This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,91
hope for anymore. I’m not going to be able to fulfill my dad’s contract. And what then? Do I wait for college? Do I sneak behind my family’s back (again)? Do I strike another bargain?
Or maybe I do nothing and accept the things that I cannot change, like that stupid motivational quote that every teacher posts on their wall that’s supposed to be inspiration, but in the end just reminds you that you are, in the end, powerless over a lot of the things that matter most.
I grab a bar of soap and scrub all traces of my interview off my face, but there’s nothing I can do about the slight puffiness around my eyes. I comb my hair, scrape it into a ponytail, and slink downstairs.
It’s a strange relief to get back to A-Plus, to the knowable repetition of taking phone calls, checking orders, and packing take-out bags so the containers don’t spill in transit. At around six o’clock Will comes back.
“Hey. Something wrong?” I ask. There’s a stiffness to his walk, a flatness in his face. “My dad said you had a doctor’s appointment.”
“Nah, just a checkup.” He rubs his wrist and doesn’t meet my gaze. “Hey, can I help you with some of those orders?”
We work in silence. Even though part of me is grateful that he doesn’t ask me about the interview, a bigger part wants to spill everything like a confession, as if he could pardon me for my ineptitude. Then, when Will leaves to make some deliveries and we still haven’t said more than three sentences to each other in a row, a niggling voice in my head asks, What if he doesn’t even care if the interview went well?
My mom goes into the kitchen once she’s relieved of her chaperone duties, and once I’m alone my thoughts continue to degenerate. It’s my fault Will’s acting weird. He did ask me if I was okay, and I said I didn’t want to talk about it. I know how sensitive he is, and I still blew him off. How did I think he would feel? Maybe he’s finally seeing what a bitch I am.
The truth of it all cuts through me with a howling sort of pain, and my hand spasms over the plate I’m clearing. It’s so obvious what he must be feeling: his coolness, the way he held back and couldn’t look me in the eye, how quickly he volunteered to go on a delivery and leave me behind.
My throat closes up and my still-swollen eyes prickle again. I want to take the plate and do something dramatic with it, like smashing it into the ground only to collapse keening into the shards like the actresses in the Taiwanese soap operas my amah watches.
The door opens. A customer comes in. And I don’t do anything, just swallow and say, “How may I help you?” like always.
That’s not true: There’s one thing I do for myself. After a few minutes, I call up and make Alan come to finish up my shift and close out the register. He whines, of course, but he comes down because he will owe me until the day he dies, and by the time Will comes back I’m safely in my bed upstairs, trying not to cry, and not succeeding.
This Is My Brain, Helpless
WILL
The next day before I get to A-Plus Jocelyn sends me an e-mail telling me she’ll be out most of the morning on a supply run, then going out right away to drop off one of our catering orders.
Could you go through Priya’s most recent footage from the restaurant and see if you can come up with an Instagram video or a YouTube channel idea?
When I reply, I say that I’m happy to do it, because of course I am. After that, though, I’m stumped. I think about adding, “I miss you.” Or, “Are you avoiding me?” But I chicken out, because I’m almost certain that she is, and that my pushing her will only drive her away.
In my session with Dr. Rifkin yesterday, my story started with, “There’s this girl,” and ended with, “I think she has depression and I don’t know what to do.”
Dr. Rifkin responded with a question, the way he always does. “So how does that make you feel?”
Because we’ve been through this before, I started answering almost before he finished asking.
“I feel responsible,” I blurted out, “like it’s somehow my fault, that I pushed her to this point. I’ve been trying