Chapter Thirty-Two: Linh

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO LINH

Bảo kisses my hand, making me blush. Obviously the fact that our parents had known each other in Vietnam scared him, just as it scared me, and yet he’s still here. Holding my hand. Our break is interrupted by Chef Lê. He’s been so grateful that I’m taking on his mural, that in addition to paying me commission later on, he’s been feeding us whenever we come by. He’s also calling me “Miss Mai”—and Bảo likes it so much that he teases me whenever we’re alone.

“Yo, you two are like an old married couple,” Chef Lê’s voice booms across the room. He’s carrying two plates of bánh cam over to us, a towel slung over one shoulder. Even if I didn’t see him walk over, I would have smelled it: thick, glutinous rice balls fried till crispy, with sugary mung bean nested within—a soft surprise once you bite through the outside.

Chef Lê has a big, smug grin plastered on his face. “Time for a break.”

I try to turn it down; it’s the polite way as my parents taught me. “No, I have to finish this sketch for the mural.”

“The mural can wait a few minutes. I’m not going to have someone faint on the job. Come here.” Bảo shoots me a grin and heaves himself off the floor, going to reach for one sesame ball.

His phone, though, rings at the wrong moment. He grimaces at me. “My mom.”

“Better pick that up before your mom calls again,” Chef Lê says seriously, perhaps remembering his own experience with his parents at our age.

Bảo presses Accept. “Hi, Mẹ… Uh, yeah, I’m with Việt, just shopping.” Which is half true. Việt’s out shopping, just with his track friends, I’m told. Bảo glances at me before turning away, still talking to his mom. Apparently he needs to run to the store to get something.

“Are you two not supposed to be here?” Chef Lê asks.

“Kind of. I’m not supposed to be here with him.”

“What’d he do?”

“Nothing. It’s just… complicated. Our families hate each other. Restaurant rivalry.” At one point, that had been accurate. But now…

“No shit. That’s rough. So I don’t imagine you have a lot of chances to hang out.”

“We’ve been finding time to steal. Sometimes at school and after school. And here. And we’re going on a date soon, I think.”

Or I know, since Ali texted me earlier saying that she had a “talk” with Việt, who apparently told Ali that Bảo was doing research.

“First date, that’s big. But he hasn’t asked yet?”

“I think he was about to.”

“I can remind him.” Chef Lê nudges me by the shoulder. If I had a brother, I think he’d be like him.

“What are you going on about?” Bảo asks, pocketing his phone.

“Oh, you know. Deep emotional stuff,” Chef Lê says casually.

A harried line cook surfaces from the kitchen, yelling Chef Lê’s name with equal parts annoyance and authority. Her hair has reached maximum frizz capacity. It’s obvious this isn’t a new thing—Chef Lê wandering during duty when he’s really supposed to be manning the kitchen. He wouldn’t last a day in my mom’s kitchen.

“Oops, I guess I have to go back there.” He heaves himself to his feet and slings the towel back onto his shoulder. “Now eat before the sesame balls get cold.”

“Here you go, Miss Mai,” Bảo says, handing me one. It’s still warm.

“Thank you, Mr. Nguyễn.”

I grin, loving his sudden shyness. For a wordsmith, he clearly doesn’t have the right ones lined up now. So I answer for him, put him out of his misery.

“Let’s go on a date.”

“Good, because I have an idea.”

---

In a modern art class in freshman or sophomore year, we looked at a Van Gogh painting from his time spent at Arles. He was always a tragic figure, someone who went through so much difficulty, only to receive fame years after his death.

He’d capture a simple rendition of his room: his bed, two empty chairs, portraits of unnamed subjects that seemed to stare right at the bed where he would usually go to sleep. As if his world had turned inward. As if there was nothing outside for him.

Van Gogh’s room is my mom’s kitchen.

After my shift, right before we start to lock down, I find my mom alone in the kitchen, stirring a ladle in a large pot. She’s not committed to it, just turning the spoon, slowly and slowly. Something must be bothering her, just as Bác Xuân’s statement has been bothering me.

I don’t know how to bring it up. How can I even start a conversation and transition it smoothly over to the past—a past that my mom seems to volunteer to talk about less and less? What right do I have to bring something up that may be painful to her?

Let it go. It will all come out in due time, Bác Xuân said.

Will it be too late then?

Mẹ comes back to life; she picks up her stirring, then takes a sip. After adding a handful of sugar, she turns, jumping at the sight of me.

“You scared me, con.”

“Sorry,” I finally said. “What were you thinking about?”

“Dì Vàng. She’s coming very soon. I wonder if I’ll have everything ready by then.”

“Are you excited?”

“Of course. She’s my sister. It’s been far too long.”

This is an opening. I should ask, shouldn’t I?But perhaps it’s my mom’s mood, perhaps it’s the feeling that I’m trespassing somewhere, but I keep the question to myself. I’ll ask next time.

I will.

---

I’m in the art room after school the next day. I don’t have to work today, so I’m taking the extra time to just paint. Paint without needing to worry about what to submit since I did it right after stopping at Chef Lê’s. I know I chose the right paintings in the end, the ones that mattered the most to me and best represented the theme I was capturing: memories. Memories about my parents and growing up. About my journey as an artist. About Bảo and the discoveries I’m making as we have more time to ourselves.

I only stop painting when Yamamoto comes in, announcing her appearance with a dumbfounded, “Huh.” I turn on my stool, facing Yamamoto, who’s behind me, and wait for an explanation.

But it doesn’t come, not right away.

“What are you thinking about?”

“I’m not sure. Your colors are the same, but something about this is… lighter.” Yamamoto regards my canvas, tilting her head.

Lighter?I try looking at the canvas the way she is. But it doesn’t seem out of the norm of what I usually paint.

“Like, what gives?”

I bite my lip. “I might be seeing someone.”

“You’re kidding me!” She smiles, pulls up a stool beside me. “Wait, let me guess. Tall, lanky kid? Kind of good-looking? Who conveniently comes into the art room at lunch, but someone I’ve never had in art class before?”

I smile at the thought of Bảo hearing how he was described… until her words catch up with me. I nearly drop my paint brush, but Yamamoto only laughs. “Saw him the other day. It’s fine, of course. I remember being your age. And from what I can tell”—she gestures to the canvas, still seeing what I can’t—“spending time with him is making you happy. And your art’s never been better. At the same time, I’m still supposed to be your teacher. So if it happens again, you’ll get sent to the principal’s office.” The threat’s diminished by her subsequent wink.

Yamamoto turns to leave, throwing me another grin that makes her look years younger. “This is the type of thing they like to see.”

“Who?”

“Scholastic. Gold Key.”

“Thanks,” I say, blushing.

“I know it’s going to be a long time until you find out the results. So, to hold you over, I’m giving you an early holiday gift.”

Now I’m dubious. “You’ve never given me a gift before.”

“I will now.” She beams. “Guess who I want to spotlight at the end of the year Art Fair?”

So caught in more looming deadlines—and crises—I’d forgotten about the Art Fair. Only one person gets spotlighted in their own exhibition. And all previous artists who were lucky enough to get picked had also won various Scholastic awards. Yamamoto has said again and again that this was just a coincidence and that what happened at school had no bearing on Scholastic results. But the myth is there, and in the past I’d even believed it.

I just never believed it could happen to me.

---

As if the world is conspiring to help us make up for lost time, Bảo and I get a day to ourselves one Sunday. Mẹ left early to visit a friend’s house to cut herbs and bring home fruit, which translated to a daylong affair of gossiping and catching up about their families. Mẹ will drop Evie’s name a few times, I’m sure of it. That also meant Dad would want to make his own outing to visit friends at their restaurants and cafés.

I’d always imagined going on a first date would be the most nerve-racking thing, an event that would set my stomach alight with butterflies. A time for two people who like each other to be alone. But for me and Bảo, we’ve only known how to be alone. So as I’m walking toward our meeting spot, I feel no different from when I’m with him in the art room.

Until I see him: standing in the middle of the park, fresh from the shower since his hair is still wet. He’s wearing a button-up red-and-black plaid shirt and loose jeans, and smiles cheekily once he’s spotted me. The butterflies kick up in flight.

He points to my camera. “I wasn’t aware you wanted to document this. Should I sign a form of consent?” he teases me.

“I capture memories, remember?” I snap a photo of him—he covers his eyes. “And it’s been ages since I’ve used it.”

He poses, lifting his chin up. “I guess I’ll volunteer to be your model. I’m a great model.”

“Says who?”

“No one.” Bảo grins. “Absolutely no one.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Laughter and movement from behind catches my eye.

Perfect.

“Hold still,” I whisper.

“What?” I laugh as his eyes widen.

A family celebrating a birthday has taken over a table, filling it with mouthwatering food and presents. Some brought balloons of all colors, weighing them with a rock. Cerulean, canary yellow, and cherry red bump and bob next to each other. But from where Bảo is standing, it’s almost as if the balloons are sprouting from his head. Smiling, I look through my camera. Click.

Then Bảo is free to move, whirling around. “If it’s a bee, I’ll run.”

“No, look.” I move closer to him and he dips his head down to see my camera screen. He smells as fresh and clean as cotton.

“Nice.” Our eyes meet—an indescribable whoosh passes between us, so strong I feel the need to look away.

“So where to?” I ask.

We pass a squad of elderly Asian women, coordinated by their visors, oversize sunglasses, and faces whitened with 80 SPF sunscreen. They’re windmilling their arms. They look at us as if we’re in the way—and for one small moment, I wonder if any of them have come to either of our restaurants or know our parents—and imagine how quickly this would travel.

And how possible it’d be for everything to unravel in an instant.

“Judging by your look,” Bảo says, interrupting my spiral of thoughts, “you’re thinking that we probably shouldn’t have our first date so close to home.”

“Spies.”

“Exactly what Việt said. So, I have a place in mind that I think you’ll like. Do you trust me?”

I thread my fingers through his.

“Let’s go.”