Brian's Brain

Chapter 1

Diana POV

Michael was already dressed when I sat down across from him with my coffee: black suit, dark brown hair slicked straight back with gel, all six feet one of him folded into the kitchen chair like a man who had somewhere better to be. Thirty years married and he still ate breakfast like it was a quarterly review.

—I have to go —he said, checking his watch—. I'm meeting a client at nine and I can't be late.

—Of course. Let me just go wake the kids first.

Michael gave me that look over the rim of his cup, patient and a little tired, the look of a bank manager hearing the same objection for the hundredth time.

—Diana, they're adults. They're too old to need their mother waking them up.

—One of them still hasn't gotten the memo —I said.

—And he never will if you keep waking him up and making his breakfast.

—It worked with one of them —I shot back, with a smile.

He laughed at that, a short, defeated laugh, because we both knew who I meant. Our oldest had moved out years ago, and she called every Sunday like clockwork to tell us how wonderfully independent she was. That one had been easy. Maybe I'd used up all my luck on her.

Michael stood, straightened his jacket, and this time he really did go. I walked him to the door. We kissed, quick and warm, the way you kiss someone you've kissed ten thousand times. I watched him back the car out of the driveway, and then I turned around and went upstairs to the battlefield.

Brian's room was first.

The moment I opened the door, the smell hit me: stale air, old sweat, and that sour, closed-in funk of a boy who lived in the dark. I wrinkled my nose. A mound of comforter in the middle of the bed rose and fell with slow, sleepy breaths. Eleven minutes past the time he should have been up.

I crossed my arms and let out a long sigh.

Twenty years old, and I still couldn't tell whether my son was in a phase or simply this. Brian was a quiet boy, the kind who looked at the floor when he talked to you. Adulthood was costing him more than it cost other people, and I could see it, even if he never said it out loud. Since starting college he hadn't brought home a single friend, a classmate, a name I could repeat to Michael. And the boys he'd known in high school had stopped calling a long time ago. He had his games, he had his anime, and he had that bedroom. What was I supposed to do with that? All I wanted was for him to get a part-time job, something that would pull him out of this cave and into the world. But apparently the world couldn't compete with a cartoon.

—Brian —I said, pulling back the corner of the comforter—. Up. You have class.

He groaned, rolled over, and blinked up at me with swollen eyes. I was still in my pajamas, the short cotton shorts and the snug top I always wore, and for a second his gaze got stuck somewhere around my chest. It lingered there, just a second too long.

I pretended not to notice. I huffed, put my hands on my hips, and used my sternest voice.

—Come on, wake up. Breakfast is on the table, and I don't want to hear that you're late.

Then I left before the awkwardness could settle.

Valerie's room was worse. Clothes everywhere: the floor, the chair, hanging off the desk lamp. A swim bag spilled open on the carpet, a damp towel draped across the bed. Through the bathroom door I could hear the shower running and my daughter humming off-key.

Valerie was eighteen and in her first year of university, and she had taken to it like a fish to water, which, given the swim team, was almost funny. She had a hundred friends, a hundred plans, a phone that never stopped lighting up. She was sociable, brilliant, and a complete slob, and she walked through life as though the world had been built to clear a path for her. That was what worried me. A girl who thinks everything is owed to her turns into a woman nobody wants to be around.

I muttered all of this to myself as I bent down, picked up shirt after shirt, a pair of leggings, a sock, and dropped everything in the hamper. Then I knocked on the bathroom door, opened it a crack, and raised my voice over the water.

—Dirty clothes go in the hamper, Valerie!

—I know, Mom!

—If you know, then do it!

I shut the door before she could answer and went to my own room.

I stopped in front of the closet mirror. Fifty years old, and honestly? Not bad. The woman looking back at me was curvy in all the right places: full hips, a narrow waist, a D-cup bust that had survived three kids and two decades of gravity. Blonde hair, soft features, skin that had been kind to me. In my pajamas, the little shorts and the top clinging to everything, I felt good in my own body. I allowed myself a small, vain smile.

Then I got ready for the office: a white blouse with ruffles at the collar, a black blazer, and a black knee-length skirt. Serious, professional, polished.

When I came back down, my children were at the table, and for once neither was staring at their phone.

—Mom —Valerie said right away—, can I take the car today?

—You can take the car when your room is clean. Today your brother drives you there and brings you back.

Brian looked up from his cereal with a face like a man handed a prison sentence.

—I don't want to bring her back. She has swim practice, and I'd have to wait around the campus for hours.

—That's perfect. You can use the time to go by the university job board and find yourself something part-time.

—I don't want Brian taking me anywhere —Valerie cut in, wrinkling her nose—. What if my friends see me with my freak of a brother?

—Valerie.

—What? It's true.

Brian pushed his spoon around the bowl.

—I have something to do this afternoon anyway —he mumbled.

—Something like what? —I asked.

He said nothing. Then, after a moment:

—I'll wait for her. It's fine.

It was the strangest thing. I'd expected a fight, and instead I got a shrug. I looked at Valerie and spoke before she could open her mouth.

—You're going with your brother, and that's the end of the discussion.

They both nodded, defeated, with identical sulky expressions, and for a moment they looked like they were twelve and ten again.

—Now hurry up, both of you. Go.

It was dusk by the time I got home.

I opened the door and found Brian on the living room couch, a blanket over his knees, eyes locked on the television. On the screen, a blond boy in a courtroom was ripping up a sheet of paper while a crowd gasped around him. I set my purse on the table.

—I'm home!

I walked up to the couch and stopped beside him.

—Where's your sister?

—In her room —he said, without looking at me.

I followed his eyes to the screen. The boy who'd torn up the paper was now behind bars, and a tall blond man was talking to him through the bars with a very serious face. Some drama or other. I folded my arms.

—Did you go to the job board?

That got his attention. He looked at me, fumbled for the remote, and paused the show. His shoulders drew in, and when he spoke it was in that small, hesitant voice that always made me want to hug him and shake him at the same time.

—I was thinking about something, Mom.

—I asked if you went to the job board.

—I… started a business. Today.

I frowned.

—A business.

—A YouTube channel.

I took a breath. Patience, Diana. I forced my voice into the soft register I used with difficult clients.

—Sweetheart, it's fine to have your hobbies. It's good to have things you like. But what I want is for you to have a real job.

—It's a real project —he insisted, reaching for his phone—. I already uploaded the first video. Just watch it. Please.

—I don't need to watch it to know what I think.

—Then watch it, and afterward you can think whatever you want.

He was already holding the phone out to me, his youtube channel loaded on the screen. I took it with a sigh, and my eyes landed on the channel name.

Brian's Brain.

The pun was basic, almost childish. But I worked in advertising, and I had to admit something I wasn't going to say out loud: it stuck. It was easy to remember, easy to say, easy to type. A name with a hook.

Then I saw the thumbnail. Anime characters, glossy and oversaturated, cut out against a loud background, with a pompous title in big letters that looked like it had been generated by a machine.

—Did you make this yourself? —I asked, looking up.

—Yeah.

I studied it a moment longer. It was better than I'd expected.

—I'm impressed, Brian. Honestly. I can help you with this, if you want. But you should still look for a job.

—You haven't seen the video yet.

—I don't have to see it to know.

—Mom. Just watch it.

He wasn't going to let it go. I looked at him, that anxious, hopeful face, and I surrendered. Fine. Ten minutes of my life, and then we would both be done with this. I pressed play.

The video began with colors.

…

—What did you think?

The voice came from far away, as if from the other side of a window. I blinked. I was looking at a screen of recommended videos, a grid of thumbnails, nothing else. How long had I been standing there?

—What did you think, Mom?

I turned. Brian was watching me from the couch, and I opened my mouth to answer when I felt something cool at the corner of my lip. Wet. I touched it with the back of my hand. Was I drooling? Mortified, I wiped it quickly on the sleeve of my blazer.

—It was… impressive —I said, finding the words as I went—. Honestly, probably one of the best videos I've ever seen. I'd need to watch it again to take in all the concepts it covers.

Brian smiled, a small, strange smile.

—I'll send it to you, then. So you can watch it whenever you want.

—Perfect.

The phone was still in my hand, and when I looked at the clock on the screen, my stomach dropped. More than an hour had passed since I'd come through the front door. How long was that video? I couldn't say. Whatever. It didn't matter. What mattered was that I still had to go to the store and buy something for dinner, or it would get awfully late.

I handed the phone back to him.

—I have to go shopping, sweetheart.

—Mom —he said, as I turned away.

—Hm?

He hesitated, his thumb running over the edge of the screen.

—So… do I have to go and find a job?

I turned around to look at him and frowned, completely bewildered by the absurdity of the question.

—What are you talking about, Brian? —I replied, in a natural and maternal, almost compassionate tone—. Of course not. The one whose obligation it is to bring money into this house is your dad, not you. You focus on your own thing.

The mere idea of Brian working in an office or tending a counter seemed like an absolute absurdity, a complete waste of time with no logical sense. The one responsible for bringing money into this house was Michael. That's what his father was there for, that's why he was a bank manager and earned what he earned. Brian had other things to attend to, much more important things, like his channel and his head. It was ridiculous to pretend otherwise.

Brian held my gaze for a second. Then, that calm smile drew itself across his face once more.

—Okay —he said, nodding slowly—. I just wanted to be sure.