This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,110

I just wouldn’t want my father to be worried about.

“It’s been a busy summer,” I say, because it’s the best excuse I can come up with. “You know I love you, right?”

“Hey, isn’t that my line?” He chuckles ruefully. “In all seriousness, I know that part of the definition of being a teenager is that you start to develop an identity that is separate from your parents. Your mom and I love that you’re getting more independent. But we also want you to know that we’re still here for you. Whatever you need, anytime you have questions about anything, we’re here.”

“I know.” And I’m not lying. Deep down, there’s a core of security there, even among all my fears. Doesn’t mean it isn’t nice to hear it said out loud.

“Did your mom and I ever tell you what happened when we first started dating?”

“I know about the instant noodles.”

He gives me a crooked smile. “Your nne nne always likes to play that up, doesn’t she? It’s her moment of drama, her time to shine. It also allows her to throw shade on your mom without talking about the real reason she disapproved of our relationship.”

“Why? Because you were a poor grad student?”

“No, Will.” My father gives me a sad, indulgent grin. “Because I’m white, of course. Or perhaps more accurately, because I’m not Nigerian.”

I can feel the veracity of his statement in my gut, but it takes a little longer for my brain to make sense of the more complicated strands of truth. It’s important that my dad pointed out that my mother’s family would probably have had the same suspicion of anyone who wasn’t Nigerian, even if they were black. It’s a prejudice born, I guess, out of a combination of memories of colonization and the fear of further loss of tradition.

Yet, it’s a bias that can be overcome. “They accepted you eventually. Everything’s fine now.” I feel like a little kid begging his parents to reassure him that everything’s going to be okay.

“We’ve learned to code switch, play traditional Nigerian gender roles when we’re with her side of the family. But for a while your nne nne wasn’t even speaking with your mom. It wasn’t until Grace was born that they really allowed your mother back into the fold. There’s no way those aunties could resist her, you know. By the time you were born everything was pretty much back to normal.”

I shake my head. “I had no idea.”

“It’s all water under the bridge, but it’s just something that I thought you might want to know: Your mother and I will always trust your judgment when it comes to who you love. We will support you no matter what.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I say, my voice thick.

We drive a few blocks, and my dad looks over at me twice, as if he’s waiting for me to say more. Finally, he clears his throat.

“So, Will. I’ll come clean. Your mom, she seems to think that you may be dating one of the girls who was there when you had your panic attack.”

“What?” I replay the whole interaction in the ER to figure out what gave me away. And I want to kick myself as I realize. “Ugh, the heart-rate monitor.”

“She was right, huh? I’m amazed by her intuition sometimes. So when can we meet her?”

I groan and throw my head back against my seat. “You know that phrase ‘It’s complicated’?”

This Is My Brain on Surprise

JOCELYN

Another day, another morning when I can’t get out of bed.

This time it’s my dad hammering on my door that wakes me up. “Xiao Jia, qu gongzuo!” When I don’t come out after five minutes, the banging starts up again, until it stops abruptly. There’s whispered Mandarin that I can’t quite make out, and then my door opens.

“I’m up, Dad, just give me some time to…” I whine, coming out from where I pulled my blankets over my head, only to stop short when I realize it’s not my dad. It’s my mother.

“I can come in?” she asks me in English, which is strange enough that I say yes. My mom doesn’t usually speak English except when she’s talking to a customer at the restaurant, on the phone with a vendor, or at a parent-teacher conference. That’s usually okay, because Alan and I are fluent in Mandarin to about the third-grade level. It’s when she tries to engage us in deep conversations that it’s a problem.

She walks in, her slippered feet shuffling against our worn carpet. She’s