straight shooter, which is good because she doesn’t feed into your tendency to overanalyze everything. Plus, she seems super loyal. So, perfect for you.”

  I turn her words around in my head like I’m examining a puzzle box, looking for the right combination of touches for it to fall apart. “And how much are you charging for today’s psychoanalysis?” I ask.

  “Consider it pro bono,” she says, ignoring my sarcasm. “And, little bro, no overthinking, okay?”

  She goes back to her magazine. And I wonder how my sister can be as smart as everyone says she is if she doesn’t realize that she said the exact combination of words to guarantee that I’ll start overthinking.