Chapter Four: Linh

CHAPTER FOUR LINH

“Hey, what are you doing here?” Ali asks as she leaves room 436 with her backpack. Strands of her hair have escaped her braid, but she hurriedly brushes them aside. I didn’t expect to see her because I knew she had study hall; she should be home right now, which makes me jealous even thinking about it. I would have given anything to have a break before going to work. A time where I can just think and not be around people, like I am all day.

“Grabbing paint for Yamamoto,” I tell Ali. When I’d gotten to the studio upstairs, she shouted from the back, asking me to drop by the old art room downstairs because she left behind a few things during the move.

Thinking everyone had emptied from the room by now, I walk through the door… until I collide with Bảo. His eyes widen.

“Sorry!”

Why do I sound like a squeaky first grader? He’s a head taller than me, which shouldn’t surprise me—puberty and all—but having always seen him across the street from the restaurant, I never noticed his height.

“Uh, no that’s fine.” He slips past me, then nearly bolts down the hallway, away from us. Away from me. Which shouldn’t bother me so much, since I would probably do the same in his shoes, but it does. I glance at Allison to see if she noticed the weird exchange—she usually does with things like this—but surprisingly, she’s watching Bảo, looking like she has something to say.

“I’m not sure I like that kid.”

“Bảo?” I spot the canary-yellow paint by the sink and grab it while Allison talks at me.

“Yeah, him. On one hand, he’s clearly lazy and doesn’t give a shit about journalism. On the other hand, he found a mistake in my article that even I missed.”

“Oh, wow, he found a mistake,” I say mockingly. We walk down the hall together, toward the art room. With school letting out at the end of the day, it’s chaotic. Elbows and shoulders crash against me, and the smells of Axe, sweat, and sweet Victoria’s Secret perfume hit me all at once. Loud rap and pop music float from the earbuds of my classmates. Teachers fast-walk with their heads down and dodge students TikToking random sketches.

“I’m serious! It’s been read, like, three times by Rowan. Bảo has a good eye. But I don’t think he cares—or knows. Which is annoying.”

“His parents own that restaurant across from me, you know.” I’ve told Allison about the feud in general, how it doesn’t really make sense and all that, but I’ve never really mentioned Bảo. Or our time at the temple together. Some things aren’t worth mentioning; they sound and feel better as memories locked inside your brain.

“No way! He’s that Nguyễn? No wonder you guys freaked out.” I smile. I knew it; even if she didn’t react in the moment, of course she’d catch that. “That’s a tragedy. He’s kind of cute. And he’s taller than you, which is good.”

Good? She doesn’t explain why. “One minute you say you hate him—”

“Obviously you’re not listening. I said I don’t know if I like him. But I know how to appreciate someone’s aesthetics.”

“Aesthetics?”

“C’mon. That hair?”

Silently, I agree.

---

Yamamoto’s room is a forest of easels, with white canvases of all sizes, their pictures all works-in-progress. This side of the school gets the best lighting, not only for drawing, but also for feeding the hanging plants by the windows. Yamamoto is closer to the back and sits cross-legged on a stool, yet manages to look completely relaxed. Her nose practically touching the canvas, she dabs whatever she’s working on with a wet sponge. She has a streak of forest-green paint on her cheek.

A tattooed Asian wasn’t a familiar concept growing up, so meeting someone like her was so cool. She’s not posing, either; the tattoos fit her. She can say the word “bullshit” in a classroom without a problem.

“Here you go,” I say, handing her the jug.

“Ah, perfect. Canary yellow, just what I need.” She sets it down on the ground. “How’s my old lair lookin’?”

“Weird to see all the computers there. And the room looks smaller.”

“That’s what I think too. You know, even though I complained a lot last semester, the move was actually a good thing. Look at all the space!” She opens her arms wide. I laugh because I love it when she smiles. Not that she’s so serious in class, even if she has the authority to be. But when it’s just us, she acts like an older sister—sans the weird, unnecessary biological facts Evie likes to point out.

She claps her hands together. “Okay. Give it here.”

I let her see my homework assignment again. I ended up finishing it after work, at midnight. That’s when I usually do my art—with a desk lamp as my only light source and bass-heavy electronica thrumming in my ears. It makes me feel peaceful and zoned in.

“So are you going to the exhibition?”

Left turn.

“Wait, what?”

She sets down my sketchpad and I follow the movement. Suddenly the conversation is turning to me.

“At the museum I mentioned. It’d be good for you. You should really go.”

“Um, yeah. I think I will.” I bite my lip at the lie.

“Your parents don’t know, do they.” A statement, not a question.

The flyer that I made floats back into my mind, September thirtieth haunting me. I sigh. “No. I still haven’t asked my parents.”

Yamamoto knows a bit about my family and what it’s like to work at a restaurant, since she’s lived some of it. Her mother owned a Japanese fusion restaurant for half of her childhood before retiring. But because her parents were also artists on the side, she can’t truly relate to my dilemma.

I lean in on my elbows, listening as she continues with her critique. Yamamoto shares the same language as me. No one else in my life can teach me about light and shadow and how they fall on objects. Ba’s unlikely to sit still long enough to watch shadows. He’d only think of it as wasting time. “Ba không có thì giờ!” Which is actually his usual excuse for things he’d rather avoid doing, like fixing something broken at home or running errands for the restaurant. My mom loves that.

And the few times I’ve talked about art class with my mom, there’s some words and feelings that I can’t translate into Vietnamese. Like, orange is màu cam, but then there’s also burnt orange and cider orange. Direct translations don’t work.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, bursting the bubble ensconcing me and Yamamoto. “Ugh, sorry, I’m late for work.”

“Okay, but wait.” Yamamoto crosses the room to her desk and removes a packet from her drawer. “I know I’ve mentioned this before, but I wanted to make sure you don’t forget about it.”

The Scholastic Awards. Each year, high school students submit their best works in art and writing. There are local awards, then there are national ones called Gold Keys, judged by the best in the business, and the winner gets recognition at Carnegie Hall in New York, and even some scholarships.

“I’m telling you. Keep your eye on this. You have a chance.”

“Really?”

Yamamoto smiles. “Absolutely. And, hey, maybe it’ll help your parents see the value in what you’re doing. They can’t say no to money. But first step: Just make sure you check out the exhibition, okay? I know you have a lot of things riding on you, but I don’t want you to forget about yourself. About what you want. This is your year.”

“Yeah, sure.” Dread sits at the bottom of my stomach, and her heavy gaze on my back pushes me through the door, out into the hallway.