by Loan Le
Now I know what books and old movies mean by dapper. Like Ali, he’s dressed in black. He looks far older, and for a moment, a vision of an older Bảo—someone like his uncle in the photo—supplants itself over my vision. One blink and it’s the Bảo I know again. Once I’m close enough, he hugs me, lifting me off my feet. I laugh as his kiss meets my crown.
“You’re way more excited than you should be,” I mumble as I retighten my ponytail.
“How can I not be? You have a mural. This is your reveal.”
“I’m nervous.”
He brushes my cheek. “Don’t be.”
Putting aside the last few weeks, I want to tell him about the photo, but the way he’s looking around the room, pointing out the size of it—the way he just looks so proud of me makes my throat tighten up. I ignore the photo for a moment.
“Local genius displays award-winning art,” Ali says with her Banner Move, which I approve only in this instance. “Linh, this is… I don’t know, I’m out of words.”
“For once,” Việt quips. But he’s grinning and adds his own congratulations. “You think they can tell we’re all, like, two decades younger?”
Focused on finding my friends, I forgot to really look around. The other guests must be Chef Lê’s friends—people in the restaurant circuit. A couple are dressed in bright colors—artists? Fashion designers? The idea of Chef Lê having all sorts of friends from different crowds feels right.
“Miss Mai!” Chef Lê shouts, barreling through the crowd like an overgrown puppy. He gives me his signature bear hug, and I feel a wave of affection wash over me. “You ready for this?”
“Did you have to invite this many people?”
“This many people. This is the smallest gathering I’ve ever had. Didn’t want to overwhelm you.” He playfully pushes me by the shoulder, crashing me into Bảo, who catches me and grins. “C’mon, the mural’s so great. Everyone in Orange County has to see it.” And with that, he pulls me by the elbow into the center of the crowd. My friends laugh, trailing behind.
“Friends, you know this place is my baby and I love showing it off. I want everyone to be reminded of why they’re here. For me, it’s a reminder of why I’m here, how I’m the chef right now. It’s a reminder of everything that my parents have done. Especially my mom.” He clears his throat as a somber look passes over him. His father, or who I assume to be his father, clasps him on the shoulder, showing his support. “I wish Mẹ could have been here to see what the restaurant’s become, and I hope to God that she knows she doesn’t have to worry about little me anymore.”
A respectful silence settles in the room. A few people clap in encouragement.
“Well, not little me, because, you know.” The mood shifts again—laughter. “Anyway, I’m intentional in everything that goes into this restaurant. It’s Vietnamese, one hundred percent, and I like to think the decorations are reflective of that. But this column”—he points—“I couldn’t figure it out. I needed something.” He pauses dramatically.
“That’s why I was so excited to meet a special artist who came in here with a young man. Before they met me, believe it or not, they were just friends, but you know how I like to meddle—”
Bảo clears his throat. “Um, Chef Lê—”
“Okay, okay. Long story short: I’m the only reason they got together and they should thank me,” he adds in a rush, despite Bảo’s suggestion. The crowd laughs and I glance in mock suffering at Bảo, but instead of embarrassment, the look in his eyes is soft like the warm glow of the light above us. “All I want to say is I told you so. Anyway, they wrote this bomb piece for their school newspaper but it was better than anything I’ve ever read. And it led me to discover the extraordinary talent that is Linh.”
He gestures for me to stand next to him and I’m emboldened by the applause. “Is everyone ready?”
The wrap falls with a whoosh. A flash blinds me for a split second.
I haven’t seen the mural from afar in this kind of lighting. I’d only been up close, using the smallest brushes imaginable, observing for all kinds of imperfections, and so I rarely stood aside to see what I was building layer by layer, color by color. The crowd eases forward, murmuring to one another. Bảo slips his hand into mine, squeezing, and a few feet away, Chef Lê is pointing out details of the mural to the friends closest to him.
It’s a collage of him and his mother, based on photos that he gave me: her hugging him on his first day of school, him standing on a stool to help his parents roll out bánh bao doughs, all the way up to a scene from last year, of them together in the kitchen. It’s celebrating her and everything she gave him—and more.
A round of guests come by to congratulate me.
“A high school student did this?”
“Is she available for other work?”
I duck my head at some of the praise, but I can’t deny how they make me warm all over. “Beautiful,” Bảo says, kissing my temple and hugging me from behind. I lean back against him, my mind running on imagination. Somewhere, far into the future, people might come to my exhibition and feel the same amount of awe that I’ve had toward other artists growing up.
I want to stay like this forever.
* * *
“If this writing thing doesn’t work out, I’ll be your manager.”
“Sorry, Ali’s going to be my manager.”
“PR, then. I’ll write the best PR,” Bảo says as he pulls up a few houses away from mine.
I laugh. “You don’t know a thing about art.”
“But I know a few things about you,” he returns cheekily. He leans in as smoothly as he can with his seat belt keeping him back and kisses me twice. He doesn’t pull away, his eyes roving over my face. Looking for something. “I’ll let you go—you’re probably tired from the all-star treatment that you got.”
A satisfied laugh bubbles in my throat, and I want to protest, but he’s right. We can’t push it. I slide out of the passenger seat, careful not to close the door too loudly. The movement reminds me of the photo in my pocket, which slips out, catching Bảo’s attention. I grab it, wanting to keep it out of sight, out of mind, just for tonight.
“What’s that?” he asks, resting a hand on the steering wheel.
“Look closer.”
He squints and leans forward, assesses the man’s head full of hair, his lean frame, his smile—and disbelief dawns on his face. “That’s my uncle.”
“Yes.”
“How… ? Isn’t that… ?”
“My mom and my aunt.” I exhale. “Bảo, there is more to the story. First it was my mom and your mom. Then there was the question about my aunt, but here it is. Proof. My aunt and your uncle were together at some point.”
Bảo releases his hold on the steering wheel, dragging both hands through his hair.
“What do you know about him?”
“He died,” he says, staring straight ahead. “He tried to escape by boat first, but he died. And my mom doesn’t talk about him much. Hurts too much, I think.”
“Of course. It was her brother.” I try to think, try to connect the dots between my mom, my aunt, his mom, and his uncle, and I know there is something, but everything feels unfocused. Just out of reach. “I think he was the one my aunt almost married. But he left. For some reason he left.”
Bảo is tight-lipped. I feel his mind working itself into a frenzy.
“I told my mom about you.”
“What?”
“I told her how we became friends, how we worked together. I didn’t mention what we are, but I think she knows. But she didn’t really blow up about that. It was what she said after, and I didn’t tell you right away because I didn’t want to ruin things. I didn’t want there to be another reason for us not to be together.”
“Bảo?” I slip my hand back into his. “It’s okay. You can tell me.” I don’t care that he didn’t tell me right away; I tried hiding the picture from him. We both didn’t want to ruin things. Now, even if we do
n’t have all the pieces, we’re gravitating closer to the truth.
“My mom said that it’s your family’s fault that my uncle died.” He turns his head, meeting my eyes. “She called your family murderers.”
I suck in sharply. Moths dance around one of my neighbor’s porch lights. Behind shaded windows, multicolored lights from their television pulse. My gaze falls on my house, dark save for the light from the back of the kitchen, shining half its usual luminosity.
“Murderers,” I whisper. What a horrible word. An impossible reality.
What does this all mean? How could my mom, my aunt—or both—have played a hand in his uncle’s death? Had they gone with him? Did he drown, then? And where was Bảo’s mother in all of this? “They couldn’t have—” Killed. Murdered. Done whatever they were rumored to have done.
“Linh, I have no clue what that means. I’m just saying what she said, but… fuck, this is all messed up.” The desperation in his voice pulls me back into the car, and I reach for his hand. “I really don’t know what to think.”
“I don’t know either, Bảo. I really don’t.”
“We have to talk to them. At least we have something tangible in front of us. They can’t deny it now.”
“I can only nod.
Tomorrow. The truth will come out tomorrow.
Bảo kisses me goodbye. We linger, noses touching, breathing in and out again. Then, he gives me one last kiss. He backs up and drives off, leaving me wondering how I’ll be able to go to sleep tonight.
But then my living room lights snap on, the curtains part sharply, and two silhouettes appear, facing me.
My parents are home.
* * *
The exaltation from tonight’s showing, the peace that I felt being with Bảo—it all gradually disappeared as details of the photo came out and Bảo told me what his mother said. Any good feeling that was left bursts into nonexistence the moment I step into the house.
My parents’ shoes are by the front door, neatly against the wall as always. The room feels colder than usual, but maybe it’s me, shivering at the prospect of my parents, who’d come home early to find an empty house, when I said I’d be home.
I hear them exchange sharp whispers, and they stop when I get to the kitchen threshold. My mom’s at the kitchen sink, washing dishes. Ba sits at the table, mandarin peels sitting in front of him. Neither looks at me.
“I’m sorry. I realized that I needed to finish up a project. And I sort of lost track of time.” I force out the lie, instantly hating myself. “I’m really sorry.”
My mother still doesn’t turn around. Ba’s focused on something on his phone.
“I’m really sorry,” I say again, hating how stale it sounds.
“We don’t care that you’re late. Not now,” my mom says. Her voice sounds clogged, like she’d just been crying a few minutes before.
Ba abruptly pushes away his chair, as if ready to storm from the kitchen. But he doesn’t; he just paces, his steps heavy. “Are you going to tell us where you really were for the past hour? Or will you lie again?”
Oh no.
Ba turns his phone, slides it toward me. His Messages app is open, showing a photo that was received a half hour ago.
The photo is of me and Bảo. At the mural reveal, the moment the curtains had fallen. I remember there’d been a flash, and I guess whoever had taken the picture had sent it his way. “The person who puts our ads in the newsletters. She was there and told us how proud we should be. To have our talented daughter showcase her first mural!” Ba shakes his head. “I should have answered, ‘What daughter?’ After all, what daughter hides this from us?”
I feel cold all over. I swallow hard, trying to summon the right words to explain everything. I know I have many things to defend; I don’t even know where to start. How can I explain meeting Bảo? Wanting to do art, not engineering? Being at the reveal, rather than at home? Words are out before I know what to say. “Mẹ, I know I’m not supposed to talk to the Nguyễns—”
“Bảo, you know him,” Ba says.
“We’re friends. Good friends. I didn’t expect it to—”
“This isn’t just about the boy or his family. Con này nói láo từ hồi nào tới giờ,” my mother interjects, directing her anger at Ba. She twists the water off, wrenches her gloves from her hands. They smack against the sink. Her sharp voice stuns me, jumps out into the space between us like a flame on the stove turned up too high.
“It’s the lies. All of them. How long were you seeing this boy? How long have you been doing this painting for that restaurant? How long were you lying to us about everything? Tại sao mày dám làm như vậy tới cha mẹ.”
How dare you.
How dare you do this to us, your parents.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” I say weakly. About everything. “Ba, Mẹ, I’ve always wanted to be an artist. But I couldn’t tell you that because you were always saying things about Dì Vàng, about how that kind of life will be hard. You’d never approve.
“And with Bảo… I didn’t know what to think at first, but I got to know him and he’s nothing like I always thought he’d be. He’s a friend—a great friend—and as much as his family has gone out of its way to hurt us—he’s not them.
“By the time I was getting further along with my work, by the time I… spent more time with Bảo, I couldn’t explain it.”
“So you thought you’d go on like this. Never telling us about any of this,” Ba finishes.
“No!” I quickly reply. I shake my head. That’s not it. But what do I want to say? What can I say? “I didn’t want to do this forever. I was just starting to find a way—”
Mẹ overrides me. “So you didn’t trust us. Your parents.”
I’m so tired. “That’s not it. It’s not that.”
“You lied about the boy.”
“Yes.”
“You lied about your painting job.”
“Yes.”
“You were elsewhere today.”
So many lies. I pinch my eyes closed. “Yes.”
“I wanted you to have a good life. A safe life. A happy life, by raising you the right way.”
It’s confusing—her words, how suddenly they come, how sad my mom sounds.
“But we hardly know you anymore,” Mẹ says. “And you never thought of us as you were making these lies.”
“That’s not true, Mẹ.”
“Tomorrow,” Ba adds, ignoring me. “You will go home right after school. No more staying after school to paint. No more seeing thằng đó.”
“I can’t—”
“Cha mẹ nói sao, con phải làm,” Ba says with finality.
“I don’t understand!” I shout, finally, hating that I’m beginning to cry. I sound like a baby. I sound like a kid. “I’m not the only one lying, am I? You’re lying too, aren’t you?” I shakily reach for the photo that I found in the shoeboxes. “What’s this, then? Why didn’t you tell me you knew the Nguyễns? That you were close with them, too?” I smack the photo against the center of the table. “And why they’re saying you’re murderers.”
My mom barely glances at it. “I don’t have to tell you anything,” Mẹ finally snaps at me. “There are things that only adults know. This is one of them. You are a child, con. Nhiều thứ con không cần biết. The pain that will happen to you. Everything I’ve done in America, I have done for you. To give you a good life. To raise you well so that one day, you will not need us anymore.” Mẹ angrily wipes away a lone tear running down her cheek. “Ba mẹ nói thì con phải nghe. Art will get you nowhere, con, because I’ve seen it for my sister, your aunt. Nó sẽ làm của con rất là nghèo khổ. And I can’t let that happen to you Not after everything Mẹ—my family—has gone through.”
The sight of her tears makes my heart feel as if it’s being gnawed on from the inside. I want to tell her to listen to me, listen to what I’m saying. But she’s shaking with anger. Her hair has fallen loos
e from her clip. And her eyes… I look down. I think this is the first time she’s doubted that I love her.
My mom storms out of the kitchen and a few seconds later, her bedroom door thuds against its frame.
I brace myself, wait for my dad to scream as well. His gaze is on me. Yet, he’s calm. I think I want him to yell now, because it’ll show he’s feeling something toward me. But the quiet between us is cold and cut off. Like I’m beyond reproach, like I’m worthless.
He snatches up the photo I showed Mẹ. He turns his back on me. “If you don’t honor your parents and listen to us—after all that we have done for you—then we have failed. We have failed as your parents.”
“I didn’t mean to lie so much,” I say weakly.
Ba doesn’t say more. He walks away from me.
* * *
The next morning, I wake to an empty house. My cheeks are dry and tight from crying. In the kitchen, I splash cold water on my face. My parents have already left for the restaurant. No note or anything, no breakfast Saran-wrapped in the fridge. I wonder what hurt more: the yelling match we had last night or the resulting silence. Disquieting. Unforgiving.
My walk to school is slow and painful, as if my body is also hurting. I keep my head down too, because if I pass someone I know, the polite thing to do is smile, but it’s not something I can muster. Neither does sitting in class interest me.
Bảo’s at my locker, holding on to his backpack by one strap. I see the worry on his face, then his eyes rove over me, and his eyebrows quickly furrow. Of course I know why; I saw my face in the mirror. It’s blotchy, my eyes are swollen, and the bags underneath create the illusion that I smeared gray paint below them.
“What happened?”
His look of concern hurts rather than helps. “I can’t. Not right now,” I say. I put in my combination.
I don’t comprehend right away why my touch is slippery, why my vision starts blurring. Then Bảo’s arms are around me, and he’s mumbling “What’s wrong?” again and I’m saying things into his chest and he can’t hear me.
