This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,16

at all, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

When I manage to tear my eyes away from the glorious lines of his forearms and shift to his face, he’s grinning at me, too, and I feel my forced smile relax into something more natural, more true.

I’m really looking forward to those muscles getting more use.

This Is My Brain on Work

WILL

No amount of research, no phone interview, could ever prepare me for how hard it is to run a restaurant. Behind the curtain, the action never ends. If you’re not prepping for a meal, you’re cooking it, or serving it, or packaging it up. Then you’re cleaning and closing out the register, and then it’s time for another service. Rinse and repeat. It’s never-ending and exhausting and humbling.

I tell Jocelyn as much after the lunch rush is over and ask her how her parents have kept up the pace all these years. She shrugs. “It’s what they do to survive. They don’t know anything different.”

The words she uses so casually to describe her parents’ motivations cut deep. They do it to survive. I’ve always known that I live an economically privileged life, but it’s possible that today is the first day I’ve ever understood what it is like to be a little bit desperate that you won’t be able to make ends meet. In just a few hours I can see the toll it takes on Mr. Wu, with his constant scowl and complaints about the cost of produce. It makes me sad, and determined at the same time. I took the job practically on a whim, but after just a day I want to stay because of how I might be able to help out.

“I just wish I could have done more,” I say. “Thanks for a good first day.”

Jocelyn shakes her head. “No. Thank you,” she says with a force that surprises me. “Half the time we’re at DEFCON 1. Having even one set of extra hands makes it basically a party.”

And that’s why I leave A-Plus shaking my head—that anyone in their right mind would ever imply that I bring the party with me.

This Is My Brain on Hormones

JOCELYN

“Pri,” I moan over the phone as soon as I get into my room after we’ve closed the restaurant. “You have to help me. I think I’m falling for the ‘Nerds Are Sexy’ trope.”

“NO WAY.”

“Yes way, and it’s terrible.”

“Who is it? Is he googleable? I need pics ASAP.”

“You know that ad I put out? I hired this guy Will. He’s gonna be a junior at St. Agnes in the fall. I can see if he’s on Insta or anything.”

“He goes to Catholic school? Is he totally straightedge?”

“Kinda? But in a totally sweet, adorkable way, not in an annoying judgy way. He’s black, or maybe mixed race, I think. He works for his school newspaper and is just really a solid guy, super thoughtful. My dad met him today, and he only asked one racist question that made me want to die.” I tell her about how he’s going to redo our website basically for free, and how he both passed my dad’s GPA test and aced Amah’s pot sticker challenge.

“Did your mom meet him?”

“No, it was already too lunch-busy when she came back from her errands. I think it’ll be weird to do a formal introduction. Better to just let him grow on her.”

The truth is, Will isn’t the first person that my family has been biased against, and he won’t be the last. Case in point: The day after I got my period, my mother sat me down to do her version of the birds and the bees talk, which included a rundown of who it was acceptable to marry in my hypothetical future.

“American boys only want one thing. You should marry an Asian guy.” Except she then proceeded to contradict herself by eliminating every other Asian subgroup based on their worst ethnic stereotype, concluding, “As long as you find someone who is Taiwanese, that okay.”

Priya got her own special brand of South Asian mom xenophobia, so she gets that white people haven’t cornered the market on bias. In fact, she was the one who explained to me, after her family trip to India, how colonial powers encouraged intraracial prejudice—the better to keep everyone down.

“Sliding the guy in under the radar is a good strategy. It’ll give you time to get some mom-bait details, play the long game. Maybe you can pretend he wants to be premed and make