This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,46
one problem. In my pants.
It turns out that wearing jeans was a strategic error, as was waiting until I was crammed in the front seat of a Nissan Leaf to get my game going. But I make do, and when Jocelyn snakes her hand up around my neck to press me deeper into our kiss, it’s impossible for me to concentrate on anything other than the softness of her lips, the heat of her tongue, and the feel of the curve of her hips under my hands.
The trouble with being labeled the quiet kid in school has always been the massive contradiction between my rep with the outside world and how freaking loud my thoughts are in my head. It’s like when people look at me they think I’m just a pot sitting on a turned-off stove, but really my mind is constantly at that point just before a simmer—where you can hear the rumbling of water vapor evaporating against metal.
I feel like I’ve finally, finally broken into a boil. There’s a crack in the facade of reserve that’s kept me back, held me on the sidelines all my life. It’s possible to see myself doing so many things, if I’m here kissing a gorgeous, smart, funny girl. If she’s kissing me back. If she likes me.
I feel expansive. Invincible. I feel like I can control time, and that I’ll live in this moment forever, in this bubble of warmth and skin like silk and stuttered breaths.
And then:
Crack
I’m sure it’s a gunshot at first, and I break away from Jocelyn. It takes just a fraction of a second for a vise to close around my chest, and I’m breathless for an entirely different reason. The world closes around me.
CrackCrackCrack
The sound is too close, and I realize it’s someone pounding on Jocelyn’s window with something metal the same time a blinding light shatters my night vision. I close my eyes against the physical pain.
My hands are already up, the gesture automatic. Because if my mother has told me once, she’s told me a thousand times: Always remember to show my hands.
JOCELYN
My first thought is that it’s a cop, and I almost want to laugh, because how cliché is it to be caught necking in a parking lot? Not that we went that far. Next to me, Will freezes and puts his hands up. In the light that suddenly shines from behind me, I can see the whites of his eyes, and the terror I see there pierces my chest like a sliver of ice. Of course he would have a different reaction to seeing a police officer than I would.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, “we haven’t done anything wrong.” Will has turned his head to shy away from the sudden flash of light, so he doesn’t look at me. His eyes are tightly shut, the muscles in his jaw rigid.
I wince at another sharp rap on the window that’s so loud I can feel it in my bones.
“Hello, hello.” It’s a man’s voice, impatient, and heavily accented. An icy ball of fear forms in my stomach.
If my life were a feature film, this is the moment when things would drop into super-slow motion and the heroine’s eyes would open in recognition as a distorted voice suddenly sharpened into clear words:
“Xiao Jia, Xiao Jia, ni zai gan shenme?”
Then the camera would cut to the shot of an irate, slightly balding Chinese man trying to break down the car window with a handful of keys while waving around his cell phone flashlight in a furious attempt to get the attention of the dead-in-the-water teens inside.
“Hey, Dad,” I say weakly.
This Is My Brain on Consequences
WILL
When I first realize it’s Jocelyn’s father and not the Utica Police Department banging on my car window, I almost pass out with relief. My hands tremble as I lower them; I can feel my heart still racing as I force myself to take deep breaths.
Then embarrassment floods in, warming my cheeks, as I think of Mr. Wu’s “no hanky-panky” warning. Thank God my hands were well above Jocelyn’s waist and over all articles of clothing.
Mr. Wu raps on the door again, gesticulating wildly, and Jocelyn sends me a pained look before pulling at the door handle. “Later,” she mouths as the night air fills with rapid-fire Mandarin. The door’s not even open an inch before her dad is reaching in to haul her out. When she’s gone it’s like someone’s vacuumed out the life in the car.