This Is My Brain on Unsolicited Advice

WILL

I’m at A-Plus when Jocelyn has her “interview” with Grace, because we still aren’t allowed unchaperoned time together. The lunch rush is slower than usual, which makes me feel a faint anxiety about whether we’ll hit our target for the week. It’s as good a reason as any for me to finally pull up the contact info for the plaza’s property manager.

Just looking at the number on my phone makes me feel nauseated. I take a lap around the restaurant, doing my breathing exercises, pepping myself up by saying phrases like, “You’ve got this” and “She’s not going to know what hit her.”

Like Dr. Rifkin once suggested, I come up with a script to use. It’s supposed to give me control over the situation, something to fall back on if my brain short-circuits the moment the conversation gets awkward and turns me into a stammering mess.

“Hello, Ms. Ross,” I practice. “My name is William Domenici and I’m a staff writer for the Spartan. I’m working on a feature article on the microeconomics of Waterford Plaza.” I know I have to reveal my conflict of interest, so I rehearse what I’m going to say about working for A-Plus.

I end up with a five-hundred-word speech, and still, when my thumb hovers over the green call button, I’m flooded with self-doubt. No way Rebecca Ross is going to give an interview to a high school student, even if I mention that previous Spartan articles have been picked up by the O-D. She probably couldn’t tell me any meaningful intel anyway. What, do I think I’m going to do some investigative reporting and come up with something to save the Wus’ business?

I close out the Word file with my script.

News flash: I don’t make the call.

When Jos comes back to the restaurant, she has no apparent signs of trauma and is carrying a shopping bag full of clothes.

“She didn’t eat you alive?” I ask, only half joking.

“No, she was great. I feel a lot better about the interview.”

Later on, at home, Grace says pretty much the same thing. “She seemed a little nervous at first, but then she settled down when we actually started talking about what she wanted out of the program.”

“Thanks for meeting her,” I say.

“Naw, she’s a good egg. I can see why you two get along.”

There’s something in the tone of her voice that feels like a tiny barb—something flippant, almost indulgent. Lately, Dr. Rifkin has been working with me to try to “verbalize my sensitivity in order to defuse its consequences,” which is a fancy way of saying that I should speak up when something bugs me, so I ask, “What do you mean?”

Grace looks up from the New Yorker she’s reading on our couch and sets it on the coffee table. She shrugs. “Your neuroses complement each other.”

As my eyes begin to narrow, Grace puts her hands up. “Don’t get upset, it’s an observation, not a criticism.” She takes in a deep breath, a sign that I’ve always teased her to mean that she’s gearing up to expel a lot of hot air. “The way I see it is that she’s probably got some self-esteem issues—as do we all—and that you’re a really good fit with her because you’re super sensitive and aware of other people, so you’re less likely to play into said self-esteem issues.”

She’s not exactly wrong, though it still irks me that she’s so right.

“Also, Jocelyn seems like a straight shooter, which is good because she doesn’t feed into your tendency to overanalyze everything. Plus, she seems super loyal. So, perfect for you.”

I turn her words around in my head like I’m examining a puzzle box, looking for the right combination of touches for it to fall apart. “And how much are you charging for today’s psychoanalysis?” I ask.

“Consider it pro bono,” she says, ignoring my sarcasm. “And, little bro, no overthinking, okay?”

She goes back to her magazine. And I wonder how my sister can be as smart as everyone says she is if she doesn’t realize that she said the exact combination of words to guarantee that I’ll start overthinking.

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?

It’s not as if Grace’s observation wasn’t something I hadn’t already cottoned on to, but it’s the first time I’ve ever put it in the context of Jocelyn wanting to date me. Could it be true that Jocelyn settled on me because I was safe and unthreatening and clearly so into her that she didn’t need to feel insecure?

And even worse, could it be that I only liked Jocelyn because some calculating, manipulative part of me noticed that she was vulnerable and didn’t have many other choices? Did some primitive part of my brain look at her and think, Oh, easy prey. We should go after her?

My instant, visceral reaction is, No, it’s not like that. I can feel my muscles tensing up in reaction to the thoughts that dart in and out of my brain, this rising horror that the attraction that Jocelyn and I have is something built from newspaper and matchsticks, ready to go up in flames at any instant.

At some point I realize that my breath is stuttering, barely enough to move any oxygen. It’s too hot under my sheets, and I fling them aside and stumble into my bathroom, where I gulp in huge lungfuls of cool, stale air. It’s three AM.

“It’s not like that,” I tell my reflection sternly. “Pull yourself together.”

I drag myself back to my room and grab the notebook on my nightstand. I start to write, only stopping when I can’t keep my eyes open.

The next day at A-Plus, Jocelyn is in such a good mood I almost feel guilty for my middle-of-the-night decompensation.

“Okay, ask me something, anything that might come up in an interview.”

“Uh, okay. What’s your biggest weakness?” I ask, thinking back to the day we first met.

She pulls a face, knowing exactly what I’m doing. “You can’t think of a better question than that?”

I shrug. “It’s probably the most commonly asked question. Can you answer it yet?”

“Ugh, you’re the worst. Okay.” She stands up straight and looks me right in the eye. “My biggest weakness is probably that I could do better at delegating. Sometimes when things get busy at the restaurant, and things come up, I find myself thinking, ‘Oh, it’s just easier to do that myself,’ even when it’s something simple that anyone could do, like cutting vegetables. The thing I have to realize is that just because I can do something, that doesn’t mean that it is my job. Teams work the most effectively when everyone works as a unit, with specialized tasks.”

“Not bad.” I think about other likely questions. “Okay. How will a UUJBP scholarship fit in your future plans?”

Jocelyn rolls her eyes at first, then gets a mischievous look. “Well, sir,” she says, honest to God batting her eyes. “It’ll allow me to fulfill my potential by dating this really cute, sweet guy, so I’d appreciate it if you’d just sign me up.”

I’m so flustered that I fumble the plasticware I’m wrapping into a napkin. When I bend down to pick it up I can feel my face heat up as my mouth pulls into a smile I can’t suppress.

“Xiao Jia! How many times I say, no flirt!” Mr. Wu complains from the propped-open storeroom.

“I’m not flirting, I’m practicing for my interview!” Jocelyn yells.