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 him come up with nutritional information for your menu. Oh! Or have Amah fake a heart attack and have him do CPR on her.”

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?