Chapter Nineteen: Bảo

CHAPTER NINETEEN BẢO

Slowly, I’m getting used to being on the newspaper, being a part of a team. After the success of my first review, Ali’s not so on top of me anymore. In her eyes, I’ve stepped up; she’s still delegating proofreading tasks to me, but she’s giving me multiple articles—more than anyone else on the editing team.

My classmates are coming by to talk about their edits, having revised what they wrote and asking me to look them over. One side of me wonders if they ask me because Ali can be a little intense—“passionate” was Linh’s word—but I like to think that they truly want my help. Even if my classmates are using me to avoid Ali, it feels good to be approached like this. To have them trust me with their work.

Each writer looks at language so differently. Ali focuses on the message in writing—is the point getting across? Where can the writer be clearer in their intention? Me, I like the writer’s style. One person can say something that’s been said before but in a way that’s completely different; their unique experiences and personality infuse their words, their sentences.

I’m working with Ernie’s article summarizing the National Honor Society’s induction of new members. Ernie shrinks under attention in person, so whether he knows it or not, he uses a lot of passive voice in his writing. Things are done to the subject; the subject isn’t taking action. The budget cut to the arts was cut by the budget committee—not the budget committee cut the budget for the arts program. Compared to Ali’s writing, which gets straight to the point, Ernie lacks confidence.

“I couldn’t get into astronomy; that’s the only reason why I’m here,” he says glumly, reading my edits.

“I didn’t want to take this class either,” I say, trying to cheer him up.

“Yeah, but you’re good at it. And Ali doesn’t go after you.” As if she were right behind us, Ernie glances over his shoulder.

Ali’s sandwiched between two designers huddling around her. They’re going over proofs for the next issue. I might not understand their process, though I don’t have to. It’s hers, it’s theirs, something only they can understand.

Ernie’s eyebrows scrunch together like he’s reading a different language. I know where he’s coming from.

“Journalism might not be for everyone, but you’re not bad at all. Maybe you just need to find something you like writing about,” I finally say, channeling Linh. “What are you interested in?”

“I dunno. I like skateboarding. Reading comics.”

“Anything else?”

“I guess I watch a lot of Netflix. TV stuff.”

I remember Ali trying to recruit Việt as a writer. This might be perfect. “Would you want to write about a show? You can ask Ali if you can do it. She’s looking for a reviewer.”

“Really?” he asks hesitantly. “Do you think she’ll let me?”

Looks like I’m not the only person who’s intimidated by her. I laugh. “I’ll talk to her.”

Later, as the dismissal bell rings and students fly out of the classroom, I stop by Ali as she’s scrolling through her phone, answering texts. “Oh, hey, Bảo. Did you work through Ernie’s article? Thought it needed to be tightened but otherwise it’s good to print.”

“Yeah, everything worked out. I heard Ernie’s into TV shows. Watches a lot of Netflix. Maybe he should try the entertainment section.”

“Really? He never told me that.”

“He didn’t know we had an open spot.”

Ali nods, calculating something in her head. “Sure. Why not?” The alarm clock on her phone goes off. “Shit, I’m gonna be late.”

“Where are you going?”

“Part-time gig at a local newspaper.”

“You work at a school newspaper and a real newspaper too?”

“Of course, what else would I do with my time?” she says simply. I pretend not to look so shocked but, first she doesn’t use study hall in favor of heading the newspaper here. And now I learned that she also works part-time. She must really love the newspaper.

---

Imagine my surprise when one of Việt’s friends sits down in front of me at lunch. It’s miserable and raining outside so most people are in the cafeteria. Việt hasn’t even sat yet, but Steve, the banana-eating captain, takes a seat across from me. He’s grown out his brown hair, tied it into a little ponytail—to be ironic? In all our time together, we haven’t really held a conversation.

“Hey, you busy?”

“Uh, no.”

“I wanted to see if you can do something for me.”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yeah, Việt said you’re on the newspaper or something. Said you edit shit.”

“Uh, yeah, I edit shit.”

He digs into his backpack that almost looks Army-issued. Removes his brown-bag lunch. Used tissues. A paperback and dog-eared Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People.

My eyebrows go up.

Steve clears his throat. “My mom wanted me to read it,” he mumbles.

Fascinating. “Right. Uh, you needed my help on what, exactly?”

Finally, he yanks out a crumpled, lined piece of paper with his chicken scratch all over it. He smooths it out against the table’s edge, like you would with dollar bills at a vending machine. “I’m working on my personal statement for some college applications, and I have an essay, but I can’t really make the first paragraph stick. My sisters read it and liked the essay in general, but they say the introduction makes me sound like a fifth grader.”

“Ouch.”

“I know.” He grimaces. “But I think they’re right. I know we always have to open something with a strong statement, but I can’t come up with anything. Can you help?”

If Ali were in my seat, she’d have a few more words to say to Steve, probably things worse than his own sisters. But me, I try to be more sympathetic.

I feel for my red pen in my backpack and blow out some air. “Okay, what are you trying to say here, exactly?”

His essay is about his love of running. How it’s not just a physical thing, but a mental thing for him. When he’s stressed out or upset about something, he puts on his shoes and just runs, no destination in mind. As I switch between listening to him talk and reading his words, I’m starting to understand what his sisters said about the introduction. It doesn’t even sound like him. It sounds mechanical, forced.

“Start with a feeling,” I tell Steve finally, circling his paragraph. “I like what you said about letting your mind take you on a trip and how you like being surprised by where the run’s taking you.” Kind of like how Linh talks about painting. “So why not open with that?”

“Yeah, but shouldn’t I write some sort of thesis statement, too?”

“In a way, yeah. But to call it a thesis statement makes it sound like a school paper. You’re writing a personal statement, a personal essay, about something personal to you: running.”

Steve nods, looking down at his pages.

I add, “So be honest and open with that. Make the readers feel what you feel when you run.”

Steve doesn’t say anything immediately. I re-cap my pen just so that I can have something to do. Maybe I’m not even helping. Maybe I’ve made him more confused.

Việt finally arrives, saying something about waiting for more Sloppy Joes. By then, Steve’s nodding to himself, reading my edits. When he looks up, he’s a bit more reenergized. “Thanks, man.” He fist-bumps me before sneaking away to the library to type up his new introduction.

“So, did you help him?” Việt asks through a mouthful of ground beef.

“I think so. Why’d you tell him I was good at editing?”

He shrugs. “Because you are.”

“How would you know?”

“Ali.”

“You’ve been talking to Ali?”

“Yeah, she’s cool. She keeps trying to recruit me for the entertainment section, and I keep telling her no.”

Việt: My best friend with nerves of steel.

“Well, I think we might have someone for that section now and I just told her. Maybe she’ll leave you alone.”

“It’s all good. She doesn’t really bother me.”

A sense of unease settles inside me. They’re talking to each other, which means they must like being around each other, which means… “What else do you talk about?”

The saying “Waiting for the other shoe to drop” has never felt more pertinent as I lean forward, expecting Việt’s admission of feelings for Linh’s best friend.

“We talk about when you and Linh are getting together.”

That shoe, from who knows where, never falls.

“What?”

Việt grins. “Yup. Ali’s saying after the fourth review. I’m saying way before that.”

“Why are you even making bets?”

“Something to pass the time.”

“Who do you think is gonna win?”

“I am, which is why I’m telling you now that this all needs to happen after the second restaurant review. So hurry up.”

Việt’s more invested than I thought he’d be and—Ali.

Oh God. Has she said anything to Linh?

Before I can even ask these important questions, a plethora of bright colors blocks my field of vision. I look up to see pin-straight bangs against a prominent forehead.

Kelly Tran, president of VSA, the club I’ve ditched way too many times.

“Bảo. It’s been a while.”

“Uh-huh.” This cold reception is expected, given how I skipped duty on a Saturday because it was a Saturday.

Việt quickly excuses himself from the table.

He also skipped along with me.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to find you. I’m feeling like you’re not taking your membership seriously. If you continue to miss more meetings, I’m afraid you can’t be in the club anymore.” There’s a threat to her voice, but it’s entirely ineffective since I wasn’t even aware I was still a member.

Movement behind Kelly’s head brings my focus to Linh, and my heart leaps. An excuse! An escape.

“Oh, hey, Linh. Great, you finally came. I know we have to go to that thing.”

“Thing?” Linh asks, an eyebrow quirked. Then with a familiar smile, she says, “Hey, Kelly.”

I say, “That thing, yeah.”

“Oh.” A pause. A side glance at Kelly. “Oh. Yeah, totally. Let’s go.”

Kelly’s looking between us, probably wondering how we even know each other. “Wait, since you’re both here: How about you join our table at the Thuận Phát next weekend? We’re raising money for the club.”

Damn it.

“Um,” Linh says, hesitating only a little. “Sure, I think I can do it.”

“Awesome!” Kelly does a French exit, relieving me of her colors. “Thanks, Linh. Thanks, Bảo!”

“I guess I’ll be there, too,” I say grudgingly.

“Sorry, I didn’t think you’d be roped in,” Linh says sympathetically.

“Yeah. Well, you’re too nice. You could have said no to Kelly.”

“I like her. We had some classes together and she was always nice. And this club is her baby, so of course I want to help.” She bumps shoulders with me. We’d started walking together without thinking. “C’mon, I’ll be there. It’ll be fun.”

“You’re forgetting one thing. This is public. Way public. My mom, her friends—hell, everyone who owns a business near us—shop there. Weren’t we trying to avoid being seen together?”

“Now you’re just trying to get out of volunteering.”

Yes and no.

Well, mostly yes.

“Wear a disguise,” she says somewhat cheekily. “We’ll figure something out.”

---

Baseball cap and sunglasses. That’ll be my disguise for today.

“Who are you? Are you trying to be a gangster?” Mẹ asks immediately when I come down from my room in the morning.

“No, I’m protecting myself from the sun.”

“Well, you don’t look like yourself.”

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.