This Is My Brain in Love

by I. W. Gregorio

  This Is My Brain on Edge

  JOCELYN

  After I leave my shift, I sleep for thirteen hours and am still exhausted when I wake up.

  My room faces east, though, and I was too tired to draw my curtains when I fell into my sleep-wallow last night, so I drag myself out of bed just to get the sun out of my eyes, which are so filled with sleep grit that it hurts to squeeze them closed.

  At first, I think the hole in my belly is left over from the yesterday’s disappointment, but then my body growls like a disgruntled cat and I say, fine, I’ll feed you. I didn’t eat dinner last night, what with all the weeping. I grab a cover-up, lumber over, and crack my door open, listening. It’s quiet enough that Alan’s probably already on his way to summer school with one of my parents. Which just leaves the other one, and Amah.

  Please let it be Dad’s day to drive Alan, I think. I can’t face him yet. Not that my mom will be much better, but our lives are too small to avoid them forever.

  In the kitchen, I brush past my mother, who is already at the sink washing dishes, and make a beeline to the cabinet where we keep our cereal.

  “Zao shang, Xiao Jia. Ni yao xifan ma?” My amah calls out from the kitchen table, gesturing at me with a bowl of rice porridge. Our kitchen table is crammed full of small plates with dried fish, salty egg, seaweed paste, fresh-cut scallions, rou song, and fried onions. I look at the cereal box in my hand and realize that I can’t answer the most basic question about what I want to eat. I’m gripped by an inexplicable panic, like I’m going fifty miles an hour on a highway that’s forking and I’m headed straight for the median because I can’t figure out where my GPS wants me to go. It should not be terrifying to have to choose whether you want a hot meal or a cold one. And yet here I am.

  Amah takes one look at me and wordlessly starts making me a bowl. I collapse into a chair, watching her swirl the porcelain spoon in the porridge to get just the right consistency, and for this one moment I am so grateful to be taken care of. So I watch Amah use a fork to scrape the salty egg into tiny flakes that don’t overwhelm the other flavors; she skips the dried fish that I’ve hated since I was little and gives a generous dollop of the seaweed paste, a handful of scallion, and onion for texture.

  Amah fumbles a bit putting the lid back on the jar of the seaweed paste. The lid’s a little too wide, her fingers not quite nimble enough to manage the twist. Tears form in my eyes—again with the waterworks, dammit. I rub my face as if I’m trying to wake up, trying to hide how much the simple act of someone serving me food breaks me. As empty as I felt when I woke up, suddenly I’m so full of conflicting emotion it’s overwhelming. Love. Gratitude that there’s someone, anyone, who knows me so well they can make me a congee without asking. A sudden stab of awareness that I don’t know how many more breakfasts Amah will have with us.

  Warm food was a good choice. I close my eyes and focus on the flavors mingling in my mouth, salty and neutral and a little bit sweet, and I pack away my feelings, one by one.

  By the time my bowl is empty except for a little bit of rice water at the bottom, I’m almost steady. Controlled enough to actually go up and pull on the jeans I wore yesterday and a V-neck T-shirt lying at the foot of my bed. When I brush my hands through my hair and throw it in a ponytail it looks almost presentable.

  Here I am, ready to face the world. Or something like that.

  Before everything went to shit, my plan for the week had been to work with Will to post some of Priya’s videos on Instagram or YouTube, maybe even try to brainstorm ways to spruce up our anemic Yelp page.

  Now? That’s not going to happen. The thought of spending all day sitting next to Will at a computer, even with a chaperone lurking in the background? It makes me light-headed, makes a muscle just under my breastbone clench. I would literally rather do anything than go downstairs and have him avoid my gaze, or worst of all, look through me again the way he did last night.

  So I take the coward’s way out and type up an e-mail, telling him that I am going to make some runs to new doctors’ offices, and can he look through Priya’s videos?

  I decide that if he sends me a message back right away, we’re good. If it takes a while, there’s something wrong, and I’ll have to analyze what he says to figure out where we stand. I can’t envision a world where he wouldn’t respond—he’s too fastidious, to use an SAT word that I would never in a million years have thought was remotely attractive in a boy. But somehow, on Will, the attention to detail doesn’t seem picky or calculated. It seems careful. It seems kind.

  After I hit send, I go downstairs to put together some of our samplers. When I’m done putting together the food and tossing in our new catering brochure, I open my laptop and bite my lip in disappointment when there aren’t any new messages, even though I know it’s only been about ten minutes.

  I grab my bike and hit the road at ten thirty. We’re just hitting the dog days of August, so the air is thick, and I break a sweat within seconds. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to do this. I should have just left the job to Will, who could drive around in his air-conditioned zero-emissions car and show up all calm and collected with his J.Crew attire and trustworthy attitude.

  I push through anyway. Just as I turn onto Genesee Street, my phone buzzes. At the next stoplight I pull it out. It’s Will, and a flood of relief pours through me even as part of me worries that it took him twenty-five minutes to write back, which might not sound like a big delay, but it is practically blowing someone off in Will time. He almost always responds to e-mails right away, unless they’re something that he needs to think about, that he’s not sure of.

  What if it’s me he’s not sure of?

  His e-mail doesn’t give me anything at all.

  Happy to help. I’ll start looking at the videos right now. See you soon.

  This is from someone who regularly sends me five-hundred-word texts that make my phone blow up because my texting app still insists on breaking messages into 140 characters.

  An old pickup truck belches past me and I swing my leg back up to pedal grimly on. Every breath I take feels like I’m inhaling a furnace through a straw. What does he mean that he’s happy to help? Is that some sort of passive-aggressive statement that’s supposed to imply that I’m being demanding? And how is it that he still hasn’t asked me how the interview went?

  Maybe it’s because he assumes that it didn’t go well, a voice in my head suggests, and boy, does that thought have the sting of truth.

  When I walk into the first office building, I chain up my bike and sigh with relief when I step into the blessed AC. There’s a bathroom where I freshen up a bit so I look less like I’ve just ridden the Tour de France. As I turn on the faucet to rinse the street grime off my face, a woman with a Samsonite rolling bag and two-inch high heels clomps in. She has a name tag that IDs her as Brittany from East Coast Pharmaceuticals, and she is wearing a suit dress that shows off her perfectly toned calves. She doesn’t have a drop of sweat on her but still dabs delicately at her face with a thin blotting paper before touching up her powder and relining her pouty lips.

  Ugh, why do I even try.

  So maybe I’m not in the most confident mood when I stop into the first office, an obstetric practice.

  “Can I help you?” The woman behind the counter is a middle-aged white woman wearing a floral blouse with a matching cardigan, and she eyes me warily, maybe like I’m a bit young to be looking for a baby doctor.

  “Hi, I’m Jocelyn Wu from A-Plus Chinese Garden,” I say, rattling off the script that Will and I developed with as much conviction as I can muster. “We’ve just expanded our restaurant to include a catering menu, and I wanted to bring some sample dishes over to give you a sense of what we offer. We deliver every day of the week and have low-sodium, gluten-free, and low-carb options.”

  I put the bag on her counter, and she eyes it like it might be laced with anthrax.

  “What’s the catch?” she asks bluntly.

  “Um, there�
�s no catch.”

  “So you just go around giving free food? How do I know I’m not going to get food poisoning?”

  I blink. If you think about it, I guess it’s surprising that no one’s ever asked this before?

  “Well.” It’s a real head scratcher. Does this woman turn down the little bites of bourbon chicken on toothpicks they hand out in the Sangertown Food Court, too? More importantly, if someone believes in conspiracy theories, is there really anything you can say that will convince them otherwise? “Our restaurant is approved by the New York State Department of Health.”

  “What’s in there again?”

  “Some dumplings, egg rolls, fried rice, chicken with broccoli. And some cold cucumber salad, perfect for the hot weather.”

  The woman’s nose wrinkles and her mouth twists into an honest-to-goodness scowl. “Chinese, then,” she complains.

  I’m ready to bolt but a younger woman wearing scrubs comes in. “Hi, Linda. I’m ready for the next chart.” Her eyes go immediately to the bag on the counter. “What’s this? Smells good.”

  “It’s some sorta oriental food,” Linda says, her tone still heavy with suspicion. “Apparently they cater now. She brought some samples.”

  “Well, that’s lovely,” says the younger woman. “Thank you very much.”

  I make a hasty exit.

  The Latinx woman at the front desk of the next office I go to is a little more excited to get our package, and the office manager at the gastroenterologist’s is so thrilled that he books a lunch next week. And yet, on the way back to the restaurant, I can’t get rid of the sour feeling in my stomach. I can’t stop seeing the disgust in Linda’s face.

  I know it’s stupid, and I know I shouldn’t take it personally. It’s quite literally a matter of taste. But Linda’s stank eye seemed bigger than that.

  Back at the restaurant, it’s the lunch rush, and my mom is scrambling in the kitchen, so even though I want to peek out front to see what Will meant by his “see you soon,” I stay behind and work the deep fryer until the lunch specials finally taper off. By then my clothes are spattered with oil and my hair is matted with sweat, and my mom shoos me upstairs to take a shower.

  When I come back down, Will has started to work with Alan already. They’re huddled up in a booth but barely glance at me when I push through the kitchen doors. They’re too busy staring at a trio of men who are huddled by the main entrance.

  The three men are all blond. Two of them look to be in their forties and the third a little younger. They all have stocky builds and noses that are so similar I assume they’re related.

  One of the older men with a little more gray in his hair has his phone out and is taking pictures. Wide angle shots, held at waist level. The other one, I realize as my heart races, has a tape measure half-hidden by a beefy hand.

  “Can I help you?” I ask. My voice sounds too loud for my ears. Too hard. Out of the corner of my eye I see Will start and turn toward me, but I can’t turn away from these men. I don’t want to give them any kind of opening.

  The youngest blond saunters over to me first, left hand in his pocket, right hand reaching out to me. My lip curls as he gives me a lazy handshake. Forbes.com would not be impressed.

  “Hey, you must work here,” says Limp Noodle, flashing me a charming smile that raises my hackles even higher. “What can you tell me about the heating and cooling in here? Think you would mind showing us around the back so we can bang on the pipes a bit?”

  “Excuse me? Would you like to place an order? We’re a restaurant.” I deliberately play dumb, because if I acknowledge what I know, that they’re here to scope out the property because my landlord anticipates that my dad won’t be able to make the lease, I’ll either scream or cry, or both.

  “Not for long,” Tape Measure whispers under his breath.

  “Shut up, Nate,” Gray Hair snaps when he sees my stricken look. “I’m sorry, miss, that was uncalled for.” He runs a broad palm over his face. “I’m Gary Brennan. My brothers and I were under the impression that this building was looking for new tenants. I apologize for the disruption if we were mistaken. We’ll be leaving now.”

  They shuffle out, exchanging whispers that are too low for me to hear. In fact, I can hardly hear anything through the sound of blood rushing though my ears. For a minute everything whites out in panic.

  Then I become aware that my brother is shaking me by the shoulder. “Jiejie, what’s going on?” From the impatience in his voice I gather that it’s not the first time he’s asked.

  “I have no idea,” I mumble, turning my head so I don’t have to face him, except now I’m looking at Will.

  Will, whose mouth is pressed into a tight frown, whose dark eyes are filled with understanding.

  It hurts, but I turn away from his pity. I don’t look at either of them. They’re not the ones who will have the answers.

  “I’m gonna go find Dad,” I croak out finally, though I’m pretty sure he won’t have the answers I want, either.

  This Is My Brain, Trying

  WILL

  “Is that about… Is our landlord gonna kick us out?” Alan asks in the silence after Jocelyn leaves. There’s a resignation to his tone that unsettles me. He’s too young to be so weary.

  “I’m not sure,” I say. I’m too much in shock—a tape measure, for heaven’s sake—to come up with anything more reassuring.

  “I don’t wanna move,” he says, but he’s not whining; it’s more like he’s stating a fact. “I’ve got friends, and now I’m getting better grades. I don’t wanna have to start all over again. What if other schools don’t do all the stuff you made them do for me?”

  “If you get an IEP they would have to,” I say. “It’s the law.”

  Alan still looks skeptical, and I don’t blame him. I’ve lived in the same house for all sixteen years of my life, and even the thought of leaving for college makes my throat tighten.

  “Plus, it’s not written in stone yet. We’ve been trying.…” I shake my head, and it’s like I knock loose my thoughts, because all of a sudden, the mental hand-wringing starts. How could I have been so complacent as to think that we were succeeding? I didn’t try hard enough. I should have made more calls, more visits, really pounded the pavement as if my life depended on it. Because it did, my life with Jocelyn depended on it. And now it might all be ruined.

  Stupid, stupid. I’m always so stupid.

  Maybe their landlord could be convinced to make more favorable terms on the lease, or we could make a GoFundMe to cover the shortfall in rent. We could make the restaurant a co-op, like the Utica Bookstore did when it almost went under a year ago.

  I need to call Rebecca Ross. Or, maybe, her boss.

  “Do you know your landlord’s name?” I ask Alan.

  He screws up his face. “I think it starts with a ‘B’ and ends in an ‘er’?”

  “I’ll ask your sister.” If I ever get to talk to Jocelyn again, that is. I feel bereft. Panicky on her behalf. “Do you talk to her much?”

  Alan gives me his “my tutor’s really smart but also kind of a dumbass” look. “I talk to her every day.”

  “No, I mean… does she confide in you?”

  Alan screws his face up. “You mean, talk talk?”

  I nod.

  “Not really. I’m her younger brother, not her BFF.”

  “Priya,” I say. Of course. “That’s who she confides in?”

  “I guess.” Alan shrugs. “My mom’s always yelling at Jocelyn for spending too much time on the phone at night.”

  It’s not that hard to do some investigative work. The restaurant and the apartment upstairs share the same line, and there were those two weeks when Jocelyn was grounded when she lost cell phone privileges, so I’m able to easily find a number that I assume is Priya’s.

  I actually type out what I’m going to say and practice it a couple of times into the voice-recording app on my computer. I can’t risk underselling my argument—or overselling it, eit
her.

  After I finally key the number in, I flip my phone over four times vertically and three times horizontally before making the call.

  Five seconds in, five seconds out.

  With each ring, my lungs feel tighter, even as I berate myself. This is ridiculous. Priya’s cool. But she’s also Jocelyn’s best friend. What did Jocelyn tell Priya about me? I check my watch. Pulse: 125.

  “Hello?” Her voice has that expansive sound, as if she’s outside. I can hear the staticky blow of her breaths. I figure she’s walking somewhere.

  “Priya, this is Will. You remember, from the Boilermaker? I’m calling because I’m worried about Jocelyn.”

  “Um, hold on for a second.” The sound is muffled for a moment, and there’s the sound of walking as if she’s pulling herself away from a group. “How so?”

  “Has she seemed different to you in the past few weeks?”

  “A little stressed, maybe. There’s a lot going on with the restaurant, with her application.…” Her sentence trails off a little, and I wonder if she’s holding off from adding on, “with you.”

  I take a shuddery breath. “I don’t know. I feel like she’s not eating as well, and I know she’s always tired. And she doesn’t seem as interested in things she used to enjoy.”

  Priya hums. All of a sudden, I want to take everything back. It feels presumptive to suggest that I’ve known her long enough to know what she’s always enjoyed. “Do you think she’s been down lately?” I ask, doing that thing that my sister hates, using euphemisms for sadness. “Just say depressed,” Grace would say. “Ask if she’s depressed.”