I roll my eyes. “You’ve been watching too many telenovelas. Will’s got plenty of mom bait up his sleeve; we don’t have to make anything up.” I realize what I’ve just said and make a face. “OMG, why are we talking about whether my mom will approve of my marrying Will? It’s not like he’s going to want to date me or anything.”
“Can’t hurt to try. This guy sounds incredible! You sound like you’re glowing.”
“Give me a break, you can’t hear light.” I sigh, still smiling.
“You know what I mean. You haven’t sounded this excited about a guy since… your birthday.” She catches herself, but I can hear the name that she didn’t want to say out loud anyway. And it’s this bruise of a memory that dampens the expanse of my feelings and makes me remember where I am. Who I am. What I need to do, without distractions.
I can feel the smile melt off my face. “Who am I kidding,” I mutter. “I’m sure I’m not his type.”
“Jos, don’t do this.”
“Do what?” I ask, daring her to say it.
I hear Priya’s deep intake of breath and brace myself. “You know, the thing you sometimes do where you admit defeat before you even start the game.”
“It’s not like that,” I insist. “No games, Pri. I promise. I just got excited. It’s only a crush that will run its course. I’m psyched that I found someone who can help the business, that’s all.”
“Jos.”
“Gotta go, it’s bedtime. See you tomorrow night to do some storyboarding?” We’re working on a short film to submit to the All American High School Film Festival. I’m writing the screenplay and Priya is going to direct.
After we hang up I stare at my ceiling, and despite myself, I can’t stop thinking about my last big crush. Rob Bradley comes into A-Plus at least twice a month to pick up takeout for his family, and sometime after Christmas he started making small talk about little things, like our English homework and who we thought was writing our school’s anonymous advice column. When Priya told me she’d convinced him to come to my birthday dinner at Carmella’s, I wanted to hug her and puke at the same time.
Turns out, Rob only came to my party because he wanted to mack on Peggy Cheng, the other Chinese girl in our grade, aka the one I always get mistaken for.
Months after my party, I still feel like a deflated balloon thinking about it. Rob only gave me a cursory “Hey, happy birthday” before beelining to grab a seat next to Peggy. When I remember how he leaned his head down to laugh with her, there’s an echo of pain in my chest.
The most embarrassing thing, though, what I’m maddest at myself for, is that I had thoroughly convinced myself that Rob was interested in me. I still don’t know how I was so delusional. What, did I think that my attraction to him would magically make him attracted to me? Animal magnetism doesn’t quite work that way.
I’m not going to make the same mistake twice.
Sluggishly, I plug my phone in, but my arms give up on anything more complicated than that. I’m so bone tired that I can’t even get the energy to slide off my bed and get ready for sleep.
I figure, why bother brushing your teeth, if you just have to brush them in the morning?
This Is My Brain on Confusion
WILL
When I get dressed for my second day of work, I make a point to wear jeans and a dark polo shirt and remember to put on sneakers so my feet won’t be killing me again by the end of the day. My mother frowns at me as she gets ready to leave. “Looking rather casual, aren’t you, Will? I thought you were a management intern.” Today’s an operating room day for her, so she’ll change into scrubs when she gets to the hospital, but she’s still wearing a dress and pearls.
“My boss told me to wear clothes that I didn’t mind getting dirty,” I say, trying not to sound defensive.
“Well, as long as you remember you mustn’t look like a hooligan if you expect to get any respect from your coworkers.” She punctuates her comment with a kiss on my cheek, and I have to remind myself that her crisp British English makes everything sound harsher than it should.
“So how’d the first day go?” Grace asks after my mom leaves. Her voice is sympathetic. I can’t help feeling sad when I think about her going to Yale in the fall.
“It went okay,” I say. “The people are nice, and it’s cool seeing how a restaurant works. I’m thinking about maybe writing a piece on restaurant turnover and how it can affect the microeconomy of strip malls. Kind of like that feature Julia Brown wrote on the new construction downtown? The one that got published in the O-D?”
“Really?” Grace asks. “Are you going to write a Chinese food version of Kitchen Confidential? Adventures in the lo mein underbelly?” She fakes a movie trailer voice-over: “What’s really in that pork fried rice, and what day of the week should you avoid the moo shu?”
“Ha ha,” I say, not impressed. “Hey, have you ever had real pot stickers here in Utica before? You know, the kind of dumplings that are crispy on the bottom but steamed on top?”
“I don’t think so. Mom and I had some that time we went to New York Chinatown. On my college trip. Why, do they make them at A-Plus?”
“Not yet,” I say. “Quick question: Last year when you ran in the Boilermaker, there was a food court, right? I’m wondering if maybe A-Plus could be a vendor. There’s a ton of foot traffic.”
“It’s kind of late to be planning this. The race is in, like, two weeks.”
“Isn’t Maria Bertozzi’s dad one of the big organizers behind it all, though?” I ask.
“Sure, I guess I can try to get his number for you.”
There’s a meaningful pause during which my sister looks right at me, her eyebrows raised as if daring me to say something else.
I know what Grace expects to hear. She’s waiting for me to ask if she can call for me. She probably even knows all the arguments I’d make: The Bertozzis know her well, so won’t it mean more coming from her? She is the one who ran the race, wouldn’t she know more about what kind of opportunities there might be?
She knows that I know she would never make the call.
You would think I would prefer talking on the phone to conversations in real life. It’s safer, right? The person on the other end doesn’t see you and can’t make a snarky judgment of you based on your appearance. You never have to make an effort to look the person in the eye or stress out about their microexpressions and what they mean.
With my anxiety, I should be the type of person who would thrive as a telemarketer, but no. Phone calls are my Achilles’ heel. I particularly hate the silent moments, when there’s no body language or facial expression to tell me whether someone’s bored to death or just thinking about their response. On phone calls, I can second-guess myself to the point of hysteria. This is not an ideal match for journalism, I admit. But luckily, these days most sources are more readily available by e-mail or a text. I’ve also been known to bike two miles across town to speak with someone in person and have cultivated a lot of friends who are willing to be middlemen and middlewomen when I need to make requests of others.