This Is My Brain in Love: List 4

“Plus, that job paid for itself with the letters of recommendation and networking. Who’re you going to schmooze with at a Chinese restaurant? The guy who delivers the fortune cookie shipment?”

I don’t know if it’s the underlying redolence of garlic, soy sauce, and sesame oil that’s so comforting, or if the slightly off-tune beepbeep of the electronic door sensor triggers my relaxation.

I try to sublimate my feelings into spreadsheets.

“I mean, it’s his prerogative as your father…”
“What about your prerogative as my...kind-of boyfriend?”

It’s the only time Priya’s advice ever chafes me, really. Because it’s like she doesn’t even know who I am, to think that there’s ever a moment in my life when I’m not bummed out over one thing or another, or stressed in some way.

As I read my e-mail after typing it up, I hear a voice in my head that is some imaginary combination of my mother and Mr. Wu: Don’t coddle the boy. If you keep propping him up he’ll never be able to make it on his own.

The point is, Will is sure as heck more interesting than my Junior Business Program essay, which is why so far I only have the following haphazardly typed up:
1. Grew up with family business

2. Not afraid of hard work

3. Learned to be organized to balance school and the restaurant

I decided early on in the process that “have sacrificed any semblance of a life” would not make a good bullet point.

It bothers me, a little, that he can be so blasé about being exceptional, like it’s just another thing that you can guarantee if you put in the hours and do the right things.

Amah walks in the side door, shimmying down in a geriatric approximation of a model on the catwalk, and oh my God, the struggle to keep myself from bursting into laughter is real.

She finally at least looks at me, pursing her lips the way she did when she was trying to placate the kids she used to babysit.

Normally, I would groan and commiserate with her about how annoyed she’s going to be by her cousins, but today I can’t do more than just smile tightly.

There’s something raw festering inside me, and I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, all that ugliness will ooze out.

Mrs. Wilson had a lot of other pithy little things to say, little literary pep talks. “Remember that the enemy of good is better. Don’t let your quest to be perfect stop you from being great. Never be afraid of writing a cruddy first draft.”

I’m suddenly terrified that he’ll think that it’s horrible, that it will completely and irrevocably ruin his opinion of me.

Will’s hand gently holds my arm away, and he exclaims, “That’s a terrific lede. What a great first line.”

I won’t have to lie by omission or make up positive comments to soften any criticism I give.

The writing is clean, her points salient, her word choice solid.

So when I realize that I’ve been listening to Jocelyn and silently ticking off the ways that her brain is tricking her (polarized thinking, overgeneralization, disqualifying the positive), I know that just pointing them out isn’t going to be helpful.

We’re going to hit another slew of doctors’ offices tomorrow, and we start working on an idea that I had as I was cycling past one of the sports fields a few days ago: a post-practice special.

Team Mayday is running circles around my head, screaming at me that I have to say something, that stigma and denial are dangerous, that they can kill.

Jocelyn looks pissed, as if my using the “d” word is a personal affront.

I’ve seen Will indignant, passionate, and even outraged, but I’ve never really seen him match the dark resentment that always seems to simmer inside me. I feel a weird mix of triumph and shame to have goaded him to that point.

Will was just trying to care, and now I’ve driven him away, cut him with my sharp edges the way I’ve alienated everyone from Peggy Cheng to that girl Megan who shared her Babybel cheeses with me in sixth grade, only to have me complain about how they tasted gross and gave me gas.

I feel beholden to at least have our conversation last more than thirty seconds.

She chastises my nne nne, too, for the metric ton of dietary supplements she consumes every year.

Of all the things that my mother has tried to teach me about the ins and outs of medical research, I’ve found the idea of the placebo effect to be the most fascinating. I’d known for years that the mind has far more control over the body than most people realize. So, it came as no surprise that, to a certain extent, people can sometimes think themselves better, and that taking a sugar pill can improve everything from chronic pain to an overactive bladder...

I filch a Days-of-the-Week pillbox from our medicine cabinet to repackage the fish oil tablets as a “traditional Italian concentration enhancer” that boosts focus.

“Yup. My grandmother’s pot stickers are our claim to fame.” That’s as good a segue as anything.

There’s something in the tone of her voice that feels like a tiny barb—something flippant, almost indulgent.

“Your neuroses complement each other.”

“And how much are you charging for today’s psychoanalysis?” I ask.
“Consider it pro bono,” she says, ignoring my sarcasm.

This is the question that keeps me up tonight, with all its codas, postscripts, and permutations:
Does Jocelyn only like me because she has low self-esteem?

My instant, visceral reaction is, No, it’s not like that.

“What school are you from? Are you going to be a junior or a senior?” she asks, her eyes flicking over my ensemble.

There are testaments from former graduates talking about “recognizing growth potential” and from parents gushing about how it was a “priceless experience.”

“I’m so honored to be here, Professor Wisneski,” I say as I sit down. That’s one of the openings that Grace suggested, because even though it’s kind of obsequious (I mean, seriously, an honor?) it reminds the interviewer that they’ve selected you for a reason and, well, suggests that you deserved it.

“Relationships, I mean. I meant relationships, not nepotism, or that type of relations—like Bill Clinton.’’

I’m so flustered that I can’t even look at him, so I open my folio with numb hands to furiously study my page of notes in a desperate attempt to avoid death by mortification.

I think I’m polite. I think I avoid any more major gaffes. I think I manage to trot out one or two ungraceful pivots so I can parrot out some of the stock answers Grace and I came up with.