by Loan Le
I zone in on her sketch, the colors perfectly capturing the decor. I can even smell salt in the ramen. I close my eyes, tight. The warm broth layers my tongue in flavor. The chewiness of the noodles. Linh’s laugh as she tried mine.
I begin to write.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN LINH
The next day, Bảo barges into the art room without any announcement, as if he’d always spent his lunches here and he was running just a bit behind. His hair is windswept and fashionable at the same time, like a breeze purposefully styled his hair. But it’s his gaze I notice the most. Last year in an art theory lesson, we were taught about the gaze—or “the Gaze,” as my art teacher wrote on the board and underlined three times. There are many definitions of a gaze—it could be the spectator or the patron’s, or one person in the art piece looking at another person in the same frame, or, more disconcerting, the art looking back at the spectator. It’s what’s fascinated critics about Mona Lisa for centuries—how her outward gaze appears both superior and subdued, defiant and diminutive. That gaze, that look, can carry the whole artwork.
Now, I can only describe Bảo’s gaze as shining. Vibrant. Made even more intense since he’s looking straight at me. He was looking for me.
I set down my brush and palette when he offers a piece of paper to me. “It’s my article,” he says in a rush. I wonder how much caffeine he’s had. “I worked on it last night. Can you read it?”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
Hesitantly, I take his paper, which he really did write. His handwriting is solid and straight, nothing like the chicken scratch I’d seen from other classmates.
“You actually hand-wrote this.”
“At first I was just jotting random things down, and then, I don’t know, it turned into sentences. Didn’t even realize how much I was writing.” He grins. “I think I actually understand what you meant, when we were talking at 7 Leaves. I was outside my body.”
“Ali never lets me read her things,” I start saying, though I’m pleased that he remembers what I said. I never have an issue with what Ali writes. I just know she’s good. Secretly, maybe she’s always wanted a person to challenge her, find the mistakes that she can’t spot herself.
Bảo looks so eager that I wouldn’t want to turn him down anyway. “That’s Ali. This is me. And I want you, specifically, to read this.”
“Why?” I say, laughter bubbling in my throat.
“Because I’ve never written something like this. So I want you to be the first one to read my first article.”
“Since I’m not a writer, I’ll probably just say it’s good. And even if it’s bad, I’ll probably lie.”
“I think I’ll know if you don’t like it.”
“How? I can lie.” I pretend to think. “Didn’t we talk about this before?”
“All right. Let’s test it out.”
Suddenly, from his seat, he hooks his foot around one leg of my stool, pulls me closer so that our knees touch. His eyes are fixed on me, and I want to look down, but I force my gaze ahead. I won’t let him win. His hands loosely hold my wrists.
“Do you like phở?”
I almost burst out in laughter. He’s being so ridiculous. “Isn’t that an obvious answer?”
“Do you think I’m annoying?”
“Again, obvious.”
He glances down. Strands of his hair fall into his eyes as he pauses deep in thought. His knee bumps against mine. “Do you think I’m handsome?”
That came out of nowhere. My eyes widen.
“Oh, I see,” he says dramatically, beaming widely. “Your face just told me everything.”
My heart is racing. “That proved nothing. I wasn’t expecting that question. And you were only making broad interpretations anyway. My reaction doesn’t mean that I think—”
“So I’m handsome, got it,” he says cheekily. He easily ruffles his hair, a direct attack on my nerves right now.
I have to look away. I can’t deal.
“You want me to read your article or not?” I ask.
Bảo raises both hands in defense.
I shake my head, trying not to smile, before turning my attention to his review.
As a visual person, I like his opening, his descriptive language painting the scene. I remember the wooden stalactites hanging from the ceiling, the intimidating sensation of gazing up at them, only to be transported to the forests they were emulating. I grin when he describes the staff’s hair as “perfectly coiffed.”
But the food is where I can understand why Ali chose him for this beat. He knows just the right words to describe the ramen and its broth (full-bodied, tinged with enough salt just for the tip of your tongue), the spiciness of my ramen (happy tears, not fiery tears), and by the end I forget that I’ve already eaten lunch. I have a craving for Japanese food again.
Bảo’s staring intently at me when I look back up.
“Well?” he prompts me.
“It’s horrible,” I say. But he sees my face—reading it, as he said. And a beautiful smile comes to life.
* * *
Ali takes offense when I tell her I let Bảo into the room while I was working on an art piece. It’s something I never let Ali do. For a good reason.
I’m in the newspaper room, her domain, waiting for the warning bell to signal me to leave. She has her curly hair tied up high in a messy bun on top of her head, a pen buried in there somewhere. Her feet are on the teacher’s desk, and Rowan, entering the room to disappear into his office, points at them, then to the floor. Ali does exactly that… until his door closes and her feet are back on his desk.
“You barely tolerate me when I’m in the room,” she says with a fake pout.
“Yeah, because you’re distracting!” I shoot back. “You can’t sit still and you won’t stop talking. I need to concentrate.”
“Oh and Bảo isn’t distracting.”
“He’s not, actually,” I quickly say. Then I remember him “reading” me. “He’s really… considerate.”
I thought I wouldn’t be able to work with Bảo in the room, conscious of my every movement, the slouch that I’ve picked up over the years, the mess of my ponytail, how unattractive I must look in my overalls. I felt his gaze on me at times, but when I got the nerve to look around, he was turned away, preoccupied with writing.
Then I forgot about him. I abandoned thoughts about what image I want to make. Yamamoto likes to tell us that it’s not always about what we want to put on canvas, that we should let our brushes, pencils, or whatever utensil we use, guide us on unexpected paths. I fool around with colors because most of my memories come up from color. The yogurt that Bảo handed to me brings me back to the first moment I tried strawberry cotton candy at Huntington Beach.
“You like him distracting you,” Ali says mischievously. She brings her feet to the floor, scooting closer, but I avoid her comment, pulling out the sketch that I made for her. Really, I was prolonging my time here. I wanted to see her reaction when Bảo handed in his review. I wanted her to say it’s as good as I thought it was.
“Anddd here’s your sketch—”
“Come on, Linh! Tell me more—”
“Oh, perfect, you’re here too.” Bảo’s at the threshold, one backpack strap slung over his shoulder. His hair is messy again; he must have been rushing over. I have to stop fixating on his hair. He hands a USB stick to Ali.
“There, my article. And it’s on time.” We share a look, nearly laughing. I guess he took what I said to heart.
“Have you ever heard of e-mail?” Ali mutters.
As Ali turns to her screen, Bảo moves closer to me.
“I’ve imagined many scenarios of how she’d react if I handed her what I handed you. One: She’ll rip my pages to pieces.” He pauses. “Actually, that’s the only scenario,” he admits. He’s cute when he worries.
“You’ll be fine.”
Ali doesn’t say anything immediately during her review. It goes on for two more minutes
. The dripping sound of the sink from its art room days starts irritating me. Anxiety radiates from Bảo’s shifting stance.
“Okay.” Ali whirls around, slowly crossing her legs. I envision her as a big-shot editor poised to tear apart some poor journalist’s article. “Linh drew this?”
“Yes.”
“And you wrote this article.”
“Yeah.”
She folds her hands together and twiddles her thumbs. Slowly, a smile spreads on her face, one I’ve never seen directed at Bảo. “This is good. No, this is great. You two really did it.”
Bảo scratches the back of his neck, a blush rising in his cheeks. “Really?”
“There’s this one line about not spitting at the person across from you when you’re on a date, but I don’t get it, so we’ll need to cut that line.” I throw Bảo a look—I hadn’t read that line, so he must have added it after—and he winks. Winks!
“But we’ll run it this issue,” Ali finishes.
* * *
Fast forward to a week later.
Bảo and I didn’t break new ground with our review and sketch. It’s not on the front page, either. It’s not going to change anything, and no one is treating us differently or even acknowledging us as the writer and artist. But I notice that there are fewer stacks of newspapers around the school.
I’m in the quad packed with students. The temperature’s nicer today; people are playing Frisbee, couples are lounging on the grass together, and some dancers are trying out new moves, staying inside their exclusive circle.
“This! Why can’t Alex take me to places like this?” says a girl whose name is Lilly. She’s on the swim team with her brother Ben.
“Because he thinks getting boba is an adequate date,” her friend points out.
Yamamoto was happy to learn I was the artist. Turns out she was planning to use discarded newspaper copies for her paper-mache unit—which I will definitely never tell Ali—then unexpectedly caught my name in the byline.
“I didn’t know you were part of the newspaper, too.”
“It’s a favor for a friend,” I said, a bit embarrassed.
“I like it! And the writer. Wow, it’s a great pairing. You’re full of surprises, Linh.”
“Looks like people are actually reading the newspaper,” Bảo says, now sneaking up behind me. “For once.”
“Careful, Ali might be around.”
This feeling that I have whenever I’m around him—energy zapping through my veins, the warmth in my cheeks, a never-ending want to watch him without being obvious—doesn’t seem to be going away. At the restaurant, I’m glancing more often at the window—not to watch him, like Ba, but just to steal another look at him.
Hidden away in the art room, we’re not as jittery. It’s our sanctuary. We’ve fallen into an unspoken pattern, me painting while Bảo works on an assignment for the newspaper or some other homework.
Ali’s right. This is becoming something more, but like many things in my life, it can’t all happen at once. These feelings, this crush, whatever you call it, they’re something to keep to myself. To contain before it gets reckless.
We find Ali eating her own lunch, a neatly cut egg salad sandwich. There’s a stack of newspapers next to her. Leave it to her to pass around newspapers during her break.
“Look!” she squeals.
“Yeah, it’s great. Just what you hoped for, right?”
“I knew the front-page article would be a hit.” From what I recall, the front page is about the school’s lack of cybersecurity, authored by my indomitably spirited best friend.
Bảo gives me a look before throwing his bag onto the ground. We won’t ruin her joy. He stretches onto his back and lies there for a moment, the sun shining strong down on him, highlighting the lines of his face again. What is it with his face and light? It’s just too perfect. I sit on my hands to stop myself from sketching him… again.
Another part of me itches to join him, lie right next to him and take in the sun. I settle for sitting, stretching out my legs so that my shoes are just by his ear. Just one touch away.
Bảo’s best friend, Việt, finds us a few moments later, and introduces himself to me and Ali. Ali’s already trying to recruit him to be a reviewer after hearing that he’s obsessed with dark, gritty television shows.
“Think about it,” she says. “If you start now, you can be the next Roger Ebert.”
“I’m not really a writer. I can’t write like Bảo,” Việt answers simply.
Bảo, now sitting, looks genuinely shocked to hear the comment, but Việt doesn’t seem to notice. “Thanks, man.”
“Knew all those words you collect would pay off someday.”
I can tell from Ali’s expression that she’s not done trying to recruit Việt. She means well; she just wants to leave a mark when she graduates, but some people don’t see that as easily and might stay clear of her. A wave of sympathy washes over me until I remember what Bảo said about Việt. He’s cool and collected and seems to do his own thing. Maybe he’ll be the first one to really handle Ali’s assertiveness.
The four of us are a little weird together, but somehow… I can’t ask for a better group to eat lunch with today.
“Oh, great!” Ali’s staring at her phone. “We already have our next restaurant. Are you two ready?”
Instantly, I look to Bảo, and I know his answer, because it’s mine, too.
“Ready.”
* * *
Days later, I get home and see another set of shoes by the door. A guest? It’s a weird time, and usually if people come over, they come over at night. I sniff the air, picking up a familiar scent: oil, so food’s being fried, and as I follow the scent, it clicks: Mẹ’s making egg rolls. As I walk closer, I recognize the guest’s voice.
“Mẹ, I don’t need another set of dishes. Where can I put them? I don’t even have a kitchen.”
“You have a communal kitchen, don’t you?” my mom asks in Vietnamese.
“Yeah, but other people in my dorm are shitty and they’ll probably steal all my things.”
Mẹ and Evie, wearing a UC Davis hoodie, sit at the round table, spooning meat into defrosted egg roll wrappers while my dad carefully peels each of them away. Seeing me, he beckons me, probably wanting me to take his place, but I ignore him for now—
“Evie!” I squeal, going in for a hug.
My big sister laughs as we nearly fall over. She hugs me without her hands touching me. “Please rescue me. Mẹ’s forcing me to take all of this back with me.” She points to the kitchen counter filled with Costco-size food and pots and pans. Probably from the basement, where she keeps so many on-sale things, saying that one day we’ll need them. The Bounty rolls I can understand, but four types of wooden chopping boards?
“I didn’t know you were coming home.”
“There’s only so many text messages from Mẹ that my phone can hold. Con ăn chưa? Con có muốn về tuần tới không?” She softens her voice to mimic our mom.
“Mẹ nhớ con,” our mom says defensively.
“Yes, I know you miss me, but can you miss me less?” my sister says, jokingly rolling her eyes.
“You should have told me, or else I wouldn’t have stayed so long at school,” I say, taking a seat.
“Linh is always staying late,” Ba chimes in. “Too many times, I think, for her art classes. You have to think about school, not art. Good grades will get you into school, not art.”
I lean back into my chair, stomach dropping. Not again. Across the table, Evie gives me a sympathetic look. It hits me then how much I miss her. She’s usually the one saying, “Art isn’t always painting and drawing. It has a lot to do with creative thinking and not a lot of people can think that way, think like Linh.” She always had a way of explaining things to make them sound so much easier, sound like it could work in an ideal world.
Like now: “Well, it’s cool that Linh does this. And she’s good. And there’s tons of people who do a
rt in college.”
“Yes, but have you met one with a job?” Mẹ asks.
“No, but that’s because I don’t hang out with—”
“See!” Ba interrupts her. “See, artists don’t get jobs.”
“You can get a job,” I finally say, my voice loud. “It might take a while, but it’s not impossible.” My parents glance at me at the same time. Something behind my dad’s eyes makes me bite my tongue.
“Art is fun,” he says shortly. “But that’s just it: It can only be fun. It can never support you. Con, Mẹ and Ba have worked so hard so that you can have a better life.” My sister and I exchange suffering looks, knowing where our parents are going. Ba catches the exchange and merely tsks, though it might be because the layer he’s trying to peel isn’t complying. “Evelyn is on the right track, so we don’t have to worry as much about her.”
“The texts from Mẹ about my eating habits prove otherwise,” Evie mutters.
“Now it’s your turn,” Ba finishes. He gestures for me to start filling the wrappers. The key is to put a modest spoonful of meat inside, then roll up tight enough and seal it with egg wash so that it doesn’t uncurl when the roll hits oil, which happens too many times to mine.
“First batch is out!” Mẹ emerges, shows us a batch of crispy, golden egg rolls in a sieve, layered with a paper towel to catch excess oil. “Try one.”
My sister bites into one, then beams at Mẹ. “Just what I needed.”
We fall into a familiar pattern as we work together. Evie regales us with tales of college so far. I try not to laugh whenever her recollection gets interrupted by Mẹ and Ba as they ask about her friends, about their nationality, if they’re mập hay ốm, where they live, what their parents are like. But my sister answers each question patiently, already anticipating their questions. I make a note to do background checks when I get to college.
I stay quiet, still stung by my parents’ tone when they said I could never make a living from my art. They don’t get it.
