This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,65

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