A Pho Love Story

by Loan Le

  Perfect.

  My mom had been happy to hear me mention an effort to volunteer. Maybe it’s something to share with her gossip circle. Bảo is such a good person. He thinks of other people. Ha.

  While clearing the dishes at breakfast, she offers to drive me. Well, have Ba drive me as she rides along. That would meet two of her goals for the weekend: (1) force her son to do something and (2) get some grocery shopping done. Mẹ doesn’t go to Thuận Phát too often, maybe every month or so. I guess she hasn’t been there in a few weeks.

  I immediately object, imagining her seeing Linh at the table outside Thuận Phát. She’d flip the table, most likely.

  “I’ll take the bus. Don’t want to bother you—”

  “No, it’s fine—”

  “Really. Anyway, there isn’t anything on sale today. I checked.” I grasp for an excuse. “But Saigon City Marketplace has sales.” I mention the one that’s a bit closer, and I must have said the magic words, which land on Ba as he sets down Người Việt at the table. What’s the point of going when nothing is on sale?

  “Thôi, để nó đi đi,” he says. “Mình sẽ đi Saigon City.”

  My mom relents. “Mẹ did want to go to Saigon City to see what herbs are on sale… Maybe I will go today.”

  “Great.”

  “Don’t come back too late. Or eat anything for lunch. I’m making something.”

  “Got it.”

  I get on bus sixty-six and it drops me off at McFadden. I walk a few minutes to the supermarket. The parking lot is already packed like sardines, Camrys and Highlanders cruising to find the first open spot. Mothers marching like they’re on a mission, their kids dragging their feet. Older shoppers walk with the help of their adult daughter or son and others rely on their canes and walkers.

  I see the sign first: HELP VSA, made with enough glitter to stop traffic. Kelly’s doing, most likely. Linh sits at the table, glancing around. She’s dressed in a simple white tee and jeans, sunglasses on top. I slide into the empty seat next to her.

  “Ta-da.”

  “Bảo?” She laughs and taps on the bill of my ball cap. “Nice disguise.”

  “Thank you. I think it was your suggestion.”

  Linh scrutinizes me. “I guess it’ll work. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  “That good, huh?”

  “Usually your giveaway is your hair. So yeah.”

  “How’s it going so far? Kelly putting you to work?”

  Together we watch Kelly, who has stopped a disheveled-looking man who must have been forced to do a last-minute grocery run by his wife. He attempts to escape, to no avail.

  “More like she’s doing it herself. Which I think is why not a lot of people want to do this.”

  “Can I tell you a secret?” I lean in, beckoning her, and she follows with a smile playing on her lips. “I’m glad you’re here. Because I wouldn’t want to be alone with her; she despises me.”

  Her laugh catches the other volunteers’ attention.

  “Why are you laughing? It’s true.”

  “First it’s Ali who hates you. Then it’s Kelly. Now what did you do to her?”

  “I skipped volunteering.”

  “Okay… ?”

  “Three times.”

  “Bảo! No wonder she loathes you.”

  “Sorry, that was all back when I wasn’t as motivated.”

  “What’s motivating you now?”

  A couple of shoppers have come by, inquiring about our table, and Linh greets them automatically, putting on a smile like she did this all the time. Her energy is palpable and contagious.

  “No one in particular,” I answer her question, more to myself than to her.

  Meanwhile, Kelly passes down another pile of flyers to replenish our stack. She sips a boba from Boba Corner 2. “What’s with the ball cap?”

  “Bad haircut.”

  Time passes slowly, but it’s not so bad with Linh next to me. We pass commentary about Kelly’s determined efforts to solicit money while we hand out flyers about VSA’s upcoming events. I spot faint paint marks on the back of her hand, which weren’t there yesterday. She must have fit in some painting time this morning.

  “Were you painting?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she says, sheepish again. “Trying to, at least. I need to submit something to the Gold Key competition. I’m realizing that the deadline is getting closer and closer.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m working on a few things about memory. Good memories. The kind that last a while and show up unexpectedly.”

  “Like?”

  “A restaurant scene. Just me and my parents as we were closing up in the first year. It was a tough year, that first year. People were hard on them.” Linh looks over at me and I know what she’s thinking. My mom. The General and the others, the snide remarks they made at the restaurant and also freely in public—

  “I’m sorry.”

  Linh shakes her head. “Anyway, my sister and I never really saw our parents because they were always working. But that night, we finished and it’d gone well, and I remember seeing my parents standing by the front windows, just chatting, saying goodbye to some customers. A totally normal scene.”

  I’m there with her, can feel the window’s smooth glass against my hand and its warmth after facing the sun for the whole day. Linh’s tone changes into something like reverence and she lifts her hand, gesturing as if she were smearing paint all over a canvas. “But the sky behind them was swathes of blush red and purple and yellow. It took my breath away. It was really beautiful. So I’m working on a small canvas for that.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “Yeah, it was.” She looks over at me. “How about you? Still okay with mediocrity?” she says teasingly, leaning forward. A piece of her hair has caught itself on the neck of her T-shirt and I feel like I want to move it away.

  “Hey, I’ve advanced a little.” I copy Linh, moving closer even though there’s no reason to. “Someone asked for my help the other day. One of Việt’s friends needed help. So I helped.”

  “Did it go well?”

  “Yeah. It doesn’t happen often—someone asking me for help. Especially with writing. So I was kind of surprised.”

  “I’m not.” She looks deep in thought. “There are people out there who don’t have the energy to help people get better. They just accept the other person’s flaws, and sure, there’s less conflict to deal with, but it’s almost like living out a lie. Then there are people who aren’t afraid to point out something’s wrong—even something as little as a typo. In the end, you’re making something better, and that’s more than other people are willing to do.”

  I clear my throat, trying to quell my emotions fighting against one another. “That’s about the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Isn’t that sad?”

  “Sad and true for all kids with demanding Asian parents.” Warmth spreads through me. Other curious shoppers have come to the table, but, not for the first time, I see only Linh in front of me. Beaming. I have to blink a few times to remember where I am.

  CHAPTER TWENTY LINH

  “My middle finger can’t be that big.”

  “It’s not big. It’s normal size.”

  “On the page, it’s big,” Bảo says in protest. “It’s offensively big.”

  I laugh, turning my pencil upside down and erasing the lines of his “offensive finger” until it looks thinner—but not true to size. I was using the back of an extra flyer to sketch Bảo’s hand. “Better?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t know you were so sensitive about your fingers.”

  It’s easy, when you’re having fun, to forget about matters that seemed important only an hour ago. Or at least pretend that they don’t exist. The canvas of the restaurant—more of a portrait of my parents—drying at home, one of many I need to finish if I want to even have a chance at the competition.

  The deadline is coming, and in moments
when I imagine I’m keeping that date far away, it creeps up on me. There’s so little time.

  Great. I promised myself that I would leave some of my worries at home, and now I’m just buried in thoughts.

  I glance at Bảo. At least we’re having fun together. We’re not looking over our shoulders. But that thought doesn’t last long.

  I’m the one who spots her first.

  And by “her,” I mean them.

  Our mothers, walking down separate parking lanes. Mine is looking through her purse. This morning, before heading to the restaurant, she mentioned she might need to run to the market, but I didn’t think it’d be this market. She doesn’t like Thuận Phát because of the size. Plus they never have enough of the fish she likes to use.

  Bảo’s mom walks forward, but squints with the sun in her eyes. I nudge Bảo, cutting him off mid-conversation with another classmate, and in a second, understanding—and panic—manifests in the visible parts of his face.

  “Shit.”

  “Let’s go,” I say, pulling him along inside, my heart beating madly. Bảo lowers the bill over his eyes.

  Through the automatic sliding doors, the market’s smells rush at me: fried pork, herbs, and lingering incense from the owner’s shrine. I’m brought back to my childhood, when weekends often meant wandering the aisles, riding on abandoned shopping carts, climbing piles of sacks of rice, and begging my parents to buy me strawberry Hello Pandas and Marukawa gum packets.

  The two of us dash into one of the aisles—the one with all the dried fruits, seeds, and peanuts. An older woman catches sight of us and narrows her eyes, before wheeling her cart and turning right at the end.

  “Out of all the days,” Bảo moans. His phone vibrates in his hand. His mom. “Should I answer?”

  “Yes, pick up. You don’t want her to be suspicious.”

  “Hi, Mẹ,” he answers, forcing cheeriness into his voice. “Yeah, that was me. I was just taking a break.” Pause. “Where did I go? I’m in the… snacks aisle. You’re heading—where? The peanuts aisle?”

  An alarm goes off inside me. I make a split-second decision and dash into the aisle to the left, where sriracha and other Asian sauces are stocked. The lady from before huffs in annoyance when I nearly ram in her. She mutters under her breath about teenagers these days being mâất dạy, yet continues shopping.

  Then I hear Bảo’s mom. Her voice is loud as she addresses Bảo, jolting me. I don’t think I’ve heard it since that day at the temple. I duck, catching a glimpse of her through the shelves low on stock. “Bảo?”

  “Yep,” he answers hoarsely before clearing his throat. “It’s me.”

  “Mẹ almost forgot con wore that hat today. Look kỳ. Mẹ thought con want snacks.”

  “Well, I thought I’d just meet you here.” He glances at me swiftly, then uses his back to block me—and my line of vision. “You couldn’t find anything at Saigon City?”

  “No, there was nothing much on sale. But there’s plenty of things on sale here.”

  “Uh, sorry, I guess I read an old flyer.”

  “Do con want a snack?”

  His reply is quick. “Oh, no I think I’m—”

  “Con?” I pivot sharply. Mẹ. “What are you doing?”

  “Oh, I’m just… I’m hungry.” Meanwhile, I try to listen to the conversation on the other side, to see if they’re moving. Bảo and his mom are walking to the back. Too close. Our mothers can’t see each other—who knows what will happen! So I steer my mother the opposite way, into the nuts aisle, moving us like a revolving door would. “But never mind, I figured I would just wait for lunch to eat.”

  “Mẹ can buy you something if you need it.”

  “No, no, I think I’ll be fine for now—let’s just—” Unfathomably, Bảo’s mom is walking past our aisle, him trailing behind, probably thinking we’d have moved by then. He freezes, then runs ahead, grabbing a random snack. I hear him ask if he could get this.

  Thankful for the distraction, I loop my arm through my mom’s. “Actually, can I get an egg tart?” That, on any other occasion, would have been a normal request. It was always a reward for me and Evie for behaving while our mother completed her shopping.

  Mẹ smiles slightly, the corners of her eyes wrinkling. “Some things never change.”

  Even though we’re a good distance away from Bảo and his mom, I keep an eye out for them as Mẹ points at the pastries—the guy at the counter only speaks Malaysian. My mom ends up buying enough for the volunteers, and when she finishes checking out her groceries—watching the prices climb closely—she waves good-bye at me and leaves none the wiser.

  I run into Bảo around the corner of the exit. He stops me from going further, grabbing my wrist, and I hear his mom complaining to him about the final receipt before telling him she’ll see him back at home. “Don’t eat too much,” she says, though she’s shoving another bag of snacks his way. The other volunteers are going to love us.

  Then Bảo’s mom is gone.

  And we’re both alive.

  Returning to the entrance, Bảo and I plop down at the volunteering table, exhausted. Kelly asks why we just disappeared, but we hold up the box of pastries as an excuse. The volunteers eagerly dig in, and Bảo gladly reaches for an egg tart.

  “See?” he says in between bites. “This is why I don’t volunteer.” A triumphant grin starts forming until he looks down at our knotted hands.

  I don’t pull away.

  He doesn’t pull away.

  I’m staring at our hands together, trying to pretend that they aren’t ours, just like I did to Bảo’s hand before. I was studying his fingers objectively, sketching them as nothing more than a prop.

  But I can’t do that now. Because it is our hands, and neither of us is letting go. My heart pounds. Adrenaline from before or now? I’m not sure. His thumb caresses my knuckles in a move that seems natural, like he’d always held my hand like this. I inhale sharply. In different circumstances, this could happen. This is possible in an alternate reality.

  My other hand, I realize, is resting on the table, exactly on top of the sketch of his hand.

  We don’t say anything, and we don’t move until someone down the table asks me to hand them extra flyers, so I have to let go, and I do it like I’ve been scorched. Don’t look at him.

  The rest of volunteering for us is spent in silence, and I’m lost in how to handle this impossible, unsaid thing sitting between us.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE BẢO

  I’ve been thinking about Linh’s hand a lot, her paint-marked hand fitting into my palm. I remember it like it was a living heart, pulsing. I’ve replayed that moment we noticed what was happening and decided not to care, the moment that I knew we’d stepped into a new place without planning to. I wish there was a word stronger than “palpable,” but I guess that was sufficient for now.

  When she let go, I wanted so badly to snatch her hand back. When she muttered a quick goodbye to me, I wanted to tell her not to leave. We couldn’t just ignore what happened.

  She didn’t pull away. She could have, but she didn’t. Does that mean she feels the same way as me?

  Việt and Ali had seen it before us, apparently.

  The next week, to my disappointment, unfolds like the days before our worlds collided on Phở Day. Our schedule consists of way too many misses. At lunch, when I stop by the art room, I don’t find her there. I know for a fact that Linh’s avoiding me, because she skipped the next restaurant coverage, mentioning it to Ali, who told me she was overwhelmed by work and painting. There’s truth in that, I’m sure, but not completely.

  She’s scared, and I wish I could tell her that I am, too. That I don’t know how things will work. But if we could hold hands a bit longer, maybe we’ll figure it out.

  I had to go alone to a Malaysian restaurant, while most of the customers enjoyed meals among large families. They must have felt sorry for me, a high school boy, dining out alone. The chef gave me a doggy bag
of some kind of cookies that Ba demolished later in the night.

  As we sit across the table at 10:00 p.m., feeling Mẹ’s absence as she was still at a friend’s house for a mani and pedi, I have this ridiculous thought to ask for advice. Ba is a man. Ba has experienced things like this… right? Then I stop the idea almost immediately. I must be getting desperate if I think it’s a good pick to ask my dad, stone-cold Dad, for girl advice when we don’t exactly enjoy small talk in general.

  Tonight must be different, because Ba starts the small talk anyway. Those cookies must be good.

  “We’re going to need your help in the next few weeks at the restaurant.”

  “Oh, okay. What’s happening?”

  “Your mom and I are planning a Bánh Xèo Day to introduce different kinds of bánh xèo to the menu. So things will be busy.”

  Just like Việt had suggested.

  “Did Việt mention anything to you?”

  “Why would he?”

  “Never mind.” I think about the special. Linh’s family—Linh—are going to see it as a direct response to their Phở Day. Great: One more reason for our parents to despise one another.

  “Why now?” I ask warily.

  “To make sure our customers don’t get tired of our menus.”

  “Will it work? We don’t usually do different kinds of bánh xèo.”

  “We never really know when things will work. We weren’t sure a restaurant would work, but here we are. There is no use playing it safe when it comes to our restaurant.” Ba gets up and puts on the teakettle. He shuffles to the cabinet where we keep various tins of tea leaves. “Muốn trà không?”

  I shake my head, thinking tea will only keep me up later than I should.

  Playing it safe.

  If my dad’s willing to do something that might not bring him any sure result, maybe I can do the same.

  * * *

  Later I stared for longer than I’d like to admit at a text to send to Linh. A text asking her to meet again, face-to-face. I wasn’t as blunt; I had a good reason to text her, since Ali sent me another restaurant to visit. So I mentioned that to her.