I try to explain as much to Mr. Evans after class.
“Just because you’re assistant online manager doesn’t mean that you won’t also be able to write,” he reassures me.
“I know, but…” My voice cracks, and I study the worn linoleum floor by Mr. Evans’s desk. I take a deep breath and try not to sound pathetic. “Is my writing not good enough? Do you not trust my editorial judgment?”
“Oh, Will.” Mr. Evans leans in toward me and looks straight into my eyes, like he knows I’m the type to be skeptical of any praise. “You’re an excellent writer. Your attention to word choice is phenomenal, and you are always clear and precise in your reasoning. Your fact-checking is top-notch.”
I wait for the caveat for five excruciating seconds.
Mr. Evans’s eyes flick away for a second, and when he speaks again his voice is gentler. “I’ve noticed, though, that you rely a lot on secondary sources and e-mail correspondence for your stories. Next year, I want you to focus on going behind the scenes to really dig deep. Make that extra call. Drill down and ask the hard questions that make sources squirm.”
He makes it sound so easy. How can I tell him that he might as well be asking me to fly to the moon?
As if to illustrate my failure, my smart watch buzzes. My parents got it for me a few years ago after my last panic attack, and it’s set to go off when my heart rate goes above one hundred beats per minute. It’s supposed to be a cue to do my mindful breathing and centering exercises.
I open my mouth, but it feels like I’m drawing in air from one of those tiny plastic-straw stirrers you get at coffee shops.
Five seconds in, five seconds out.
The slow breaths do nothing to quiet the heckling questions that fill my head like an out-of-control press conference: Mr. Domenici, why are you so afraid of making cold calls? Don’t you think that you’re constitutionally incapable of asking the tough questions? Do you really think that someone who can’t even order pizza over the phone without breaking out into a sweat is going to be the next Bob Woodward?
“Will, are you okay?” Mr. Evans’s round face is creased with concern. “I don’t want you to be discouraged. You’re only a sophomore, and you’ve already got the most important attributes of a good journalist. Integrity. Attention to detail. Work ethic. It’ll come.”
“Sure,” I manage to get out. “Thanks, Mr. Evans.”
“Did you end up applying to any of the summer programs on the list I sent out? That’s one way to start honing those investigative skills.”
It’s a struggle to keep the self-loathing out of my voice when I answer. “No, it didn’t work out. I couldn’t find the right writing sample.” The truth is, I’d started the applications to three programs but chickened out when it came time to ask for letters of recommendation.
Mr. Evans brightens. “Well, that’s something you can work on over the summer—some kind of long-form piece that’ll show them both your investigative skills and your analytic ability. Remember, there are lots of ways to learn leadership skills. I’d like to see you take on a bigger role on the staff next year, so look for a summer job where you can learn how to manage a team and start thinking of the newspaper as a business whose readership you can grow.”
Furiously, I scribble down my assignment: Write a long-form piece. Make the calls and ask the hard questions. Learn how to manage a team. Grow a business. They’re only sound bites for now, and developing the story is going to be my big summer challenge, but all I can do is try.
This Is My Brain on the Impossible
JOCELYN
Within the first day, I’m panicking.
“He set me up, Priya. It’s basically the ‘Impossible Task’ trope.” It doesn’t take a Nobel Prize in economics to realize after looking at my dad’s books that A-Plus has been operating on razor-thin margins for months. “The worst thing is, there isn’t enough data to figure out how to do better. I have no idea what dishes really sell the best or what our foot traffic is.”
It’s truly depressing. When it gets too exhausting to think about it, I do what I always do when I can’t deal with my life: I binge-watch a TV series.
When we first moved to Utica six years ago, Netflix saved my life. I’m not exaggerating.
I was ten years old when we moved, and to say that my family experienced culture shock moving from the “greatest city in the world” to a place where Red Lobster is high-class dining, well, that’s an understatement. Honestly, most of my classmates probably thought I was kind of a snob. There are only so many times you can start a sentence with “In the city, we used to…” before people stop talking to you. Which is why I spent most of middle school glued to a screen so I wouldn’t have to think about the fact that I had no real friends.
When Priya Venkatram moved here from San Francisco in seventh grade, she latched on to me right away when she heard I had lived in NYC. After we bonded over our mutual love of Orange Is the New Black and Better Call Saul, we became BFFs. She’d come over to the restaurant, and we’d put on a show with descriptive audio so I could listen as I did cleanup. I trust her judgment on TV shows 100 percent, so when she tells me that I might want to check out Restaurant: Impossible and Kitchen Nightmares for ideas, I do.
It only makes me feel more hopeless. “All the places on that show are sit-down,” I say. “Ninety percent of our business is take-out. Also, I can’t get a professional chef to come in with a full design team and do ten thousand dollars’ worth of renovations. You know this place is like a hamster wheel. There are only so many hours in a day, and we have to answer phones, make take-out bags, fold menus, prep food, do deliveries and inventory and purchasing.… How could I possibly have time to do community outreach on top of that?” I’m starting to hyperventilate just thinking about it.
“Can you guys hire someone part-time?”
I’ve thought about that, too. “My dad’s just going to yell that we can’t afford it,” I say.
Sure enough, the next day, that’s exactly what my dad says.
“Aren’t you always saying that our Yelp reviews complain about wait times?” I argue. “If we get more help our revenue goes up and they pay for themselves. Like with the sushi bar. If we get that cranking and sell four or five rolls a night, it’ll be worth it.” I still feel stupid calling a twelve-inch glass case that holds stuff to make California rolls a sushi bar, but whatever.
“We can’t even afford to bring someone from China,” my dad says. By that he means an under-documented “business associate.” “No one want to come to Utica.”
“We could hire a local student or something with the money in my savings account,” I suggest. I’ve squirreled away more than a thousand bucks from delivery tips. Because it isn’t like my dad actually pays me, of course.
My dad turns a dark orange. “If you have extra money, should go to your college fund!”
“If I have more time to study I’ll get into a better college,” I counter.
As I watch my father wrestle with an Asian parent’s version of a no-win situation, I haul out my laptop. Within minutes I’ve got an ad up on Craigslist.