by Loan Le
I shrug and sip my boba loudly. Nothing’s coming up. “I’m not bothered by mediocrity.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Mediocrity has allowed me to float by without too much pressure or judgment. Being mediocre at school is great. No one bothers you! No one even looks at you.”
“You’re lying. You so care,” Linh says it matter-of-factly. Her aim is perfect.
“How can you know that?”
“Your voice went up a pitch.” That’s a very Việt-like observation.
“My voice—”
Linh takes a dainty sip of her tea but humor lights up her eyes. Her very nice eyes—I’m getting distracted. “Yup.”
I remember the other night at dinner, when my parents believed in me, maybe too much. I haven’t done anything so far to give them that much confidence in me. Nothing to make me look good to their customers who always seem to brag about their freakishly talented kids.
So I give in to Linh. Scratching the back of my neck, I admit, “Okay, fine. I’ll try to explain. I look at my parents. I know what they’ve done to get here. It’s never been easy. And lately I think I’ve been failing them. I haven’t done completely great in school. And I’m not breaking any records at sports like my friend Việt.”
“Cross-country runner?”
That’s a shocker. “Yeah, that’s him. You follow sports?”
Linh explains after grimacing, “You haven’t been forced to listen to Ali reread newspaper articles to you.”
“I would rather run a cross-country race,” I deadpan. “Anyway, I’m feeling the pressure more than usual. It’s our last year and I guess…” I breathe out. How should I say this? “I feel like I’ve ignored all the chances around me, and now I don’t have much to go on.”
“That’s not true!” Linh says forcefully, leaning forward. “Ali and I were talking earlier—”
“Hold on, you were talking about me?”
Not gonna lie: My self-esteem shoots up.
“She was deciding whether or not she hates you.” She laughs. And my self-esteem plummets. “I’m just joking. She mentioned how you had a good eye for words. Which makes sense, because, you know, not a lot of guys out there say ‘copacetic.’”
She tries to mimic my lower voice, and we both know she fails, so we burst out laughing, so loud that we wake the grandpa slumbering in the corner. He glares, then leans his head back again.
“Maybe you just need to find something worth writing about. Something that you’re interested in… Maybe this”—Linh gestures not to us but to the idea of what we’ve agreed to do—“is your chance to stand out.” The future. What a dampener it can be.
Linh reads the look on my face right away, because she laughs and drops questions about the future.
We finished with our drinks, and the grandpa is actually still awake, now staring at us through suspicious eyes. The place is closing soon. Okay, I get the hint. I lift my cup with the remaining boba and ask Linh, “So how much should I pay you for this life coaching?”
Linh gives me that smile.
“Free bobas would work just fine.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN LINH
Once outside, the silence is comforting and warm, like a good bowl of wonton soup on a rainy day. I feel Bảo’s heat beside me, my hand a whisper away from his. During the summer, with tourists flooding in, this part of the neighborhood gets packed with squatting old Vietnamese women, dressed in countryside outfits. It’s not as heavy as Bolsa Avenue traffic, especially when the night market’s up, but it’s still a tourist trap. You’re likely to get bullied into buying jackfruit in Styrofoam trays, rambutan or longan, or—if the woman’s a really good seller—durian. Sometimes I wonder if they ever sell all of their items, and when that doesn’t happen, where they go.
The sight of Bảo passing under a lamplight stops me. It’s as if he’s just stepped into a Caravaggio painting. The light throws off shadows, darkening half of his body. The lines of his face seem sharper.
“What?” Bảo brushes his hand through his hair. “Do I have something on my face?”
“Nothing. The lighting. It was just perfect for a second.”
“You notice things like that?”
I shrug, embarrassed that I was caught staring this time.
Bảo hops on a nearby cinder block wall, walking down the length before jumping down, back at my side again. “Remember that bowl of phở? How bad it was? It’s probably from—”
“Phở Bác Hồ. My parents hated that place.”
“Same.” At least our parents seem to agree on one thing—a universal distaste for anything that refers to Hồ Chí Minh in name. Reminds them too much of the war. The owners made some poor excuse when they opened—saying they were referring to an elderly relative. But you have to be so ignorant to open something like that here. It closed not long after me and Bảo met.
“But I never got to see you draw Spider-Man, did I?”
“Because of our parents.”
Something passes in his eyes that makes me shiver. “Did you ever think about what it would have been like if our restaurants weren’t competing against each other?”
It’s a loaded question to wrap up our time together, but I answer as honestly as I can.
“I think I thought about the idea of you, if that makes sense. But this is different. I finally get a chance to know you—and you seem nice.”
“Don’t worry, the nice-guy act disappears once we meet for the fourth time.”
“Great. I was really sensing asshole vibes back there.”
It feels like an hour before we finally get to Ward Street, where our paths diverge. This is what I’ll remember: his bashful wave and the shadows swallowing him up as he heads home.
When I’m inside the house, only Ba is up. Back problems, most likely. I can smell the Bengay emanating from him again. He sits in the dark living room, TV on, but with the cable off. The static from the screen lights up his sleeping face, a hypnotizing pattern.
“Oh, con về rồi?” he asks groggily, stating the obvious. “How was studying?”
“Dạ. It went well.” The lie leaves me a bit too easily, though I feel the weight of it in my stomach. But it has to be done. I take off my shoes, then make my way to my bedroom. “The test will be easy. Now go to sleep.”
“Ah.” I’ll give him two more hours before he drags himself to bed and wakes up early to start his routine again.
* * *
My mom’s knock wakes me up the next morning. My mouth’s parched, and the light almost hurts my eyes. I remember that I didn’t drink any water after drinking boba. Is it possible to be hungover from too much boba?
I hear Mẹ lightly pad across my room. Her shampoo—Head & Shoulders, which she shares with Ba—tickles my nose. The bed sags just a bit when she sits by me, patting my side. This was how she’d wake me and Evie up before heading off to a long day at the restaurant.
“Con, dậy đi. Chín giờ rồi,” she whispers, her voice as smooth as the glide of a brushstroke across a well-primed canvas.
I twist my head to the right and check the actual time: eight o’clock, instead of an hour later like she just said.
“Five more minutes.”
“Mẹ just made bánh patê sô. Just hot out of the oven. It’s only good when it’s eaten hot.”
I breathe in hints of her promise. Buttery puff pastry. Tender, flavorful chicken at the center. And then my ultimate favorite: earthy Vietnamese coffee just waiting to be paired off with sweetened condensed milk.
Okay, I’m up.
Mẹ knows she has me. I hear a smile in her voice. “See you soon.”
* * *
Once in the kitchen, I see that it’s not just pastry or coffee that she’s made. She must be experimenting with recipes. Several pots are cooking on the stove, and on the outside patio, there are two larger pots, which tells me whatever she’s cooking there might stink up the house. Various herbs are soaking in tubs of water. At last five bottles an
d jars of gia vị are opened on the kitchen table. Ever-methodical in the restaurant kitchen, she’s the complete opposite in our own kitchen.
Still, I love mornings like this.
The pastry is waiting just for me. I sink my teeth into it, flakes falling into my lap. Mẹ has me taste the coffee and milk level, then pours ice over it. As Mẹ busies herself around the kitchen, I FaceTime Evie, who complains that while other parents have sent their kids care packages, Mẹ and Ba haven’t.
“Care package, what is that?” Mẹ asks—or shouts, as the blender breaks down some spices. Evie quickly explains the concept, to which Mẹ says that Vietnamese food, the good kind, can’t ever be mailed.
Meanwhile my hands are getting tired holding the phone so they can see each other.
“What about bánh tai heo? I’m craving it.” My sister loves eating pig ears. Not real pig ears, but sugary biscuits that are shaped like them.
“Okay, if you want, I will make them.”
“Don’t do it if you’re too busy.” She points out that Mẹ shouldn’t be cooking on her day off. “Weekends are for fun. For people to do a hobby or something.”
“Yeah, like gardening,” I say.
“No way. Every time Mẹ tries to grow something, she kills it.”
“Something is wrong with our soil,” Mẹ protests lightly as she grabs something from the drawer.
Evie and I exchange knowing looks. Makes me feel like she’s not hours away. In our small backyard, there’s a graveyard of plants Mẹ tried to grow: tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers. The only thing that has survived are herbs, though it’s only a small selection.
“Sure, Mẹ. Sure.”
Evie says she’s going on a run next and would text later. Once she’s gone, Mẹ asks me worriedly, “Does she sound happy? Does she look thinner to you? Maybe she doesn’t have enough to eat.”
When we moved Evie into the dorms, we had more food than anything else for her. Luckily her roommate is Filipino, so she and her parents merely congratulated my parents on their preparedness. Then Ba told them to stop by our restaurant if they were ever in the area. That was when Evie decided it was time to say goodbye.
“Mẹ, she’s fine. She seems really happy. Don’t worry.”
“Mà Mẹ là Mẹ. Mẹ phải lo.”
I get up from the table, finished with breakfast. I hug my mom from behind. “Yeah, but Evie’s got this. She can take care of herself. You know how she is.” At that, Mẹ only sighs deeply, and my body mimics the movement.
“Do you miss her?” she asks me.
“Sometimes.” And that’s the truth of it. I thought it’d be much weirder to go home to a half-empty bedroom. But over the past few weeks, I’ve gotten used to it. I think of my aunt and the packages she sends Mẹ. I look at her longingly staring out the window over the sink, the light showing that Mẹ seems to have a few more gray hairs than I remember. “Do you miss Dì Vàng?”
“Sometimes,” she says quietly. She doesn’t elaborate, and I’m wondering if she’s going into one of her moods.
I let go and ask if I can help with anything.
“No, there’s too much to do. I should do it myself. Why don’t you do your homework and if you have finished, go to your hobby,” Mẹ says, trying to mimic the way Evie says it, but she ends up sounding nasally.
I bite my tongue, feeling like that’s how my parents will always see painting for me.
It’s just a suggestion, she probably thinks nothing of it, but the easy dismissal of my hobby makes the taste of patê sô linger uncomfortably on my tongue.
“You really should find something else to do, Mẹ. You work too much.”
“And work is good. Work makes money.” As she opens the blender to peer at its contents, she says, “I haven’t had a hobby since I was a teenager. Your age.”
“What did you like to do?”
A wistful look passes through her eyes. “Travel. When I wasn’t at school or helping out around the house, I’d go around Nha Trang to places I’d never been. I would travel to Saigon and Đà Lạt. Oh, Đà Lạt was so beautiful! So romantic!” She laughs. “And when we escaped, my first wish was that we’d land somewhere in Europe.”
“Have you traveled since?”
“No, no. Where was the money? Đời sống đã rất là khó. I had to work in factories, the nail salon, wherever I could get work. School wasn’t a priority since we needed money. Traveling was a foolish idea. An impossible idea.” She shakes her head.
“That is why I’m happy to see Evie find her way. She will live a life that’s not khó. Unlike I had. Unlike your aunt.” Her tone shifts to one of disapproval. “And soon enough you will have a good life too.”
A good life. A good life only comes if you have security—that’s what my mom’s basically saying. Anything beyond that is just a pipe dream.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN BẢO
My phone buzzes as a text comes in. I lift my head from the pillow, my bleary eyes searching for my alarm clock, which tells me the time is eight thirty. Who’s texting me now? Despite having the uncanny ability to wake up early—probably drilled in by his parents, who took him on morning delivery routes all his life—Việt’s never the one to text first; he only responds to them, three days too late. The only other person who texts me consistently is Mẹ, through Ba, and if she wanted me to actually wake up, she wouldn’t be this discreet.
Nothing is more efficient at waking you from a dead sleep—while also drawing out an involuntary, undignified high-pitched scream—than a Vietnamese mother bursting through the door without warning.
I grapple for my phone and squint down at my screen.
hey! it’s linh. i got your number from ali.
Linh. Last night’s events trickle through my hazy mind. Boba. Our walk. Partners.
I sit up immediately.
sorry to bother you so early.
Should I tell her I don’t recall ever giving Ali my phone number—and part of me is perplexed at how she managed that? Another time.
no worries! i’m up anyway.
The bubbles appear. An exclamation point! are you an early riser, too?
yeah—I start typing, then change my mind. Why would I want to lie about that? only when my mom’s threatening my life.
she doesn’t knock either?
I grin, leaning against the headboard.
very unfamiliar with the concept… are you usually up this early on weekends?
sometimes it’s the only chance for me to draw.
wow, that’s commitment.
anyways, just wanted to let you know our lovely boss—I laugh at this—has given us our first restaurant. they responded right away when ali emailed some places. kami, it’s a japanese restaurant in santa ana. i could do next weekend. i’m not working. you?
I grow more awake with each word. We’re doing this! We’re making plans, together!
totally. My thumb hovers over my next sentence. can’t wait!
Bubbles appear. Those damn bubbles.
Now I can go back to sleep.
* * *
It’s nearing ten when I finally wake up again. Strangely my mom hasn’t barreled in to scream at me. When I go down still in my sweats and T-shirt, I see my parents sitting at the table, like they’ve convened for a meeting. They’re already dressed.
“You’re not working?” I ask, fighting past a big yawn.
“We’re going in the afternoon. But we thought we’d eat out today.”
We never eat out. Which can only mean: We’re going on a spying mission.
I don’t remember when it started, but this isn’t the first time we’ve gone to a competing restaurant to see if it’s really any competition to ours. Only my parents would do this. Really. Because they’re weird and obsessed, and they like to bring me into their odd hobbies. And maybe, in an odd way, it’s their attempt to compromise. I’d always wanted to eat out: McDonald’s. KFC. Red Robin. When I begged and begged, my mom’s reply was always the same. T
hat it was a waste of money and—
“I can make that. And I can make it even better!”
So far, my parents have managed not to bicker over the GPS and we haven’t gotten lost yet. That tells me Ba probably did advance research.
“Anh, slow down,” my mom says. She’s in the passenger seat, death-gripping the handlebar just over her head.
I look at the meter. Forty-five miles per hour.
“How’d you hear about the place?” I ask my parents, resigned to my fate.
“One of our customers mentioned it in passing,” Mẹ says. “But don’t worry: That customer is loyal to us.”
Oh, I was so worried.
We pull into the parking lot of a plaza. The restaurant’s surrounded by upscale jewelry stores and “elite” nail salons, and that confirms—at least to me—that the restaurant won’t be legit. It’s all too… new. Too shiny. Where are the errant shopping bags rolling along with the breeze? Discarded rinds from clementines or lychees?
This is what happens when we step inside “photastic.” Purposely all lowercase.
“Trời Đất,” my mom mutters first. Usually it’s an “Oh my god,” but in this case it means, What shit is this?
Everything in the restaurant is white: the walls, the tiles, the tables, and chairs.
Even the host is white, wearing a T-shirt printed with a poorly drawn bánh mì.
Where’s the shrine? What kind of Vietnamese restaurant doesn’t have a shrine? Where’s the red? And yellow? Fake flowers? The floor that’s seen better days?
“Chao, Bac!” says the host, missing the tones completely. He has the audacity to bow. “Table for three?”
Dumbstruck, my parents nod. Even though the waiter’s annoying me, I almost laugh at my parents being speechless for once.
Not for long, at least.
“A white waiter?” Mẹ hisses after we get our menus. We sit in the center at a round table that Ba moves around to see if it’s lopsided. It’s not, which, to me, makes this place even more inauthentic. “Speaking horrible Vietnamese, too.”
