A Pho Love Story

by Loan Le

  I smile at the memory of watching him try to tame his hair. He didn’t know I was there. I can’t be sure, but I feel as if his hair is the type to grow faster than it should. I like it long, better than his bowl cut—for obvious reasons. It’s the kind of hair that’d be easy to run through with your hands.

  My hand. I glance down.

  In my reverie, I was starting to outline the shape of his head. I rub at the image, smudging the lines.

  But of course I botched the conversation. I panicked when he pressed me about lying. The moment he mentioned lying, I denied it, but I was denying the truth. I shouldn’t have shut down. I wouldn’t be surprised if Bảo told Ali the next day that he can’t work the beat anymore.

  It’d be another lie to say that that wouldn’t hurt me.

  “How was dinner with Ali?”

  Flipping over my sketchbook, even though there’s nothing to give me away, I look up. Right: my excuse. Mẹ had come back from work at some point. I hear Ba over in their room, opening and closing drawers, getting ready for bed.

  “Good. We ate ramen.”

  Mẹ makes a face. She’s not a huge fan, claiming it’s too salty for her taste. As she comes over, I shove the sketchbook under my pillow.

  “Mẹ missed a call from Dì Vàng. Let’s see why she called.” Mẹ sits on my bed, and scoots back so that she’s against the wall like me.

  After a few rings on Viber, my aunt appears onscreen in all of her familiar late-morning, I was sculpting all last night for fun grogginess. Her large black-rimmed glasses sit at the end of her nose. She’s still in her pajamas, light green elephants printed on the sleeves. My mom has a similar set; the material is perfect for the heat here, too. Dì Vàng is in her apartment’s kitchen, a cup of cà phê đen beside her. If I strain enough I might be able to hear the motorcycles outside her window, some neighborhood women laughing, loitering on the sidewalk, or a vendor hawking fish or fresh veggies.

  “Did you just wake up?” my mom asks. It’s eleven in the morning over there, too late for Mẹ’s typical wake-up time at dawn.

  “Maybe.” Knew it. My aunt makes a show of yawning and stretching. “What did you eat for dinner?”

  “Leftovers. And you?”

  I roll my eyes. They say hi and immediately ask about food? My aunt points the phone downward to show her plate of ốp la—fried eggs, the yolk runny once pierced—with bánh mì, likely fresh from next door.

  “Where’s the xì dầu?” Mẹ asks almost accusingly.

  “Chị trying to diet. Less salt. It’s perfectly fine without it.”

  “You sound Mỹ,” Mẹ says. I grin, thinking about how much my mom acts like the older sister even though she isn’t. My aunt knows how to take it, though, shooting back playful replies. Oh yes, I can see it.

  “So, what’s happening? You don’t usually call me. It’s the other way around.”

  “Did you get my vase?”

  “Yes. You shouldn’t have sent it. It costs so much money to ship things over.”

  “I wanted to give you something nice! But if you’re that worried about money, maybe I should just deliver my next one to you myself.” Dì Vàng leans closer, grinning now. Her eyes are alive.

  Does she mean… ?

  “Are you coming here?”

  “Are you?” I ask, pulling the phone from Mẹ’s hand. She snatches it back.

  “You’re coming here, really?” she asks again.

  “Yes, it’s been way too long. Twelve, thirteen years?”

  “When are you coming?”

  “Around Tết.”

  “You’re leaving around Tết? But why? It’s the best holiday. Traffic will be horrible.”

  Dì Vàng laughs. “Of course you’re already worrying about the travel schedule! Anyway, I’ve seen so many Tết; I live here. Plus it’s been so long! I want to see you. I want to hug Evie and Linh!”

  “That can’t be the only reason.”

  “I also might be visiting some artist friends on the West Coast.”

  “You have friends here?” I ask, though I shouldn’t be surprised. When she visited the last time, she managed to make conversation with everyone on the floor of our old apartment building, people my parents and I never even interacted with. She even met Bác Xuân when he came by, and in no time they were trading hypotheticals on what he would do when he retired and moved closer to his adult children and their families.

  “I have friends all over the place. I’m international.”

  “I can’t believe you’re coming,” I say excitedly. It’ll be two artists under one roof. We’ll go to museums, I’ll show her my work. Someone who will understand my language. And support it.

  “Do you have enough money to go traveling?”

  Dì Vàng tuts at my mom. “Of course I do. My business is good over here; I wish you believed me.” She leans in again, seeing something in my mom’s expression that I must have missed. “I am no longer a struggling artist, as you seem to think I will always be.”

  “You’ve struggled for a long time, I remember.”

  “I know; I remember too. But I am fine. You shouldn’t worry too much, em.”

  Mẹ holds back whatever thought she has and they move on to talking about old friends, some woman they knew who’d eloped in Hội An, then came back without the husband recently. I sit there, silent, content to listen, eyes tracking the level of my aunt’s coffee as she sips away at it. Then Mẹ notices my eyes closing slowly. The ramen is finally kicking in, lulling me to sleep.

  “Okay, cho Linh đi ngủ.” They exchange goodbyes, my aunt saying she’d circle back with more info about her visit next year.

  Mẹ only sighs as she maneuvers herself off my bed.

  “Be happy, Mẹ!” I say, holding on to my mom’s arm before she leaves, trying to get her not to worry already. “Your sister’s coming over.” I see a hint of a smile blooming on her face, though she stops herself, shooing away my hand.

  “I really don’t know what she’s thinking. She’s so unpredictable. And she shouldn’t spend her money so freely.”

  “Was it really that bad? Dì Vàng and her sculpting business.”

  “She’d just started it when she was seventeen right after leaving school. Then rationings were happening and the government was watching anyone who was against cộng sản very closely. They stole part of our land, leaving little to us.” My mom fiddles with the back of her phone cover. “Many times Dì Vàng would come home without making any sales.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Luckily, we had older aunts and uncles who would come in and out, making sure we were fed. That is the Vietnamese way. But still, Mẹ biết nghề nghiệp của Dì Vàng would not help us. Art was only for fun. And during that time, there was no time for playing.

  “At the camps, when Mẹ finally made it—just mười hai tuổi—I promised I would work hard. So that we would suffer less. So that Mẹ could help your aunt back home.”

  My mom was fourteen by the time they left the camps and were accepted into the United States with her cousins and two other refugees they’d grown close to. But she couldn’t depend on her cousins alone—they too were thrust into an unfamiliar place with minimal English—and finding work was hard. So, when she wasn’t studying to catch up at school, she was working odd jobs. Some of the money went to their daily expenses. Whatever was left over she’d send back to Vietnam, to help my aunt.

  “Ah, Mẹ nhức đầu,” she says, massaging her temples, worries about my aunt plaguing her mind. Then she’s off to the next room, muttering about how much she’ll need to clean up to accommodate her sister coming over, despite us having plenty of time to prepare.

  I still don’t understand. My aunt seems so happy, and she’s managed to get this far, and it can’t all be because she gets some money now and then from America. She’s not struggling like before, so why can’t my mom see that it all turned out okay in the end? It’s like the memories of my aunt’s s
truggle keep her from seeing the good sides to art.

  I pull out my sketchpad from its hiding place and trace over the image of Bảo. I barely remember doing this drawing; I was just lost in the act of doing it. It’s a type of forgetting that I love, that I can’t get anywhere else. Inside my head, I can just be. My aunt must know this too.

  I text Evie about our aunt coming over, and she texts back, jokingly, great, there will be two of you.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN BẢO

  It’s not really unusual for kids who grew up in restaurants to eat in record time. Mẹ had to feed us before the rush hour or else there wouldn’t be another opportunity. And now, working at the restaurant, when noon hits, when customers come flowing in, we need to eat quickly.

  “So, what, you think she’s mad at you, then?” Việt asks, scraping the last of his egg noodles from his Styrofoam plate. An apple sits on his left, a strawberry yogurt that he won’t eat to his right. He hates artificial sugar. I’d told him about the restaurant, how things had started out fine. Fun, even, until Linh shut down on me.

  “I guess so. Maybe because I basically called her a liar.”

  Việt shakes his head, like, You poor kid. “I don’t know, man. It’s hypocritical. I mean, you’re lying about where you’re going and who you’re spending time with, too. And why’s that?”

  I see his point now. “So my parents don’t blow up on me. My mom, especially.”

  “Exactly,” Việt says.

  “I didn’t mean it like that, though. I was just saying… I wish her parents could see what she’s doing. Because she’s an artist. She can’t be anything else.”

  “And you know this after only a few weeks of talking to her.”

  Okay, he’s looking at me like I’m obsessed with her. “Shut up.”

  Việt grins in return, biting into an apple. “This is the first time I’ve heard you talk about a girl, let alone the daughter of your family’s worst enemy.”

  “I didn’t think you’d ever give me advice about talking to a girl.”

  My best friend merely shrugs. “Whenever I take a break from watching Law & Order or Criminal Minds, I sometimes flip to The Bachelor, which tells me exactly what not to do when talking to a girl you like.”

  Sure, very reliable.

  “I don’t know, dude. Maybe next time you see her, try to apologize. Let her deal with her parents at her own pace.”

  When Việt’s cross-country friends join our table, our abnormal conversation ends. It’s a brief respite since I have my limits with their circular conversations about sprint times, better sprint times, and plans for another pasta party before a meet. And I’ve never seen anyone eat as many bananas in one sitting as Steve, the team captain. Because of Việt, they tolerate my complete un-athleticism, acknowledge me with a slight nod and a “What’s up, man.”

  “C’mon, how long has it been since you washed your uniform?” Steve asks one of the guys.

  His friend, who has a watch tan, shrugs. “I dunno. A week?”

  Việt’s friends are the definition of riveting.

  But as different as Việt is from his teammates, at least from what I can see, it makes sense to see him with them. Việt’s always been precise and stuck close to regimens, and I guess that’s why he and his teammates hang out outside of practice.

  I look around and spot Ali and her Viking braid. She’s laughing along with some of her friends—didn’t think she was capable of that—but I scan her table and don’t find Linh anywhere.

  Where’s Linh now?

  Next time I see her, I’ll apologize. I stand up, gathering my things. Việt asks where I’m heading. “Gotta finish some homework.” The strawberry yogurt that he set aside conjures the memory of Linh ordering her strawberry-flavored boba tea. And the chocolate milk she slipped into my hand.

  “Can I grab this?”

  * * *

  A caution cone blocks off the guys’ bathroom, where puddles of water glisten on the floor. Old, torn posters and flyers have fallen from their fastenings. Home Economics is having a bake sale. The Vietnamese Student Association is having a carwash fundraiser in a week.

  I have to make sure not to be available.

  Voices volley off the walls outside the cafeteria, but the hallway itself is silent, absent of rustling clothes and slamming lockers. Where does Linh go during lunch?

  Then, of course, I know. The art room. Where else would an artist find refuge? I’m there in a few minutes, standing just by the threshold, where we nearly collided a few weeks back. She’s crossing the room to sit on a stool by the window, dressed in paint-splattered overalls that I imagine she’d changed into.

  I clear my throat. Linh turns. “Oh, hi. What’s up? You’re not eating lunch?”

  “I already did. You?”

  “Yeah, I eat pretty quickly. Habit, I guess.”

  “Of course. We’re restaurant kids.”

  Taking this as sign to come in, I hide the yogurt behind my back, walk into the room. “What are you working on?” I’m close enough to see the canvas now, with just a few strokes of color, a shape yet to be determined.

  “I really don’t know. Sometimes I come in, grab some tubes, and start mixing colors just because.”

  I reach up to touch the canvas, but her hand goes around my wrist.

  “No touching.” Her voice is threatening, but she’s suppressing a smile.

  I hold up a hand in surrender. There’s a different energy to Linh now. A more protective Linh.

  I like it.

  “Is this where you always go during lunch? I never see you.” Of course, I’m admitting I’m a stalker—a shitty one, since I never can find her—so that’s great.

  But Linh turns back, dipping her brush into a jar of water, before answering: “It’s nice down here.”

  Unable to find other things to say, I hand over the yogurt. Her brow furrows in confusion before she glances up. She accepts it, her fingers lingering against my palm. Breathe.

  Linh says “Hmmm” before setting it down. “What’s this for?”

  “To apologize.” I seize the moment. “Or try to. Look, when we were at the restaurant, I might have asked some questions that you clearly didn’t want to answer. I didn’t mean to push you or accuse you. I guess I realized only after that I was being hypocritical too.”

  “And you think a yogurt’s enough to make it up to me?” She faces the canvas again, her tone monotonous.

  Oh shit, should I run?

  “N-no,” I stutter. “It’s—well—”

  Her laughter splits the air. She faces me again, and her eyes soften. “That’s nice of you to say. A part of me knows you’re right, and I don’t like it either. Lying is not who I am. But—” She shrugs. “I don’t see another way to do this without lying.”

  “We’ll be partners and liars.”

  “We’re pathetic,” Linh groans, laughing into her hands covering her face.

  “You just realized that?” I ask. “I meant what I said, though.” I pause because, when Linh looks at me suddenly like that, words escape me. So I stare at the floor. “I really wish your parents liked the idea of you as an artist. Your work, it has a way of drawing people in. I’m the least artistic person on earth, and I just wish you could feel freer to do it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Okay, I guess I’ll just leave you alone now.” I start backing away, even though my legs don’t want to move.

  “No, you can stay. I don’t mind. But only if you’re quiet.” She gives me a pointed but playful look.

  I take the invitation. “I’ll be over there.” I wince when the stool I pull out squeaks against the floor. My backpack slams against the table. “I need to start on my article anyway.” I remember how I shoved my notepad to the bottom of my backpack. I’ll need to dig it out.

  “You haven’t started it yet?” she asks incredulously.

  “Um… no.”

  “Use this for inspiration.” She’s right next to me now, opening up
a see-through folder and sliding a page to me. A sketch, all inked up. I know what this is.

  “How did you do it so quickly?”

  “I just did.” She shrugs. Am I cursed to surround myself with casual geniuses? Việt’s tolerable, he doesn’t rub it in my face that school comes easily to him, and here’s Linh basically saying, but not bragging, I’m just naturally talented.

  “Oh, come on.” I glance down at her sketch of the restaurant. It captures the dimness of the room, the structures hanging down from the ceiling, the columns of Japan’s cityscapes. It looks print-ready.

  “Better get started on your end of the deal,” she teases me, right by my ear. “Or else you’ll have to answer to Ali.”

  “Teach me how,” I say, boldness coming from nowhere. I stay as still as possible.

  “How to what?” she asks, a hint of amusement in her voice. Disappointing me, she takes a step back.

  “To get inside my head. Like what happens when you paint.”

  “Close your eyes, then.”

  “Are we going to meditate?”

  “Just do it.”

  A few seconds pass and soon I feel her prying my fingers open, placing something wooden in my palm. I feel it: It’s long and there’s rubber at the end; it’s a—

  I open my eyes.

  Linh’s trying to hold back a laugh, looking down at the pencil in my hand. “I can’t teach you something like this. You have to do it yourself because writing is personal to you. So”—she gestures with her fingers, her tone becoming stern—“turn around and just do it.”

  “Now I see why you and Ali are friends.”

  “Thank you,” she answers proudly. And she turns to walk back to her easel.

  And this is how I spend the rest of my lunch, hidden away, just the two of us.

  The cool metal under me, the hum of the air-conditioning. I listen to Linh washing her brush periodically in water, the brush hitting against glass, sending out a ringing sound, the scratch of brush bristles. And the sway of her ponytail when she tilts her head to examine her work.