A Pho Love Story

by Loan Le

  The president, Kelly Tran, still hasn’t forgiven me for oversleeping and missing one Saturday service day during sophomore year. Actually, it was three.

  The newspaper room used to be an art room, so the walls have posters about journalism ethics and one blow-up portrait of a younger Woodward and Bernstein posing together—not sure where that came from—but also a deep sink with an annoying drip and leftover jugs of neon green and yellow paint from last semester. Macs surround the perimeter of the room, all asleep. I’m basically silent because I don’t have anything to show. I forgot my article about upcoming school field trips.

  Kind of.

  The truth is, I started to write it. I really did. I’d talked to the people Allison told me to seek out: the bus drivers, the teachers, and some random students that she found somewhere, and I jotted down everything they had to say—nothing interesting, of course.

  But the moment I started to type them out during the last class, my words stopped making sense. I remember thinking in that moment: What’s the point? Will anyone read this? Then my words and sentences froze onscreen until nothing was coming out, and I was stuck trying to find a way to string them together into something remotely reasonable.

  Meanwhile, everyone around me was zoned in, typing without pause, putting their stories into those “pyramids” or whatever that Rowan had taught us when we first started classes.

  So I say that I “forgot” my article, and Rowan just sighs—

  Did he just write Loser on his pad?

  Honestly, I don’t know where Allison gets her energy from. What does she eat? What did her parents do to her? She stands at the center of the desks, which are flush against each other in a perfect square. She’s more like a lion at the zoo looking out at gawkers. Her hair is in a braid. I think of Katniss Everdeen.

  She squints at me. Of course she knows that I lied, that I actually hate writing. Why isn’t she saying anything? I squirm. I see her at school with Linh in the hallways. What if Linh talks about me or my family—and what stories has she heard? Maybe she and the rest of the Mais throw darts at pictures of us. That could explain why Allison looks like she’s devising a way to meticulously murder me and stash my body.

  “Fine. Since you don’t have anything to write about, I’m putting you on proofreading duty. Do you have an AP Stylebook?”

  I shake my head.

  Smack. Allison tosses me a tome that lands on my desk.

  Fingerprints smear the glossy front cover. “Thanks,” I mumble. Awesome. All I’ve ever edited was our restaurant menu where the letter s mysteriously dropped from plural nouns. I just added them back in if I thought they looked weird.

  Finally, Allison’s focus shifts to another kid named Ernie, who smells like wintergreen gum even though he never chews gum. He fiddles with his round glasses that are down to his nose. Looking at him makes me feel anxious.

  “Ernie, you’re two days late with the article on the recycling scandal. Where is it?”

  “Mr. Allen hasn’t gotten back to me.” From what I remember, Mr. Allen, the marine biology teacher, was caught putting trash into his recycling bin—by Allison herself. That’s a “scandal,” apparently.

  Allison sighs. “Did you talk to him?”

  “I e-mailed him.”

  “I want you to chase him, okay?”

  “O-okay,” he stutters.

  “Wait for his class to let out. Show him that I have proof that he broke the rules.”

  “Hang on, Allison, you saved the contents of a recycling bin?” Rowan interjects.

  She looks confused. “Yes, why?”

  Is she for real?

  Rowan starts laughing but he hides it behind a cough. “Good. A journalist always needs to back up their claims.” He shakes his sleeve up to show his wristwatch. “Why don’t we finish the meeting now and get right into it? Bảo, here’s something for you to start proofreading. Try to finish it.” He offers me a manila folder, which I get up and take.

  Try?

  Asshole.

  We still have more than a half hour left and Rowan doesn’t think I can get through a five-hundred-word article. Oblivious to the insult, he retreats into his office abutting the newsroom.

  Allison pushes away a desk with her hip, creating an exit. She pulls aside Luigi, the managing editor, so she can come up with a way to fill what used to be the comics section. Apparently the comics artist showed up to one class, was given an assignment by Allison, and then switched over to graphic design class.

  I dive into Allison’s article about bullying issues and how our statistics compare to nationwide statistics. She knows how to write, knows when she’s said enough, knows when to punch the details. She’s good. She quotes Hal, the janitor who’s one of the main advocates for stronger anti-bullying policies because he sees it happening all the time in the hallways, and Allison writes him so well that it’s like he’s right there in the room, leaning against his mop, a watchful eye on bullies.

  I only fix a few commas and start a new paragraph when one of them looks too long. At the last sentence, though, I stop. I read the sentence over and over again and it just feels… weird to me. I can’t put my finger on it, so I let my pen linger there, a red dot bleeding through the page. But still, it’s one word. One word won’t ruin a piece. And Allison’s probably not going to like the fact that I’m questioning—even if it’s a small bit—her article.

  The hallway bell dismisses us, thankfully. Allison is yelling out the next deadline for articles. When she walks past me, I hand back her article.

  “It’s really good.” Then I’m free, but not really, since I have work.

  “Wait.”

  I turn.

  “You’re lying.” She peers at the paper… at the red dot that I left. “You hesitated here. Why?”

  It’s unnerving to see a girl my age use the same withering glance as my mom.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” she demands.

  Now she’s annoying me. I snatch the paper back and stab at the paper. “Maybe cut this word and replace it with an adjective. I just think you need a stronger one. Plus the word is repeated earlier in the article.”

  A long pause falls between us. I swear I hear the clock ticking. Did I just say that? “Thank you,” Allison says. She looks like she’s trying not to grimace.

  I grab my things. My adrenaline’s pumping, like I just finished a mile. I feel good—being right about something for once.

  I’m the only one left in the room, so I leave… before running into someone.

  “Sorry!” a girl says.

  Linh.

  “Uh, no that’s fine.” My mouth feels numb. I can’t find any other words to say because of the way she’s looking at me, wide-eyed, indecisive—everything that I’m probably feeling right now.

  I do the only thing I can think of:

  I run away.

  CHAPTER FOUR LINH

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” Ali asks as she leaves room 436 with her backpack. Strands of her hair have escaped her braid, but she hurriedly brushes them aside. I didn’t expect to see her because I knew she had study hall; she should be home right now, which makes me jealous even thinking about it. I would have given anything to have a break before going to work. A time where I can just think and not be around people, like I am all day.

  “Grabbing paint for Yamamoto,” I tell Ali. When I’d gotten to the studio upstairs, she shouted from the back, asking me to drop by the old art room downstairs because she left behind a few things during the move.

  Thinking everyone had emptied from the room by now, I walk through the door… until I collide with Bảo. His eyes widen.

  “Sorry!”

  Why do I sound like a squeaky first grader? He’s a head taller than me, which shouldn’t surprise me—puberty and all—but having always seen him across the street from the restaurant, I never noticed his height.

  “Uh, no that’s fine.” He slips past
me, then nearly bolts down the hallway, away from us. Away from me. Which shouldn’t bother me so much, since I would probably do the same in his shoes, but it does. I glance at Allison to see if she noticed the weird exchange—she usually does with things like this—but surprisingly, she’s watching Bảo, looking like she has something to say.

  “I’m not sure I like that kid.”

  “Bảo?” I spot the canary-yellow paint by the sink and grab it while Allison talks at me.

  “Yeah, him. On one hand, he’s clearly lazy and doesn’t give a shit about journalism. On the other hand, he found a mistake in my article that even I missed.”

  “Oh, wow, he found a mistake,” I say mockingly. We walk down the hall together, toward the art room. With school letting out at the end of the day, it’s chaotic. Elbows and shoulders crash against me, and the smells of Axe, sweat, and sweet Victoria’s Secret perfume hit me all at once. Loud rap and pop music float from the earbuds of my classmates. Teachers fast-walk with their heads down and dodge students TikToking random sketches.

  “I’m serious! It’s been read, like, three times by Rowan. Bảo has a good eye. But I don’t think he cares—or knows. Which is annoying.”

  “His parents own that restaurant across from me, you know.” I’ve told Allison about the feud in general, how it doesn’t really make sense and all that, but I’ve never really mentioned Bảo. Or our time at the temple together. Some things aren’t worth mentioning; they sound and feel better as memories locked inside your brain.

  “No way! He’s that Nguyễn? No wonder you guys freaked out.” I smile. I knew it; even if she didn’t react in the moment, of course she’d catch that. “That’s a tragedy. He’s kind of cute. And he’s taller than you, which is good.”

  Good? She doesn’t explain why. “One minute you say you hate him—”

  “Obviously you’re not listening. I said I don’t know if I like him. But I know how to appreciate someone’s aesthetics.”

  “Aesthetics?”

  “C’mon. That hair?”

  Silently, I agree.

  * * *

  Yamamoto’s room is a forest of easels, with white canvases of all sizes, their pictures all works-in-progress. This side of the school gets the best lighting, not only for drawing, but also for feeding the hanging plants by the windows. Yamamoto is closer to the back and sits cross-legged on a stool, yet manages to look completely relaxed. Her nose practically touching the canvas, she dabs whatever she’s working on with a wet sponge. She has a streak of forest-green paint on her cheek.

  A tattooed Asian wasn’t a familiar concept growing up, so meeting someone like her was so cool. She’s not posing, either; the tattoos fit her. She can say the word “bullshit” in a classroom without a problem.

  “Here you go,” I say, handing her the jug.

  “Ah, perfect. Canary yellow, just what I need.” She sets it down on the ground. “How’s my old lair lookin’?”

  “Weird to see all the computers there. And the room looks smaller.”

  “That’s what I think too. You know, even though I complained a lot last semester, the move was actually a good thing. Look at all the space!” She opens her arms wide. I laugh because I love it when she smiles. Not that she’s so serious in class, even if she has the authority to be. But when it’s just us, she acts like an older sister—sans the weird, unnecessary biological facts Evie likes to point out.

  She claps her hands together. “Okay. Give it here.”

  I let her see my homework assignment again. I ended up finishing it after work, at midnight. That’s when I usually do my art—with a desk lamp as my only light source and bass-heavy electronica thrumming in my ears. It makes me feel peaceful and zoned in.

  “So are you going to the exhibition?”

  Left turn.

  “Wait, what?”

  She sets down my sketchpad and I follow the movement. Suddenly the conversation is turning to me.

  “At the museum I mentioned. It’d be good for you. You should really go.”

  “Um, yeah. I think I will.” I bite my lip at the lie.

  “Your parents don’t know, do they.” A statement, not a question.

  The flyer that I made floats back into my mind, September thirtieth haunting me. I sigh. “No. I still haven’t asked my parents.”

  Yamamoto knows a bit about my family and what it’s like to work at a restaurant, since she’s lived some of it. Her mother owned a Japanese fusion restaurant for half of her childhood before retiring. But because her parents were also artists on the side, she can’t truly relate to my dilemma.

  I lean in on my elbows, listening as she continues with her critique. Yamamoto shares the same language as me. No one else in my life can teach me about light and shadow and how they fall on objects. Ba’s unlikely to sit still long enough to watch shadows. He’d only think of it as wasting time. “Ba không có thì giờ!” Which is actually his usual excuse for things he’d rather avoid doing, like fixing something broken at home or running errands for the restaurant. My mom loves that.

  And the few times I’ve talked about art class with my mom, there’s some words and feelings that I can’t translate into Vietnamese. Like, orange is màu cam, but then there’s also burnt orange and cider orange. Direct translations don’t work.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket, bursting the bubble ensconcing me and Yamamoto. “Ugh, sorry, I’m late for work.”

  “Okay, but wait.” Yamamoto crosses the room to her desk and removes a packet from her drawer. “I know I’ve mentioned this before, but I wanted to make sure you don’t forget about it.”

  The Scholastic Awards. Each year, high school students submit their best works in art and writing. There are local awards, then there are national ones called Gold Keys, judged by the best in the business, and the winner gets recognition at Carnegie Hall in New York, and even some scholarships.

  “I’m telling you. Keep your eye on this. You have a chance.”

  “Really?”

  Yamamoto smiles. “Absolutely. And, hey, maybe it’ll help your parents see the value in what you’re doing. They can’t say no to money. But first step: Just make sure you check out the exhibition, okay? I know you have a lot of things riding on you, but I don’t want you to forget about yourself. About what you want. This is your year.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Dread sits at the bottom of my stomach, and her heavy gaze on my back pushes me through the door, out into the hallway.

  CHAPTER FIVE BẢO

  “Con ăn giống như mèo,” Mẹ says. According to her, I’m eating like a cat right now. I look down at the meal before me: a nearly finished bánh xèo in a bowl, floating in nước mắm—my fifth serving in twenty minutes. Other times, Mẹ accuses me of eating too much like Ba.

  Three hours ago, my parents were in the kitchen checking on their Powerball numbers, their concentration resembling scientists working toward a breakthrough cure. After each ticket failed to yield winning numbers, they placed it in a pile that goes into the “everything drawer” in their bedroom. Everything’s there: keys with no locks to fit them in; nail clippers; prescribed medicine for their high cholesterol (which they trade sometimes, and I’m pretty sure they’re not supposed to do that); and pictures of me at various ages. Mẹ had glanced through the kitchen screen door. “Oh look, it’s raining.” She nodded to herself. “A good day to have bánh xèo.”

  “Ah,” Ba said in agreement, before striking out another losing ticket.

  And here we are.

  Why does bánh xèo taste good when it rains? Every time I ask my parents they always start to explain—“Tại vì…”—and then something else grabs their attention. I’ve come up with my own explanation. I’m not sure there’s a scientific reason, but I do know that bánh xèo tastes like a good fire when the outside pavement is wet, the air ripe with earth and cement. I found a word for that smell: “petrichor.” In this kind of weather, nothing tastes better than rice flour, made yellow by turmeric p
owder, cooked crisp, packed with chewy pork belly, shrimp, bean sprouts, in one megabite.

  Thinking that we need another batch, Mẹ disappears outside in her raincoat, fishing out another piece. She noisily slides the screen door open, returning with a giddy smile. A perfectly cooked bánh xèo sizzles on the plate. My body a half hour ago would have been like, Oh yes. She gestures for our bowls, filled with salty nước mắm, and lets those babies sink in.

  Ba gestures for it, chewing on his piece, as if to say, Lay it on me, woman.

  “How is school going? College applications?” Mẹ asks.

  Nonexistent, my brain answers, but I say, “Good.”

  We’d done our road-tripping last year, visiting mostly state schools so that it’s cheaper. My scores might be able to get me into some of them, though there aren’t any guarantees. At least my parents know that.

  “Just make sure your grades are steady and you don’t go under.”

  “Sure.”

  Mẹ lets out another sigh.

  “Con, do you have any idea what you want to do? What major yet?”

  “Mẹ, that’s, like, a year away.”

  “But isn’t it better to know now?”

  “Plenty of students go into college undecided. It’s perfectly normal.”

  “Dì Nhi”—the General—“said her son knew right away that he wanted to do premed before going to Stanford.”

  “Premed’s not a major, though.”

  “I know! But what I mean is, he knew what he wanted to do.”

  I shift when I realize I’m sitting exactly like my mom, one leg bent on the chair. I stretch out both legs and cross my arms. But then I notice that’s how Ba sits.

  “A year will come quickly,” my mom continues.