by Loan Le
I bite my lip. “I might be seeing someone.”
“You’re kidding me!” She smiles, pulls up a stool beside me. “Wait, let me guess. Tall, lanky kid? Kind of good-looking? Who conveniently comes into the art room at lunch, but someone I’ve never had in art class before?”
I smile at the thought of Bảo hearing how he was described… until her words catch up with me. I nearly drop my paint brush, but Yamamoto only laughs. “Saw him the other day. It’s fine, of course. I remember being your age. And from what I can tell”—she gestures to the canvas, still seeing what I can’t—“spending time with him is making you happy. And your art’s never been better. At the same time, I’m still supposed to be your teacher. So if it happens again, you’ll get sent to the principal’s office.” The threat’s diminished by her subsequent wink.
Yamamoto turns to leave, throwing me another grin that makes her look years younger. “This is the type of thing they like to see.”
“Who?”
“Scholastic. Gold Key.”
“Thanks,” I say, blushing.
“I know it’s going to be a long time until you find out the results. So, to hold you over, I’m giving you an early holiday gift.”
Now I’m dubious. “You’ve never given me a gift before.”
“I will now.” She beams. “Guess who I want to spotlight at the end of the year Art Fair?”
So caught in more looming deadlines—and crises—I’d forgotten about the Art Fair. Only one person gets spotlighted in their own exhibition. And all previous artists who were lucky enough to get picked had also won various Scholastic awards. Yamamoto has said again and again that this was just a coincidence and that what happened at school had no bearing on Scholastic results. But the myth is there, and in the past I’d even believed it.
I just never believed it could happen to me.
* * *
As if the world is conspiring to help us make up for lost time, Bảo and I get a day to ourselves one Sunday. Mẹ left early to visit a friend’s house to cut herbs and bring home fruit, which translated to a daylong affair of gossiping and catching up about their families. Mẹ will drop Evie’s name a few times, I’m sure of it. That also meant Dad would want to make his own outing to visit friends at their restaurants and cafés.
I’d always imagined going on a first date would be the most nerve-racking thing, an event that would set my stomach alight with butterflies. A time for two people who like each other to be alone. But for me and Bảo, we’ve only known how to be alone. So as I’m walking toward our meeting spot, I feel no different from when I’m with him in the art room.
Until I see him: standing in the middle of the park, fresh from the shower since his hair is still wet. He’s wearing a button-up red-and-black plaid shirt and loose jeans, and smiles cheekily once he’s spotted me. The butterflies kick up in flight.
He points to my camera. “I wasn’t aware you wanted to document this. Should I sign a form of consent?” he teases me.
“I capture memories, remember?” I snap a photo of him—he covers his eyes. “And it’s been ages since I’ve used it.”
He poses, lifting his chin up. “I guess I’ll volunteer to be your model. I’m a great model.”
“Says who?”
“No one.” Bảo grins. “Absolutely no one.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Laughter and movement from behind catches my eye.
Perfect.
“Hold still,” I whisper.
“What?” I laugh as his eyes widen.
A family celebrating a birthday has taken over a table, filling it with mouthwatering food and presents. Some brought balloons of all colors, weighing them with a rock. Cerulean, canary yellow, and cherry red bump and bob next to each other. But from where Bảo is standing, it’s almost as if the balloons are sprouting from his head. Smiling, I look through my camera. Click.
Then Bảo is free to move, whirling around. “If it’s a bee, I’ll run.”
“No, look.” I move closer to him and he dips his head down to see my camera screen. He smells as fresh and clean as cotton.
“Nice.” Our eyes meet—an indescribable whoosh passes between us, so strong I feel the need to look away.
“So where to?” I ask.
We pass a squad of elderly Asian women, coordinated by their visors, oversize sunglasses, and faces whitened with 80 SPF sunscreen. They’re windmilling their arms. They look at us as if we’re in the way—and for one small moment, I wonder if any of them have come to either of our restaurants or know our parents—and imagine how quickly this would travel.
And how possible it’d be for everything to unravel in an instant.
“Judging by your look,” Bảo says, interrupting my spiral of thoughts, “you’re thinking that we probably shouldn’t have our first date so close to home.”
“Spies.”
“Exactly what Việt said. So, I have a place in mind that I think you’ll like. Do you trust me?”
I thread my fingers through his.
“Let’s go.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE BẢO
As I’m driving, doubt creeps in. Did I really pick the right place to go on a date? An ad for Ellen’s Studio appeared during a search—as if the universe was taking pity on me as I considered different date ideas. It was far away enough that no one would know us. And it was something creative, perfect for Linh.
Confidence in my plan dimmed when I made the mistake of telling Việt about it. He replied with a straight face, “Aren’t you supposed to impress your date? Not embarrass yourself?” We were in the kitchen then, so the line cooks and other servers—Eddie and Trần included—then offered their own dating advice that seemed borderline illegal and might have been fun, I don’t know, back in the nineties.
I sneak a look at Linh. She’s wearing a jean skirt and a white flowy blouse, a part of it tucked in. A picture of comfort. She catches me looking and I will myself to stay put and not look away like I would’ve months ago. A bright smile graces her face like we haven’t seen each other in days. A thrill shudders through me.
Once we stop at the plaza, Linh leans her head out the window and makes a noise of surprise at the storefront. “Pottery?”
She unbuckles her seat belt and slips out. I follow her, watching with some hesitation. Her eyes go soft and she slips her arms around my middle, almost mirroring her impromptu hug that day we decided to start all of this. “Where did you find out about this place?”
“Oh, I heard it was good. I love… er, ceramics.”
“Liar,” she whispers, before fitting her hand into mine, leading me inside. I’m content to follow her. Inside, my veins are like highways and all cells rushing through me like high-speed cars.
“Wheel-throwing,” that’s what it’s called, the instructor tells us, but we can’t throw the wheel? Her voice, melodious and deep, demands our attention, and for a few minutes Linh and I watch as she demonstrates how to handle the clay and gently shape it. The wheel should be at a medium pace, and she makes us practice. But I might be doing it wrong, because the clay wobbles unevenly. Laughter sounds from next to me.
Linh’s been watching me, but now she’s purposefully focusing on the teacher. Her lips twitch.
“Oh, shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face says it all.”
I stop pretending to be mad when Linh has her turn at the wheel. Her hands merely guide the clay into the shape it’s meant to be—no frantic movements to force it one way or another. “Of course you’re good at this.”
“I’m really not. I’m just okay. My aunt, though, does this for a living.”
“The one in Vietnam.”
“Yeah, I haven’t seen her in ages. But she’s coming over because some of her international friends are displaying their work around the country.” You had to be pretty smart to navigate a foreign country like that. “My mom’s already worried about her. She’s ac
ting like the older sister and all that.”
The mention of her mom prompts my question. “So do you think your aunt knows what happened between our families?”
“Oh, that’s nice!” the instructor interjects. At Linh or someone else; we’re not paying attention.
“I don’t think it’s possible that she wouldn’t. I mean, if my mom and your mom were actually friends, surely they would have known each other. Hung out together.”
“Do you think you’ll get a chance to talk to her about it? When she’s here?”
“Still figuring out how to approach that. But yeah.” Linh gets tired of her hair falling into her face and hurriedly brushes it away with the back of her hand. In her rush, clay that caught on her wrist swipes across her cheek. I wait a few seconds. She still doesn’t notice. Of course.
Our instructor stops by, examining Linh’s work: a small teacup. Mine’s just a cylinder, like the cardboard that’s left over when toilet paper runs out.
“My, you’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
Linh smiles politely. “A few times.”
The instructor nods her head in approval and her eyes slide over to mine.
“And yours…” She quickly assesses it and takes a breath. “Well, I’m glad you could come by today.”
She walks away, leaving Linh in a fit of laughter and me trying to hold my dignity intact.
“I tried.”
“Oh, you did.” She shakes her head. “Though this is fun for me, you must be bored out of your mind. We could have done something else, you know.”
“But I chose this place because I thought you’d like it. Also, I’d never use the word ‘boring’ to describe what it’s like being around you.”
“Oh? And what words would you use instead, Mr. Wordsmith?”
“Honestly, my vocabulary isn’t big enough for what you’re asking.”
I won’t tire from that look in her eyes. Soft amusement, a moment where the worries slide from her mind. Her hand rests on mine. “Thanks. I’m having fun. But it’s because I’m with you. Next time, we’ll go where you want.”
Next time.
I refuse to let go of her hand until the instructor tells us to place our ceramics on a shelf.
“Let’s trade,” Linh says suddenly. “Mine for yours.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“But then you’re stuck with mine.”
“I don’t care. It’s one of a kind. It’s something that you made.” She tilts her head, sending me a dazzling smile. “So I like it.”
“Okay, one more thing, then. Need to mark it with something.”
On the bottom of each ceramic—the teacup and the whatever-the-hell-it-is—I etch our initials: BN + LM.
I get a kiss for that.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR LINH
One of the places I’d pick to represent California, the real California, where people grew up their whole lives, planted their roots, and left things behind for their family to take over, would be Huntington Beach. People know colors here, with their skateboards, parasailers, and sunglasses screaming out their personality. Hip-hop beats from boomboxes and live musicians, mostly guitarists, clash in the air. Everything is alive here.
When we were kids, Evie and I could have spent all day here if it weren’t for my parents, who were wary of too much time in the sun. Never mind that they always slathered the both of us in too much sunscreen. Never mind that we were mostly sitting under umbrellas. We’d beg them to buy us cotton candy, but would get a lecture about cavities and bad teeth. I’m glad I’m getting the chance to enjoy things now.
Bảo offers me his hand, and I take it.
“I like your face today.”
I laugh. “I believe you’d call that a non sequitur.”
“You’re speaking my language.” Bảo pulls me in by the waist. He doesn’t explain right away, just holds me close. “I meant that I like how calm you look right now. You’re not worried. The thing between your eyebrows”—he pokes me at that spot—“isn’t there.”
“The wrinkle’s not always there.”
“Not always, but I notice it when it appears.” He swings our arms.
“Well, I have one less thing to worry about—my application’s sent off. So I guess it is better than before. But that’s been replaced now by something else to worry about, right?”
“Our moms, yeah. And however your aunt might fit in.”
I nod. “I know we have to ask. I know. But a part of me doesn’t want to. To find out something that might change everything.”
“It’s scary. I think we have to ask the question eventually. If we really want this”—he holds up our clasped hands—“to work. I hate hiding. I hate not being able to kiss you before we go to work, right across from each other. I hate not being able to walk in the park near our homes, just because I might be seen with you.”
“I hate that too,” I say. The feeling of lying has become all too familiar. It’s not the nervousness of hiding something now—it’s the shame that weighs me down, more and more. “But you know how our parents are with the past. What if, by asking questions, we make things worse? With our parents? With us?”
“But if we don’t start asking these questions…” He shakes his head. “Remember what Chef Lê said? About having these questions he wants to ask his mom but knowing he can’t because she’s gone?”
“How it’s too late?”
“That could be us one day. One day, they’re not going to be around as much. That’s what’s happening next year—we’re going to college and they’ll be living out their lives—and in no time, it’ll happen. The chance to ask will pass.”
On our way back, dusk is our cover. Me and Bảo hold hands—his clean, mine still stained with paint no matter how clean I tried to make them. I mention that to Bảo, but he only shrugs. “Feels like a hand. Feels like mine.” He reaches our clasped hands up, kissing mine, then smiling, knowing I was watching, probably blushing. “Plus, you wouldn’t be you without it.”
Together we walk into the ocean and take in the waters that stretch ahead of us.
“What?” I ask, looking up at him.
“Nothing. Just…” He trails off as he leans forward, and our lips touch again. I slip my fingers into his hair. My heart beats double-time, and the way he’s looking at me sends a rush of heat through me.
I meet him there when he ducks his head to kiss me. It’s him making a strange sound when I stand up so that I’m flush against him. I can feel all of him, him me. A small wave crashes against us and I stumble until he catches me at just the right time. We laugh together, our sound mingling with nearby notes of happiness: kids shrieking as they splash up a storm, squawking seagulls flying and dipping into the ocean, lazy guitar music tickling our ears. The most perfect day.
* * *
A phone call wakes me up. I hear murmuring from down the hall, until I hear an exclamation. I stop mid-stretch, waiting to hear more, but the whispers return and then nothing. Am I dreaming? It happens sometimes, whenever I shut off my iPhone alarm, feeling a false confidence that I’ll get up, and I descend into a dream where I do just that: wake up, eat breakfast, go to school, as if everything was normal.
I drift above myself until the cabinet door slamming shut wakes me up completely. I’m still in bed.
This time, I walk to the kitchen, clearing away the gunk from my eyes. Mẹ is washing dishes, her shoulders tense.
“You’re up early.”
I look to my dad for an explanation of her mood, but Ba is determinedly concentrating on his issue of Người Việt. It all feels… off, wrong… angry. What did she find out just now?
“What is it?” I ask hesitantly.
Mẹ twists the water handle closed. “I got a call. Someone is spreading bad rumors about us.”
“Rumors?” I sit down, nerves on edge. “What kind of rumors?”
“Con chuột,” Ba answers shortly. Then, making me jump, “Rats!”
> “What?” I yelp. “We don’t have rats in our restaurant.”
“That horrible restaurant. That woman,” Ba mutters, directing his rant at Mẹ. Ba ignores me, his newspaper forgotten, and punches in some numbers on his cell phone. He disappears from the room; I can sense his anger but I can’t hear it.
He mentioned a woman. Only one person can get Ba this riled up. But rats—is Bảo’s mom truly capable of spreading this damaging rumor? The rumors before had been trivial—easily dismissible—aside from the one about Bác Xuân. But rats…
“Apparently someone noticed that we’d changed our tablecloths and place mats and somehow that led to the idea of us having rats. A customer called me and said so. Said she was trying to warn us. She said it was the Nguyễns spreading this rumor.”
“But that’s not true,” I say. “It can’t be.”
“You know how rumors go. We’ve discussed this.”
“No, I mean about the rats. Will people really fall for it?”
Mẹ turns, her mouth set in a thin line. “It will be hard to convince people that it’s all lies.”
“So what are you going to do?”
My mom merely shakes her head. “Go to school. This is not your issue.”
“Will everything be okay?” I ask.
“Ba is talking to the Health Department. They’ve already called us wanting to schedule an inspection, but we are trying to clear things up.…”
“Will everything be okay?” I repeat. She doesn’t answer, only leans against the counter, waiting for Ba to get off the phone with whomever he’s speaking to.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE BẢO
In the morning, a half hour before classes start, I head to the art room, where Linh texted me to meet her. The lights are on low, the sun straining for passage through the blinders. Long shadows cast against the floor. Motes of dust drift lazily across the room. At first I can’t find Linh, but she’s there, on the center stool, facing a blank canvas. She sits empty-handed.
“Why’s it so dark in here?” I ask, approaching her. I lean down, aiming for a kiss, but her lips are stiff against mine. I tilt my head in question. “Everything okay?” A sense of foreboding washes over me.
