Page 11

Chapter Eleven

LAN

The sun shines through our small backyard as morning dew gathers on Ba’s orchids and herbs. Ba chose the name Lan because of the orchids all over our house. I water them and pluck the herbs for the day as M á and Tri ? t lug our cart toward the front of the house. Closing the door behind me, I give the family photo a kiss and pack our condensed milk and patê. I race down our alleyway and toward the smell of buttery bread, toward the Lê Bakery, which has probably fed half of Sài Gòn by now, operating for over fifty years. Every morning, I grab fresh loaves for the bánh mì stall. But today, instead of taking my usual route, I turn down a different alleyway tucked between tall buildings made of concrete slabs, plants growing over the weather-stained walls between units.

Aha.

A wooden door to the building was left slightly ajar, so I slip through and find myself staring at a familiar sight: a shabby, winding staircase that smells like mildew, the clouds looming at the very top. A secret passage to my very own rooftop overlooking all of Sài Gòn. As I hike up these stairs, I wonder how old this building is, and what caused these stains. Finally, I duck through the flimsy door at the top and watch the city wake.

The plumeria tree emerging from one of the windowpanes greets me with its morning dew, and I pluck a flower, tucking it into my pocket before settling beneath the tree. It’s all right. Just a moment. Everyone seems so small from up here. So small that I can’t wrap my head around the fact that I, too, am a part of that small world in this big city.

“I had a feeling you’d be here.”

A shadow towers over me. I look up and see Chú Hai, the oldest son of the Lê family, his eyebrows scrunching together.

“How’d you know about this spot?”

He shrugs. “Been alive in Sài Gòn for too long.”

Chú Hai sets down his plastic bag and takes a seat next to me. He digs into the plastic bag and hands me a bánh patê s?. They are Ba’s favorite, and mine.

I take a bite. The pork pastry immediately melts into my taste buds with its rich and salty flavor, while the flakes smear across my lips. “Yup. I’ll need baguettes from you for the next fifty or sixty years.”

“You know, we used to do this all the time, come to this spot. Me and your dad. This was our secret place.”

“I didn’t know that.” It makes sense, Ba was the one who showed me this rooftop.

With the mention of Ba comes that familiar aching feeling settling over me, and the buttery pastry suddenly feels dry on my tongue. Aside from M á and me, the Lê family probably misses Ba the most. Ba went to school with everyone, and Chú Hai was his best friend. Even though Chú Hai’s name is Bình, Ba and he were so close that I just call him Chú Hai—honorific for the eldest son and, in my case, uncle. When Ba passed, the neighbors showered me and M á with food, fruits, and even money they could hardly afford to give away. We weren’t the only ones grieving—so was the entire community.

“We also used to sneak into the schoolyard at night with a vintage telescope so old that it was hardly usable. I had no idea where your dad got it from. Everyone knows that he loved literature, but the stars fascinated him the most. He would ramble on and on about the world beyond us. It seemed so unimportant to me at the time because it wasn’t like we could do it. Go to space, I mean. Our dreams were on the ground.”

My head suddenly feels heavy, so I rub my temple, my back finding the comfort of the concrete as I continue to look at the skyline with Chú Hai. “I remember Ba would look at everything in the sky and point it out to me.”

Chú Hai chuckles, taking a bite of his own bánh patê s?. He wipes his hand and lies down next to me. “I can still remember the day that you were born. Your dad ran into the bakery teary with the biggest smile on his face. He said that the star that he had been searching for is here. That you were the brightest star of his life.”

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Unable to say anything, I just let them fall. I concentrate on the sun, the chirping birds, and the loud city. No matter how many stories everyone tells me about Ba, he’s still gone. I only have M á , and with just the two of us, she needs me more than anyone ever knows.

“Whenever you’re ready, Lan,” he breaks the silence. “Come grab the books your dad wanted you to have. Only if you’re ready.”

Ba had a lot of books, so many that he started storing some at Chú Hai’s place as an extra library. I was supposed to pick up these books years ago, but I’ve found every excuse not to. Too busy tending the stall, not enough time, me being forgetful—I know Chú Hai knows they’re all lies. Shame glooms over me, what a simple task that I can’t bring myself to do. I do want the books; to hold them, feel their weight, and read the notes Ba left behind.

But I’m not ready, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever be.

Dusting off the dirt on my pants, I sigh and stand up as I swallow the last bite of the bánh patê s? and all the grief in my throat. “Thanks. I’ll remember this time.”

Waving goodbye to Chú Hai, I finally stop by the bakery before racing to the bánh mì stall with the baguettes. To make matters worse, Tri ? t hands me the wrong smoothie order. “This isn’t mango.”

He rolls his eyes and throws a towel at me to clean the plastic tables. “Mango, pineapple, whatever. Same thing. They’re both yellow and fruit.”

“Are you kidding me? Top of your class with this mentality?”

“Come on. You know I panic easily. I just pointed to the first yellow thing I saw. Forgive me?”

It’s true. That’s why I’m the one that takes orders. “How are things… with college?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “First time you’re asking me about college.”

“Sorry. I should try to ask you about these things more.”

“I’m kidding. Thanks for asking anyway.” He shrugs and helps me untie the plastic notch. “Still getting rejected from internships and the exams are going to kick my butt. It can only go up from here, right?”

“Guess so. Ready?” I ask, already spying the incoming tide of customers. Soon, the line will wrap around the neighborhood.

“More than ready. Let’s give them the best bánh mì in Sài Gòn.”

Bánh Mì 98 was always our family’s. Ba’s parents ran it. His parents’ parents ran it. A small street food stand in the heart of Sài Gòn. When Ba took over, people raved all across the city and Bánh Mì 98 became synonymous with him and his food.

Ba loved trying new things. We’d wake up every weekend to the smell of fresh baguettes and something savory, and he’d tell us what the experiment was for the day. Bánh xèo in a bánh mì. Bánh mì with ph ? noodles. Sometimes he’d even make American food with a Vietnamese twist, like cá viên chiên on pizza with bánh mì as the crust. M á liked his inventions, but I loved them. He showed me that things were possible, limitless, and his love for food kept us going. Now we wake up to a lonely house with no smell of baguettes.

Tri ? t nudges me. “Isn’t that the girl that asked for your name?”

I jerk my gaze to the American girl near the back of the line. Our eyes meet for a second before I turn away. “How did you know that?”

“Good hearing. Got it from working and studying right here. So, what’s going on?”

“ Nothing is going on.”

He picks at a piece of th ? t n ?? ng before eating it. “Considering you don’t have any friends, that’s a big deal.”

My face burns. “I do have friends. You.”

He cringes. “My point exactly. She’s American, huh? You could use some international friends. Ask for her opinion on… food?”

“Not a chance.”

But he does have a point. She obviously has been to more places than I ever have if she’s here. Maybe I can ask about other cities, food, and cultures for the blog contest. “ Ugh , the blog contest,” I mutter to myself.

“What contest?” he asks.

Right, I haven’t told anyone. “Someone sent me a submission call the other day. The Southeast Asia Travel Magazine is asking for pieces about the Most Beautiful City in the World. Winner takes home a lot of money.”

“Sweet.” He whistles. “Do it. You’ll win.”

I glare at him. “How are you so confident?”

“Are you kidding? You’re a good writer and you have passion. I’ve never seen someone light up so much talking about food before.”

But what can passion buy us? Even if I enter the competition, I probably won’t win. “I’ll think about it.” Part of me had already made peace with not entering, but then I’d think about how happy M á would be if I won. She could rest, not feel bad about buying medicine for herself, and she’d be proud of me. If I win, then maybe writing can be a serious business for me—for us—and maybe then we wouldn’t need the bánh mì stall anymore. M á wouldn’t be out in the heat, wouldn’t be massaging the aches in her joints.

Still, who would we be as a family without Bánh Mì 98? This stall was Ba’s, and everyone else’s that came before me. I can’t just give up on it.

“You might want to stop thinking so hard and scrunching your eyebrows because the American girl looks like she really wants to talk to you,” he whispers, just in time for me to see that she’s literally in front of us.

Here we go again. I make sure my face is as neutral as possible with only a slight smile at the corner of my lips.

Bracing myself, I say the line I’ll probably repeat the most in this life: “What can I get for you?”

“Hey,” she says, practically vibrating. “Can I have two bánh mì th ? t n ?? ng?”

“Got that, Tri ? t?” I clear my throat, not sure what to say. Should I make small talk? Tell her I forgive her and the whole notebook thing was so stupid anyway? No, I shouldn’t bring it up again. I’d look like I’ve been spending too much time thinking about it—thinking about her. But my heart won’t stop pounding, and though I want to look anywhere else , my eyes won’t stop flickering to her face. It’s like I’m almost forgetting we’re in the middle of a busy city, and it’s not just us but also her and her friend next to her—who’s too busy taking photos of the bánh mì lined perfectly in the bánh mì cart.

He nods and gives me a thumbs-up. It usually only takes minutes to prepare an order, but time moves too slow today.

The girl is looking everywhere but my eyes—my entire face, actually—and keeps fidgeting with her hands. But I’m doing the same, just picking at my own cuticles. Maybe I should just wait this out, what’s the point of making friends, anyway. I’m here to do one thing: to sell food, and she’s a customer. Just another person in Sài Gòn who will soon leave.

“Hot today,” she says. “R ? t nóng.”

My usual annoyance about tourists flip-flopping between English and Vietnamese fades the moment my eyes meet hers again. Those big round eyes. “D ? . Coi ch ? ng nha, nóng l ? m ? ó.”

She brightens immediately at my Vietnamese, her voice squeaky. “Thank you! I’ll make sure to be careful. The sun is so much hotter here.”

“You switched back to English,” I say, finding her clumsiness somehow endearing. “But I’m surprised you understood me.”

Her smile widens. “I’m not that confident in my speaking abilities. But I can listen just fine—”

A customer cuts in front of her before promptly shoving cash in my face, tenfold of the listed price on the bánh mì cart. I mentally roll my eyes, another tourist. “Hey, can I get a bánh mì with no meat? Oh, actually, do you have Impossible meat? And no soy sauce. What’s the pickle thing?” He starts firing rapid English at me, and what the fuck does “impossible meat” even mean?

“Dude. I’m waiting on my order,” the girl speaks back. A smile tugs at my lips. I guess she’s not all that squeaky.

“Perfect! You already ordered. She can take mine right away,” he says before turning back to me. “Is this enough money? I don’t know how currency conversion works. Too much math.”

I roll my eyes, really roll them. Calculators and the internet exist for a reason.

“There’s a line,” she retorts before I can say anything. Even Tri ? t stops bagging her order to watch. We always had to deal with ridiculous customers ourselves, and though this happens on the daily, no one ever bothered to step in. And why would they? This is Sài Gòn, and we’re just a tiny part of it. “You can’t just cut like that. It’s rude.”

“Listen here, young lady. I have things to do, so I’d really appreciate it if the little girl can take my order and then I can get out of your way. Then we’d all be happy!”

My face twitches and I lightly slap my wrist before nasty words slip out of me. I should just let it go—there’s no use in fighting something so stupid. I’ll take his order and get this over with.

But the girl won’t relent. “You can wait.”

Even her friend joins in. “Get back there, asshole.”

I smirk to myself. Americans sure have guts, even if they’re seemingly small and not at all frightening. “Yeah, sorry. It’s pretty long, but I’m sure you can wait.”

“You speak perfect English!” He looks shocked .

“Why does that matter?” the girl and I say at the same time.

“Okay, you’re a total dick. I get it. That’s why you cut and shoved me out of the way. You think you run the world because you’re tall, speak English, and aren’t Asian,” she continues.

“You know what? Fuck this bánh mì stall. And fuck you. I will not be coming back here ever again with this kind of customer service,” he shouts before walking away.

“Pretty sure his temper tantrum is futile because… it seems the locals here really don’t care,” her friend says. A foreign face. Brown hair and brown eyes. “See? No one’s even looking.”

She’s right. It’s just another day for people in Sài Gòn. “Thank you.” I hand the girl her order, and our hands brush once again. There’s a flutter—a spark—so faint I almost miss it, until I look up into her eyes. Bright and wide, her face eclipsing the sun.

“What’s your name?”

“Vivi.” She smiles, clutching the food— my food —so close to her chest. “This is the best bánh mì in Sài Gòn.”