Chapter Seventeen: Bảo

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.

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.