by Loan Le
I duck into the alley. I don’t care that it smells like fish and sewage or that the ground might be dirty; it’s the best sanctuary I can find in the moment. I slide down, bring my legs to my chest, and rest my forehead on my knees. Breathe, Linh. Breathe.
I’m not sure how long I sit there. At least I’m alone. At least no one’s here to see me fall apart like Jenga pieces.
“Um, hey.”
I peer down at the scuffed edges of red Converse.
Oh no.
CHAPTER SEVEN BẢO
It’s always hard to work when your best friend is summarizing a rerun episode of Law & Order: SVU. Even when we’re not in the same area, Việt’s shouting across the room.
“You always know it’s the good-looking celebrity guy who’s the perp.” He uses the term like he’s a well-seasoned cop.
“Uh-huh.”
“I just wish that for one episode, the perp would be the ugly one. You know?”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, the moment John Stamos came on screen, I was like—hello, it’s him. The bad guy.”
We’re running through our checklist of things to do at closing at ten, only a few minutes away. Cold items in the fridge. Cutting boards washed down, then turned over. Each bottle of hoisin and sriracha sauce filled. Eduardo, one of the line cooks, fist-bumps me on his way out. He’s usually the last one to go and first to show up every morning, on the dot. He sends me a rictus of pity, having been on the receiving end of Việt’s recap before.
Việt has his quirks—his obsession with all the weirdest police procedural or forensic science shows and his near-perfect ability to quote the dialogue from them—but I can’t imagine Việt without them. He’s been in my life for that long. His parents and mine would get together at the restaurant—mostly after the shift ended, or when Việt’s parents were done delivering supplies to various restaurants—to unwind or rant about other store owners in the area. Heineken would come in at some point. While the adults talked, we’d sit underneath the tables trading imaginary stories—playing cops and robbers—sharing toys with each other. Sometimes we didn’t even need to talk.
I thought him joining the cross-country team in freshman year would be the end of Việt and Bảo. That he would find more coordinated friends who didn’t wheeze after running a quarter of a mile. But I was still his best friend.
And as Việt launches into another recap, I think: For better or for worse.
The night passed easily, the two of us having already established a rhythm with the other servers. Mẹ had put a line cook’s mom, Trần’s, in charge of the kitchen so she didn’t have to come in. It’s different with the server situation, though. She’s pairing me up with Việt because we know each other and make decent partners. She trusts Việt to do his job, as well as make sure I do mine. The concept’s not perfect: We’re the same age, and letting him watch over me makes as much sense as letting a horse and a pony run the show. But somehow it works.
Trần’s mom leaves before us. I make sure the front is locked from the inside. As I’m closing the blinds, I see Linh’s place is packed with customers at ten. Just for today, for that special, it’s staying open for two more hours. A line wraps around the corner. Something that I’m sure our place has never seen before. I’m glad Mẹ is home tonight or else she’d come and just sit here and spy on people coming and going, scaring not only their customers but our own.
Việt joins me to peer through the blinds. “What people do for specials.” He shakes his head. “We gotta one-up them, man.”
“How?”
“Put something special on the menu.”
“What else should we make?”
Việt shrugs. “Mom’s always telling me your mom makes the best bánh xèo—why not work with that? Like an anything-you-want-in-your-crepe kind of deal. I mean, my mom has talked multiple times of poisoning her to get the recipe. Which could be effective, if you think about it, since your mom needs to taste a lot of things in the kitchen.”
I glance over at my best friend. His mom’s known for being hawk-eyed and competitive. She didn’t get to be one of the most sought-after suppliers by doing any favors. But poison?
Việt backtracks. “But she won’t—you know, poison her. It was a joke.”
I can’t ever imagine his mother—or his father—joking.
“That’s appreciated,” I reply dryly. I almost drop my blinds. Then a blur bursts from the back door.
Linh. She escapes into the alley. “What the hell?” The customers waiting in line watch her go before facing frontward again—shrugging or just shaking their heads. I glance back at Việt, who’d already gone back to the kitchen. He notices no one had thought to restock the fridge with beverages yet.
“That was probably Trần’s fault,” I say, still distracted.
That alley’s one-way. Where could she possibly go? And why was she running?
“Of course,” Việt scoffs, the sound distant, before reemerging with a carton of Arrowhead and kicking along another one half full of different sodas. He crouches down to start filling up the fridge’s compartments. My attention alternates between him and the alley. “You gonna make me do all the work here?”
Linh’s been out there for a while now. Three minutes?
I’ve never worked so fast. We recycle the leftover boxes, turn off the lights, then go outside to lock up. As Việt pulls down the doors over the storefront, I turn toward the alley, imagining Linh there, no one knowing where she’d gone. What made her run away?
An unnamable feeling washes over me—similar to when I was looking at Ali’s article, knowing, just knowing, there was a piece that did not fit. I’d tried to pass it over without fixing it, until Ali confronted me, forcing it out of me.
This time, though, maybe I can fix what’s wrong… whatever that is.
Right on the dot, I get the ten o’clock text from Ba—but really from Mẹ—asking if I was finally on my way home. My thumbs hover over the keypad, my vertical bar blinking slowly.
“Take the long route home,” I tell Việt.
“Uh, why?”
“Because I’m going to need to buy some more time, and I don’t want my mom wondering why I’m late getting home.”
“Why are you going to be late?”
“I can’t really say.” Because even I don’t know what I’m going to do.
Việt regards me in silence and I imagine that he gets the intensity of his stare from his mother. He’s not going to do it. He’s going to ask why and what I’m doing, and Linh’s never going to get out of that alley.
“Tell her you stopped by my house to get a copy of a homework assignment. I’ll cover for you.”
I blink. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. I’ve never been more thankful for his laissez-faire attitude. “But you’re gonna have to tell me later what’s up.”
With a small wave, he’s off. I quickly type out my excuse to Ba, who answers with a simple “Okay.” And I know it’s really Ba, because his answers are always short and right to the point.
Just before I hit the opposite street, I think about turning around again. What am I doing? Maybe this is a bad idea to come over here. It feels like I’ve just walked past enemy lines and might step on a mine.
But now a few feet away from the alley, I hear her whispering, “Keep it together, Linh! It’s not the end of the world.” She’s crouching, breathing deeply, forehead to her knees.
I clear my throat when I’m in front of her. “Um, hey. Are you okay?”
“Um, yeah.” She sounds like she’s about to cry. I shuffle my feet.
“I didn’t mean to bother you. I’m Bảo, from across the street. I don’t know if you remember me, but we met that one time—” I stop. It was ages ago; she wouldn’t remember. I was just a blip in her childhood.…
“I remember you,” she says slowly, blinking a few times. The question of why I’m here sits heavy between us.
“Rough night?” I
ask, my voice catching slightly. Why do I sound like that guy in about every romantic comedy? Next thing I’m going to ask is Wanna talk about it? “I mean, it seems like things are busy over here.”
Linh sighs. “It’s just hectic in there. My dad hurt his back, so we’re short one person. I couldn’t breathe for a moment, and totally just ran out on the customers.” She adds, almost to herself, “I feel so useless right now.” She sounds miserable. I don’t have to know her to know that.
I crouch down to her level. Linh inches away instinctively, but she doesn’t leave. I try to find the right words to help her, to make her feel better, but who am I to do that? I’m mostly a stranger to her. Before I can get a word out, Linh inhales deeply.
“Never mind.” She furiously wipes away her tears. “I’ll have to go back inside.”
Back when we were kids at the temple, I could have gone to any other table, sat with any other kid. Instead, I ended up with her. I wonder if it wasn’t just the crafts that drew me in, and if it was also her, Linh Mai, in the zone, in her natural habitat. So sure of herself, while other kids were only fooling around and passing time.
This isn’t the Linh I remember.
I look at the alleyway door, imagining that it would lead us into a kitchen. I assume her mother is in the kitchen, cooking, delegating tasks to the other cooks—just like mine would. That’s her domain and unless an issue manifests, she usually stays there during serving time. Linh’s mom wouldn’t have a reason to go up front. A plan starts to form in my head. An impossible one that I hesitate to even voice. “I can help?” I clear my throat. “I mean, I can help you. You know, with customers and stuff. Just for tonight.”
“But your restaurant—”
“Closed a few minutes ago.”
“I don’t know if my mom—” She pauses, though I know what she’s suggesting. “I just don’t know.”
“It’s a win-win. I won’t need to be trained,” I try to joke.
She cracks a smile, but it disappears. “If my mom or my dad were hearing this, they’d think you’re just trying to spy on us.”
That type of thinking echoes what my mom would say. It’s the same kind of gossip that’s passed around by my mom, the General, and her Vietnamese watch group. The truth of it pierces the bubble enveloping us; the noise from inside the restaurant intrudes.
I’m instigating some sort of plan that Linh clearly doesn’t want to take part in. I shouldn’t have even come. Annoyance runs through me—at Linh for bringing up this confusing feud when I was only trying to help; at me for thoughtlessly running into this whole situation that had nothing to do with me—for reasons I’m not capable of understanding right now. I should just go back, return to our separate stories as background characters in each other’s small worlds.
“I’m not trying to spy. And I’m not my mom or my dad. I’m just… Bảo.” I back away, shoving my hands in my pockets. “You know what, it’s okay. Sorry for bothering you and for butting in. Good luck.”
Tomorrow, when Việt asks where I’d gone, I’ll make up a shitty excuse.
Tomorrow, everything will be back to normal, this encounter between us erased from our minds.
“Bảo, wait.” I pivot at my name. “Are you really serious? About helping me?”
The despondence already clouding my mind eases just slightly. She still sounds distrustful, but there’s a note in her voice pulling me back. I retrace my steps, standing in front of her just like before, and I offer my hand—my sweaty hand. “Tonight I’m Bảo Nguyễn, some guy just trying to help out on what’s clearly a stressful night.”
She stares at my hand, shaking her head slightly, realizing how ridiculous it is for me to do this in some alley. Still, her hand, showing traces of washed-out paint, accepts mine—and releases.
Linh wipes her hand on her jeans.
Great.
“What’s the plan?” she asks.
“I can serve in the dining area. Your mom’s probably cooking in the back, right? She won’t even see me. And the waiters—” I stop. Shit. I haven’t thought of that. At our restaurant, Bình and the others have suffered hours of my mom’s rants—about them, about customers, and especially about the Mais. They’ve been indoctrinated. So it’s likely that Linh’s fellow servers have gone through the same thing. They could recognize me.
“We have new waiters,” she adds quietly. “Which might work in our favor.”
She looks away for a second. Then she pulls back her hair. I’m shocked by how long it is as she hurriedly ties it all up, not caring that some strands have escaped. As the moonlight hits her, as I see the tightness of her jaw set in determination, the fierceness in her eyes that makes me breathless for a second, I realize—
The Linh from the temple is here.
She draws back her shoulders, looking like she’s ready for battle. Which I guess is accurate. “Okay, let’s do this.”
We’re doing it. We’re really doing this.
Please work out, I think, as I follow Linh inside.
* * *
The smell of phở is ubiquitous. If I close my eyes, I’m back inside my family’s restaurant. We’re in a narrow hallway where employees store their bags and jackets. To the right is the kitchen, bustling with the clang of pots and pans, water running, shouts from the line cooks. Linh gestures for me to crouch as we get to the serving window. A woman’s voice calls her name.
Without warning, Linh shoves me back and I backpedal into the alley.
“Jesus,” I mutter as I regain my footing. Is everyone stronger than me? I need to work out.
“Dạ, Mẹ! I’m good. Sorry, things were just…” The door cuts me off.
A pause. For one frightening moment, I imagine her mom emerging from the kitchen, kicking the door open—as my mom would do—and seeing me, recognizing me on sight.
Brandishing a pair of chopsticks.
I know what Vietnamese mothers are capable of doing with chopsticks. And my butt cheeks definitely remember ’10 when I drank ginger ale for dessert without asking Mẹ and Ba first.
A few seconds later, Linh pulls me back in by the hand. “Sorry,” she whispers. I nod numbly, my mind suddenly still, feeling her hand in mine again. She looks down, then snatches her hand away.
Trying to push past the awkwardness, I say, “I’m ready. Just tell me what needs to be done.”
“Follow me. Act normal.”
I crouch-walk past the window again. The moment I walk into the dining room, I regret every step that I’d taken to get here. Though the front-of-house staff might not recognize me as the enemy’s son, they’re going to notice a new guy miraculously starting on the job when they needed the help the most.
But I’m wrong. They’re busy with their tables; one guy shoots past us, muttering that he’d forgotten the drinks. Linh brings me to the reservation system to teach me the layout. We use the same system, I realize, and my mind zones in, keyed to the language we’ve grown up with just a street apart from each other. It’s not as hard as I thought it would be, the restaurant practically being a mirror of ours.
Unbidden, Linh’s earlier insinuation and my mom’s accusing voice come through: They spied on us to learn our ways!
I shake away that thought. Not helping. Unlike our restaurant, though, whose walls and floors have seen better days, this one has a grand statement wall with mirrors and art that might have been done by Linh. I feel a flicker of jealousy before Linh pulls me back to reality.
“I’ll stick around in the back of the room to keep an eye on the food coming out. Just look for me—if you don’t see me, I’m at the window and will probably need to get dishes out. But if you hear the bell and I’m not there to grab whatever’s ready, just come find me.”
“Got it.”
“Linh?”
I freeze, not turning for a second. A girl our age steps in front of the stand. She’s wringing her hands, eyes beseeching Linh. “I’m so sorry about earlier. I should have remembered to check the reserva
tion, but now everything’s fine, I think.”
“It’s fine. Mistakes happen, but thanks for fixing it, Lisa,” Linh answers quickly, already grabbing my arm, but the movement catches Lisa’s eyes.
“Wait—have you been working this whole time?” Lisa asks, more curious than suspicious.
“Yes, I was… prepping in the back.” I glance at Linh, who gives me the barest of nods. “But her mom noticed things were getting hectic, so I’m just jumping in.”
“Oh, thank God.” The girl smiles like I just saved her life.
A customer steps up to ask for a table, allowing me and Linh to escape.
“Nice!” she whispers. I hold back a smile as she points me to table four by the statement wall, a couple looking to order dessert.
Working at a restaurant over the years, the customers themselves become a pattern, types with issues and demands you learn to manage. I always spot the let’s-do-something-different-tonight crowd—the moms who think they’re being adventurous by deviating from ladies’ night at Olive Garden. They’re always asking for our opinion: What’s the crowd favorite? What do you suggest? What’s the most authentic? Ignorance is the same no matter where you eat. When I do bother to give answers, they don’t even take my suggestions.
There are assholes who come in as a party of eight and expect to be seated within five minutes; Vietnamese women dressed up way too fancy for this type of restaurant, like Bà An who comes on Tuesdays—“Bà ngu,” my mom spits out whenever she comes in—and people who didn’t learn how to use chopsticks at a pliable age, but make a valiant effort, only to search helplessly for a server so they can flag down forks and spoons.
Then, there are customers who don’t even need to order; they walk right in—or at least shuffle in—a tide of gray and salt-and-pepper heads, and my parents know immediately what they need. Most of the time, these people and my parents go way back, some even from the refugee days. It’s all easier for us; they’re the least fussy of the customers.
