“Is that some sort of comment about my bra size?”
The point is, Priya’s determined to go to film school, and I’m 110 percent certain that she’s going to make it. She’s aces with a lens, whether it’s an iPhone or a video camera. She has an eagle eye for the essence of things and always knows how best to frame objects to make a picture more than a bunch of pixels. To make it into art.
I run upstairs to grab our nicest serving plates—the ones that stay in our curio cabinet all year—and a pair of lacquered wooden chopsticks. I bring my amah, too, because she’s the most photogenic member of our family.
When we get downstairs Priya has set up lights and draped cloths to create a shockingly gorgeous background, accented with some jade jewelry.
“Oooh, that’s pretty. Where’d you get that necklace?” I ask.
“It’s your mom’s.”
I look over to where my mom is readying the register. “I’ve never seen those!” I say.
My mom gives a small smile. “Priya need something pretty. I never get chance to wear my nice things.” It’s true. My mom does so much prep work at the restaurant that she never even wears her wedding rings. Her hands are perpetually chapped and Band-Aided to cover her bleeding cuticles.
I swallow hard. “Thanks, Mom.” Then I ask Priya, “What other dishes do you think will look good?”
“How about some kind of sushi and sweet-and-sour chicken?”
“Okay, one Cali roll and one ABC chicken coming up.…”
“I thought chicken and broccoli was ABC chicken?” says Priya.
“No, that’s ABC broccoli.”
It’s no secret that what’s served in American Chinese restaurants isn’t close to what most people in China actually eat. The sad thing is I’m such an ABC (short for “American-born Chinese”) that I’m used to “fake” Chinese food and find most of the dishes my amah cooks to be kind of bland. Except her dumplings, which are perfection.
When we’re done, Priya loads up her images and I show them to my grandmother.
“Amah, this one with you is the best one. It’s so terrific. I’m going to put it on the web.”
“Ai-yo, why didn’t you tell me I gain so much weight?” she laments. “You should tell me early. I put makeup on.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Wu. We can use a filter.” Priya taps some buttons, and voilà. Covergirl Grandma.
Amah clicks her tongue and gives a nodding frown, her way of saying “not bad.” She watches with interest as I load the image to Instagram and Twitter.
“What is that?” she asks. “Some kind of… what you call it? Message board?”
“It’s called Twitter,” I explain. “It’s like… it’s a way to send texts out to the whole world. We’re trying to get the word out about the restaurant.”
“So… whole world can see this?”
“If they follow us, yes.”
“What you mean ‘follow’?”
And we go down a twenty-minute rabbit hole. By the end of it, Priya has gathered up all her stuff and sent out five tweets about me trying to explain social media to my grandmother. #DontLetGrandmaTweet. Her hashtag doesn’t trend, but we do get twenty new followers.
Even better? That night I get a résumé for my job posting.
This Is My Brain on the Unexpected
JOCELYN
Because pretty much all my clothes are hand-me-downs, or from Goodwill or Target, I call an emergency fashion consult with Priya on the day of my very first employee interview.
Ultimately, we throw together the black slacks that I wore once for a middle school chorus concert with a blouse that my auntie Lei got from Taiwan. I even sneak into my parents’ bathroom, steal some lipstick, and comb my hair. Checking myself in the warped bathroom cabinet mirror, I have to give myself props. Pretty good “She Cleans Up Nicely” trope.
At 1:50 I head down to the restaurant. The place is pretty much dead except for the sounds of Jin-Jin cleaning up the kitchen in the background, so I bring out my laptop and transfer the questions from Monster.com onto a legal pad, as if that were somehow more official.
At 1:53 I grab two glasses of water, feeling only a little silly when I set them on cocktail napkins, because it’s not like Formica forms water stains.
At 1:58 the bell jangles as someone comes in. It’s a tall black guy in a navy-blue suit that doesn’t quite fit him. He looks almost lost, and there’s a furrow between his brows as he scans the restaurant before settling on me.
“Can I help you?” I ask. “We’re still serving lunch if you need anything.”
“I’m, um, William Domenici.”
I puff a laugh. “Oh, of course. Sorry,” I stammer, and give my head a shake, only barely resisting an actual facepalm. Way to get off on the right foot. “Sorry. Please come in.”
Oh, God, I’m such a screwup.
WILL
The girl at A-Plus is quite pretty, or would be if her mouth wasn’t twisting in dismay. She has shoulder-length hair that frames round, full cheeks and brown eyes with thick, quirky eyebrows.
“Sorry. Please come in,” she says.
“I wasn’t who you expected,” I say grimly, a familiar tightness growing in my chest.
“No, not really.” She smiles crookedly. “You just look so professional I didn’t take you for a high school student.” At that her smile breaks open, and the pressure under my breastbone recedes. She stands up and beckons me in to sit at her table.
“Hi, William. I’m Jocelyn Wu,” she says as she extends her hand. I try to subtly wipe mine against my pants before holding out my own. Her hands are soft and dry. They feel like my mother’s favorite blue silk scarf.
“It’s Will. Call me Will.”
This Is My Brain on Chemistry
JOCELYN
Will sits across from me and I slide the glass of water over to him. He nods in thanks and fiddles a little bit with the corner of the napkin. It’s the smallest sign of nerves and reminds me that I’m supposed to be running the show.
It’s hard to feel in charge when he’s wearing a suit and I’m in an outfit Frankensteined from my thrift-store chic wardrobe. I feel… short sitting across from him and straighten up a little bit. But it’s weird. He doesn’t act tall, and his shoulders slope a little bit, almost apologetically. It’s cute. Or it would be if I weren’t concentrating on interviewing him. Which I totally am.
I clear my throat and peek down at my notes.
“So, Will. What makes you interested in working here at A-Plus?”
WILL
I swallow, and suddenly I can feel my heart throbbing in my ears. This is the question that I’ve dreaded the most, that I pondered all last night as I second-guessed my decision to accept the interview. I’m still not sure if I’ll get it right.
“I’ve eaten your food before and think that it’s great. I like that you can use my web skills, and it’ll be cool to get behind-the-scenes in the restaurant game. Plus, I work for the St. Agnes school paper and my adviser wanted me to learn how to manage a team and grow a business.”