This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,99

the restaurant, then turn around and tell me that we need to move because I’m working too hard to save it.”

My dad’s face hardens, and he shifts like he’s planting his feet in the ground. “We do what best for you.”

And it’s like he’s pushed the lever to put me into hyperdrive, because, just like that, all the complicated emotions that I’ve stuffed away mix together and combust.

“Excuse me?” My voice rises, and I drink in the sense of danger that I feel whenever I yell at my parents. I know I’m playing with fire. “Can I have a say in what’s best for me? You can’t say that you’re moving for me, then get mad at me when I don’t want to do it.”

I can see the blood rush to my dad’s face, turning it a splotchy pink. “Wo shi ni de baba. I know what best for you.” He’s yelling now, too, his voice deep and dark, that tone he gets when he tries to play alpha male. It makes me want to laugh. He’s an omega if I ever met one.

“You know nothing about me or what I want,” I spit out. “Have you ever once asked me what I want to be when I grow up? All you know is your own shitty life, and your own shitty ambitions. Do you think it’s Alan’s and my dream to run ourselves into the ground managing a crappy Chinese restaurant in Podunk, New York?”

My dad reels back and raises his hand, and for a split second I’m sure that he’s going to hit me. I brace for the blow, then actually lean toward my dad, daring him to do it. I can already taste the blood on my lip, am ravenous for it, it’s going to be so satisfying.…

“Shenme gaode?” Suddenly my amah is standing in the doorway leading up from the kitchen. She’s wearing gray pajama pants, a short-sleeved silk top, and an expression of such bewilderment that I feel my anger shrivel up in shame.

Amah clutches at her chest, wrinkling her blouse with a liver-spotted hand, and a panicked hysteria bubbles through me. This is the moment. This is that tropey TV climax where the beloved grandparent walks into an “End of the World” argument and has a heart attack that leads to a swift reconciliation.

Slowly, my father drops his hand. Amah lets go of her blouse, sighing heavily but still breathing.

For a moment there’s absolute silence, except for the sound of pots clanging downstairs.

“Xiao Jia,” my dad says quietly. “Qu nide fangjian.”

I go to my room.

I sit on my bed for a long time before I feel anything. The hollowness is back, and I pick at a scab on my leg, then use my fingernails to worry at some ingrown hairs on my knee.

At first, I wish I could cry. I wish I could feel sadness, a sense of loss, but I’m still numb. I wish I could rage at my dad, or Mr. Berger, or whatever schmuck started A-Plus in the first place, but it doesn’t make sense to scream into the void. No one cares, anyway.

My phone pings—I left it up here in my book bag after I got home from my errands. It’s a message from the college.

The subject line reads: “Congratulations.”

For one moment, I feel hope. It’s like a Disney movie where the clouds part and rays of sun shine down on Bambi in a forest, and treble voices trill, giving you reassurance that everything will be okay. The Mouse House will provide a happy ending.

With my heart pounding, I open the e-mail.

Dear Ms. Wu,

Congratulations! The trustees of University of Utica are thrilled to accept you to our Junior Business Program. We had many superb applicants, and we believe that you are uniquely qualified to benefit from everything our program has to offer.

Unfortunately, we are not able to offer you a scholarship at this time, but our office of financial aid has several loan assistance programs.…

I can’t read any further. The pit in my belly has opened up again, a vortex too powerful to escape. A voice in my head whispers a reminder that I never wanted to do the program in the first place.

I delete the “acceptance.”

After I send the college’s congratulations to the trash bin, I immediately notice another one below that Will must have sent earlier in the day. Because I can’t catch a break.

I almost delete his e-mail, too. Because what’s the point? But there’s still a