Chapter Twenty-Five: Bảo

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE BẢO

In the newsroom, just as the dismissal bell rings to let out class, the phone rings, too. Shouldering past our classmates flooding out of the room, Ali answers with a brisk tone. I can see her in the future now, poised over the phone, a notepad and pen in hand. She waits for a few minutes until she turns, fixing me with a look. I start walking past her, but she stops me.

“Bảo, it’s for you.”

That’s new. I take the phone as cautiously as if I was just asked to take care of some dangerous creature. “Hello?”

“Yo, em!” Chef Lê. I know it immediately from his voice. “It’s me: Chef Lê from Chơi Ơi! What’s good?”

“Uh, hi. I’m in school right now.” Is he calling about the article? It doesn’t sound like he’s calling to yell about how bad it was. I picture him at the same table, his chef jacket’s sleeves rolled up. Maybe with his feet propped on the seat across from him until his wife, Saffron, comes by to smack them off.

“Yeah, sorry, I was looking for a way to contact you and figured this was the best way. I saw the article online. It’s legit the best review I’ve ever gotten. Thank you so much.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“What, you thought I’d hate it?”

“I had that thought.”

“No way, the review is great and I appreciate it, dude. But I’m actually calling because I saw your girlfriend’s—”

“She’s not my girlfriend—”

“—artwork with the piece,” he says over me on purpose. “I dig it and was wondering if she did things like that on the side. Either draw or paint on a large-scale.”

“She’s actually a painter. That’s her main medium.”

“Fantastic. So here’s the thing: A lot of the decor at my restaurant is pretty modern, but I have this one column in the back of the restaurant that needs some TLC. I was thinking a big-ass mural. You got her number?”

“Uh, sure. Hold on.” I pull out my phone and read out the number. “So, you’re going to pay her?”

“What, are you an agent now?” He laughs. “Yes, dude, I’ll totally pay her. There’s no such thing as free labor.”

Ali watches me expectantly, arms crossed. I hang up a few seconds later and face Ali, who asks almost immediately, “Are we in trouble?”

Dazed by the quick turn of events—from Chef Lê’s praise, which I wish I could have recorded for posterity, and his offer to Linh—I shake my head. “I think Linh just got offered her first gig.”

---

On a Sunday, we drive to the other side of Westminster to celebrate one of my second (or third?) cousins’ first birthdays. Walking into the house, we see a layer of shoes swamping the front door: Nikes, Crocs, loafers from various relatives who’ve flocked there for the celebration. Cousins and nieces and nephews, or second cousins if you want to be technical, dash through the hallways only to stop when my aunt—one of my father’s many cousins—emerges from the kitchen with a pair of chopsticks in hand that foretells their fate if they misbehave. A mom chases after her toddler, who dashes around with Usain Bolt–like speed, as if knowing that his mom will give up if she’s too tired. I give her maybe fifteen minutes and she’ll start bargaining food for her love: Ăn đi con. Ăn đi con để cho Mẹ thương.

My mom made chè Thái as a sweet treat, a punch-bowl worth that she fretted over last night. But the kitchen table, as we discover, is already covered end to end with food that no one was asked to make but brought anyway. Somehow, with gatherings like this, no one ever brings duplicate items. I see someone already provided the egg rolls: crispy and hot from their oil bath.

Tinfoil trays of bánh bèo, disks of rice cakes just small enough to fit your palm, are paired with jugs of fish sauce ranging from mild to burning off your tongue, which is what most of the men here like.

Cậu Trí, who I’m glad I only have to see occasionally, makes a point to serve me the mildest fish sauce. Asshole. After a round of mandatory greetings and pretending to recognize all of the guests, I sit down at the men’s table—a bunch of tucked-in polos, belts, and a few Bluetooths glued to their ears. They’re red-faced after a few bottles of Heineken and Corona and don’t even know I’m there.

So I end up drifting toward the kitchen to grab a drink. Việt’s already there, and you’d think I’d be shocked to find him surrounded by women forty years older than him, gossiping and cooking together. Yet, still, it looks like he’s been there all along. He stirs vinegar and sugar in a bowl. The conversation sounds heated, and I catch a few harsh words in rapid Vietnamese.

“So how did you get roped into this?” I ask.

He tastes the dressing. “My mom knows one of the other moms or something. One of the delivery customers.” Which is the answer you would expect at this type of gathering.

Việt quickly catches me up on the gossip getting swapped around.

Apparently some guy they all knew couldn’t find a wife here, so he went back home to Vietnam and miraculously got married. They’re due to come back in five weeks, but where will they stay? What are they going to do? The wife doesn’t speak basic English, from what they’re saying. From the snide comments and the tsking, I don’t think the new couple’s gonna have it easy here.

“C’mon, let’s grab something to eat,” he says, shaking out his wrists. How long has he been stirring?

We leave the kitchen. I think Việt’s mom calls his name, but he doesn’t react, so maybe that’s my imagination.

Việt and I are relegated to sit at the kids’ table. I’m pretty sure I’ll be at this table until I’m married, whenever that happens. Việt is across from me, while twelve-year-old twins—maybe directly related to me?—violently elbow each other, then stab each other with chopsticks, until their mother comes over and hisses at them to behave. Another cousin, five years old, stares at me with a mouthful of rice, snot running down her nose. She uses her tongue to wipe some clean, even as her own mother tries to shove another spoonful into her mouth.

Not the best seasoning.

Other kids continue to wreak havoc, seizing an escape from supervision. “He farted!” yells a little girl as she dashes across the living room, earning bemused looks from the adults.

Seconds later: “I didn’t địt! I didn’t địt!” a boy, maybe her brother, screams, running in the same direction.

“Kids are fascinating,” Việt deadpans.

My dad’s other cousin comes over, tells us to stand up, that she hasn’t seen us for ages. I lean on my toes to look taller than Việt, but he beats me by standing straight, for once. Then the subject, as always, turns to where we’re planning to apply to school.

“Your mom tells me you are going for the big schools,” she says to Việt, impressed.

He answers dutifully. “Trying for it. I want to major in biology and then become a doctor.” But why does he sound so dulled by it?

“Your mom tells me you have the grades for it, too!” Then her eyes slide over to me. “And… con?” This aunt knows by now that my chances of going to the same schools as Việt are close to nonexistent.

“I’m still deciding.”

Her smile fades. She saves herself by plastering on a fake one. As if my self-esteem weren’t already low enough.

Here’s Việt, who can probably get in anywhere. And me. Then again, I don’t think Việt’s ever said if he liked any particular college, let alone the idea of going to med school.

“You serious about majoring in biology?” I ask once the aunt disappears.

Việt shrugs, picks at his papaya salad. “It’s an answer that gets them to stop asking.”

I’d use that answer if only I knew people wouldn’t immediately call me a liar.

“Seriously, what do you want to do?”

“Forensic science.”

“No surprise there,” I joke. He stares at his food, not saying anything for a moment. He’s usually not this quiet, not with me. “You okay?”

“Mentioned the idea of it to my parents the other day. They yelled at me for hours. My ears kept ringing after.”

Maybe that’s why he avoided his mom before. When he talks about his parents, I don’t exactly think of the word “empathetic.” It’s his mother’s shrewdness that my mom admires. Việt’s father’s honesty has earned my paranoid father’s trust. But emotionally, they’re not the people to rely on. And they’re strict when it comes to Việt’s studies.

“Exactly,” he says, reading my look. “That’s just another reason for my parents to fight. They’ve been doing that for way too long.”

“But forensic science is still a type of science. It has a lot to do with biology, right? Shouldn’t they be happy? I mean… maybe they’ll come around to it?” I say unconvincingly. I always assumed Việt’s situation was better than mine. But then again, these days, I’m assuming a lot. Especially when it comes to Linh.

Việt smiles. It’s the quiet kind. The sad kind. Because he knows that my words can’t be much help now, can’t change things. “They’re never happy these days.”

We sit in silence, scraping our paper plates clean. I want to fill it with something, so I tell him, “I kind of told my mom that I wanted to be a writer.”

“A writer.” Việt stares blankly at me, and I swallow, realizing that he’d just told me how his parents were shutting down his dream. I’m an asshole. This was what Việt was talking about before about me, him, and Linh having different variations of parents. Different circumstances in which we are either allowed to go for our dreams… or not.

I breathe easier when a genuine smile blooms across his face. He punches my shoulder. Fuck.

“Dude, no way! What did she say?”

I rub my shoulder. “She didn’t blow up on me. She said I could use the basement if I didn’t get a job.” Which isn’t so nice when you say it out loud. But Việt knows my mom and her weird sense of humor.

“The fact that she didn’t get angry is something big!”

“It’s not serious or anything.”

“C’mon, you know that’s the best you can get from them.” He shakes his head at a thought he doesn’t voice to me. “Sometimes I can’t believe how fast things move.

“It’s like this. We were in our own worlds. Me with cross country. You with… um. Actually I don’t know which world you really belonged to.”

“That makes me feel really good about myself.”

“Obviously you’ve found your shit. We’re growing up. You’re becoming a writer, falling in love—” My heart wheezes at his choice of words. I haven’t told him about Linh essentially rejecting me.

I hadn’t even had a chance to talk to Linh one-on-one, or mention Chef Lê, who’s trying to reach her. Last I heard, she hasn’t responded to his calls.

“When are you going to make the Grand Gesture?”

“Grand Gesture?”

“Dude, like on The Bachelor. It’s the thing you do to signal that you’re serious about someone.”

“Right. And what does The Bachelor do exactly to show that?”

“Helicopter rides. Day trips to a beautiful winery. Farm visits. Which actually doesn’t really make sense to me.”

Someone please help me.

---

There were many failed attempts at singing karaoke. Plus, the little ones needed to go to sleep soon, including the birthday boy. So, the night ends with a tradition. Twelve items are laid out before him, all of them somehow representing a possible career. Whatever he’d choose would be his profession in the future. I’m sure it’s all for fun, but I think the parents are secretly betting everything on the kid’s final choice.

My cousin, bib just removed, stares wide-eyed at the crowd around him, mesmerized by the camera lights shining on him. Then he glances at the items: a calculator, a fork, a toy stethoscope, and other random things from around the house. After a few minutes of goading and laughing from his audience, he scrabbles for the stethoscope, causing everyone to cheer. He sucks on the diaphragm.

Mẹ is seated, surrounded by her cousins and friends, also rocking the Asian glow, though I’m sure she’s only had one drink. There are traces of laughter on her face.

“Mẹ, what did I choose?”

“Huh, con?”

“When I turned one, what did I choose?”

She has to think about it for a few seconds, and my aunts chime in with answers that are all wrong. An emotion dawns on my mom’s face and her answer finally comes, sending my mind reeling—possibilities feeling an inch closer to reality.

“A pencil.”

There’s a whisper of a word inside my brain as Mẹ reveals this fact, this forgotten memory. Serendipity. It was just a game back then; I was a child who picked the most interesting thing to me. Or something I could bite on.

Now, it’s real. The word is “serendipity.”

Things are falling into place. The possibility that I can be a writer. My mom’s acceptance, or something close to it.

The only other piece is Linh.

It’s a reckless idea, me wanting to be with Linh. My mom wouldn’t like it as much as she likes the idea of my writing. There’s also no way it can ever come true.

So maybe it’s okay for me to feel this way. As long as nothing happens. As long as I can still be her friend.