Chapter Twenty: Linh

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.