This Is My Brain on Second Chances

WILL

The morning before the first day of my second life at A-Plus, I’m thrumming with nerves, ping-ponging back and forth between euphoria and anxiety. I’m going to do this. I’m going to prove myself worthy. Or, I’m going to screw up massively, and play the fool.

When I tell my sister that I’ll be working all summer and tutoring Alan, too, she gives me her patented boy-are-you-shitting-me stare. “Didn’t you say that they didn’t have enough money to pay you for more than a month?”

I hedge a little and tell her about the commissions from the online ordering.

“Little brother, that’s work you already did. They should have been paying you for that all along. Haven’t you heard Mom complain a gazillion times about how white people always expect brown people to do things for free?”

“Mr. Wu’s not white,” I say, trying to keep a level tone. I do not want to get into this argument with my sister.

Grace waves her arms. “White-adjacent. Same thing.”

“You did an unpaid internship with dad’s firm.”

“That was the summer after freshman year,” she scoffs. “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?”

“It’s all research, remember?” I insist weakly. If I told Grace the real reason I was going back to A-Plus—for Jocelyn, plain and simple—she’d just tease me for being a desperate pushover schmuck who has no concept of self-worth when it comes to relationships with the opposite sex. And there’s part of me that would wonder if she was right.

When I call to ask Manny if I’m doing the right thing, he’s more direct in his assessment.

“I’m happy for you, man. That’s what you wanted, right? To be able to see her again?”

“Yeah,” I say. That is all I really wanted. And to be honest, I’d be willing to do a lot more to prove to her father that I’m datable.

The minute I walk into A-Plus, my nerves settle. 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. It’s all familiar and associated with laughter and good food and a girl who is as sweet as she is sharp.

Jocelyn is waiting for me. So is her father.

“Hey,” Jocelyn breathes, standing up. She takes a step forward, then rocks back. Her hands spasm like she wants to reach out and hug me, then she glances over at her dad and lets her arms hang to her sides.

No hanky-panky.

“Hey,” I say, with a great big grin on my face like a big dork. “It’s great to be back.”

“Great to have you,” she says. Her answering smile is smaller, more cautious, but she’s still radiant. “We’ve got some good stuff planned.”

“I expect daily progress report,” Mr. Wu interjects sternly from where he’s filling the register. “And Xiao Jia still have no cell phone when she is not at work, so don’t be expecting any more secret meeting.”

“Yes, sir. I understand. When did you want me to work with Alan today?” I ask.

“He get back around three thirty. Will come straight here to be chaperone when I go for supply.”

“Got it.”

Mr. Wu goes back to his work, and I walk over to Jocelyn to drop my book bag at the booth that serves as her workstation. I sit down across from her, almost aching with the desire to instead be sitting next to her, feeling the side of her body pressing into mine.

No distractions.

This summer may very well kill me.

JOCELYN

In theory, my dad’s plan is pretty reasonable, almost enlightened when it comes to Asian parenting culture (thank you, Mr. Cheng). I tell myself to think of it as delayed gratification, as hoops we have to jump through so my dad can save face.

Approximately thirty seconds after Will comes in for work, though, I realize that it’s just torture, plain and simple.

I can’t hug Will. I can’t sit next to him and feel his heat as we pore over advertising ideas. (My dad has demanded a one-foot rule, as if he wants us to leave room for the Holy Spirit.)

And you know, that would all be fine if I didn’t also have to sit across from him and look into his eyes as we discuss financials, and listen to his laugh while we brainstorm more slogans.

This is why I’m an atheist. Any God who thinks hormones are a good idea should be shot.

I try to sublimate my feelings into spreadsheets. After we’ve been working an hour, Amah comes down to be my parents’ eyes and ears as they run a few errands. By then the tension between Will and me has come down to a simmer, which is good because I’m looking through my plan and panicking a bit about where to even start.

“Do you want to divide and conquer with these groups?” I ask him. “You should do the college communications, and I can work on the consumer outreach.” We’d decided to make bookmarks to give out at the bookstore, as well as flyers emphasizing our “Healthy Choices” steamed menu (with brown rice and sauce on the side) that we could post at the LA Fitness down the street. “We can work together to cold-call the drug reps.”

I’m surprised when Will’s expression flattens and he seems to physically fold into himself. When he replies his voice is off. Higher pitched. Nervous? “Actually, I can hand out the flyers at the bookstore and the LA Fitness, since I have a car and can go around. Do you mind handling the calls?”

“Fine.” I shrug. His mother is a doctor—he got us a few more names from her, after all—maybe he had a weird interaction with a drug rep.

Will swallows, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob. “I’m sorry,” he says in a more natural voice. “I just… I don’t like calling people I don’t know. Face to face is fine, I’ll drop off the samples at the offices, I’d just prefer not to make calls to the reps.”

“Sure.” I mean, he’s doing all of this for free, basically, so I shouldn’t ask him to do anything that makes him uncomfortable. “It makes more sense for me to call from the restaurant, I guess. More official.”

Will has turtled into a little huddle in front of his computer. “Thanks for understanding,” he says, staring at his keyboard.

“No prob. I’m making the fitness flyer now—we should drop some off at the Y, too. What were the numbers again for what the protein-to-fat ratio is supposed to be after a workout?”

Will is back to normal within a few minutes, and I forget about the little blip in an otherwise clockwork afternoon. It isn’t until weeks later that I look back on that moment and wonder: What if I’d noticed earlier?