Page 12

Chapter Twelve

VIVI

“So, after spending so much money buying bánh mì… you want to waste more on books?”

“My two true loves in this life. Please , you promised me we’d go.” I sit up on the bed, admiring Cindy in the flouncy white dress she picked up from the boutique next door. “Anyway, back to the topic at hand: Lan asked me for my name! Can you believe that?”

“ Yes , Vivi! You’ve been subjecting me to the same conversation for the past forty-eight hours. And I’ve been coming along with you every time you ‘crave bánh mì.’ She asked you for your name and you still haven’t tried asking her anything else. The ball’s in your court now.”

“It’s hard!” I whine. “There’s always such a long line and I feel bad about holding people up. I have anxiety!”

I wish I had a dollar for every time Cindy rolls her eyes at me. “I can’t believe I’m going to spend the rest of this trip following you around to the bánh mì stall across the street. I want my own romance!” she says, clutching her chest.

“Someone’s watching too many study abroad rom-coms.” I can’t blame her, though, the shows and movies did get the sense of feeling out of place right—but I’m not a tacky American. Am I?

“Oh shit!” A text from Mom comes through. “My mom’s asking for more photos. What should I do?”

“Hmm.” She purses her lips. “Fine. Let’s take some photos near the bookstores you wanted to go to. Natural light and no need for me to photoshop. Easy.”

“Won’t she… notice something’s off?”

She shrugs. “Not if we go to a modern bookstore and only pose with English books?”

“Good point.”

??? ng sách Nguy ? n V ? n Bình is a dream. A street lined with bookstores. The smell of paper, both fresh and old, tickles my nose as we walk into a store filled with twinkling lights. From Vietnamese literature to graphic novels, stationery, English books, and more . I float through the rows and catalog where different genres are. Colorful paper lanterns hang from the ceiling, softly glowing against the incandescent light. They look like constellations, and as they twinkle at me, I’m reminded of home—of my bedroom in Little Saigon full of bookshelves Mom and Dad built for me, and of the paper lanterns Mom likes to hang around our home. Then it hits me: This will be the first Trung Thu, first Mid-Autumn festival, that I won’t be home for.

Cindy skips toward me, her arms full of journals. “I have to say that the Google reviews and your glowing recommendation were right. I could live here.”

I smile. “I told you!”

She raises her arms, sighing. “Yes, I accept defeat.”

“Good.” I laugh. “Now that we’ve taken more than enough pictures for my mom, I’m going to look at more English books at another store!”

“Be careful!”

“You sound too much like like my mom!”

I step out and continue down Nguy ? n V ? n Bình Street, glancing at the city-goers alongside me. There are at least twenty bookstores on this street, each one unique and vibrant. I choose a bookstore next to a hoa ph ?? ng tree and peek inside. The sun glows against the pastel-colored walls. A couple canvases are displayed outside, showcasing paintings bursting with colors.

I marvel at the space, a tiny and cozy lounge with free assortments of mooncakes and tea. I grab a thriller novel before settling into a wooden chair. There are small private spaces separated by partitions on both sides, almost like library cubicles. The partitions can’t drown out the furious typing from the person to my right, though. I try to concentrate, tracing the words with my index finger, but the smacking sound of fingers against the keyboard continues, relentless.

I inhale deeply, opening my mouth, then closing it immediately at the sight of the familiar braid. Her.

A dark green blazer hugs her body, and a faint blush paints her cheeks. No food-stained clothes. No worn sandals. This is a different Lan.

Her eyebrows scrunch, her eyes engrossed in the document she has open. Holding my breath, I arch farther back, straining my body to peek at the computer screen. My heart stops.

Southeast Asia Travel Magazine Open Call Submission.

She left the private message on read, so I had assumed she didn’t want to write. But if she’s typing… she has to be entering the competition. My heart pounds faster. She’s writing again. But for every sentence she puts down, she hits backspace right away. I crane my body farther, inch the divider between the cubicles back to reveal more of Lan. Not realizing the distance thinning between us, I accidentally swipe my elbow against hers, the friction sending goose bumps up my skin. She yelps and jolts up immediately, sending my chair tipping to the ground and me crashing along with it. I brace for the fall and a potential concussion.

But it doesn’t come. Instead, Lan grips my right arm as my head hovers slightly above the floor.

Eyes still closed, I clutch her forearm, flustered. “Thank you.”

Lan’s staring at me, and I can see red flaring across her face before she snatches her arm away, widening the distance between us again. “Um. Hi,” she says. “You can have the space—I was just leaving.”

Great. After all the progress I made after the notebook incident, I still look like a stalker she needs to run away from. “No, no, it’s okay.” Frantic, I say, “ I was just leaving, anyway. You can finish up writing the open call submission—”

Shit.

Why did I say that?

Her eyes dart from her computer screen to me. “What about the open call submission…”

I stand up straighter. Maybe it is fate. Maybe something in the sky is conspiring for us to meet again and again—or maybe it’s only accidental—but somehow I ran into her while she was working on the submission post. Maybe I can help?

“I sent you that private message, about the call, and saw you working on it earlier.”

“ You sent me the call?” she said, her eyes bulging. “ You’re Evermore13? Why didn’t I put two and two together?”

“I want to help you write the story.”

“How?”

“I can…” I hesitate. What can I offer Lan? What do I know that she doesn’t? She’s the one living in this city, breathing in what Sài Gòn has to offer. But maybe, just maybe… I can help, too. “Help you write something new about Sài Gòn from a different perspective. I’m a big reader, fluent in English, got a five on my AP Language test—not that any of this is impressive —but all I’m saying is, I really want to help. Please let me help.”

She inhales deeply, eyes looking everywhere but at me. “Why do you want to help me? Are we going to split the prize—”

“No.” I shake my head. “You can keep the entire prize. But what I told you the other day was true. I don’t know why you haven’t written in so long, and I won’t ask, but I know that you run one of the best blogs out there.”

She doesn’t say anything, still staring at the words on her computer screen, lost in thought.

“You move people with your words, Lan. There’s no way anyone would win but you. The magazine would be lucky to have your post featured.”

I didn’t expect Lan to doubt herself, too. All this time, I imagined her as someone who always gets what she wants, someone who’s never afraid to speak her mind and carry herself with confidence—much like the conviction she exudes throughout her blog. But maybe she’s like me. A girl with just as many insecurities as anyone else.

She relaxes her temple, the corners of her lips curving upward. “Okay. We can try, but there’s no guarantee I can even write a blog post by the deadline.”

My breath quickens. She agrees. She wants my help. I’m helping her, I’m helping A Bánh Mì for Two . “We’ll take it slow—work at your pace.”

She sighs. “Well, I haven’t written anything at all.”

“That’s fine. You just need some inspiration, something to really kick your brain into gear.”

“So, where do we start?”

I point to the book on her desk next to a stack of research materials about Sài Gòn, First Timer in Vi?t Nam Travel Guide . “Let’s see what other people have said about Sài Gòn first.”

“I did that already.” She shrugs. “Nothing helps. Foreigners think of Sài Gòn as a—”

“ Playground. ” I smile at her shocked face. “I know. I’m one of your biggest fans, remember? But it’s still helpful to read all the good and the bad.”

“Fine,” she mumbles, and crouches down next to me, making my heart leap—her shoulder inches from mine. I can’t help but notice her body language, the way she glides her pen across paper, how she whispers aloud as she reads.

“How come you’ve never asked me why I speak English so well?” Lan breaks the silence.

“I know you’re fluent.” I lift an eyebrow. “From your blog.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Plus, it’s a weird thing to ask. People act like English is the superior language. Like being able to speak it means you’re better than everyone or something.” I roll my eyes.

Lan looks at me oddly before her lips curve and she laughs . “It’s the first thing most foreigners ask! After making English the universal language, they act so surprised seeing fluent people in foreign countries. As if we weren’t forced to take English in school to graduate.”

“You said my Vietnamese was good—is that true?”

“I was impressed, but I didn’t say good.” Seeing my crestfallen face, she adds, “Kidding. Your Vietnamese sounds better than most Americans’.”

I grin, thankful that Cindy and I pooled our money together and found ourselves a Vietnamese tutor before studying abroad. I passed the class with flying colors. Cindy? Not so much.

“Even though I was raised by Vietnamese parents, they never took me to language schools on weekends,” I admit. “So I took an eight-week class before coming, and was able to learn faster than most beginners since everyone speaks Vietnamese in Little Saigon.”

We’re closer than ever now, our elbows touching and our faces several inches apart. “Tell me about Little Saigon.” Her breath dances on my lips. My breathing shortens, and my heartbeat pounds in my ears as I watch her eyes move across my features, as if she’s studying every part of me.

“It’s this… really small but also really big community in California. A lot of Vietnamese people live there, but I don’t think they have always been there. From what I learned, most Vietnamese came in 1970s and 1980s after, um, the war.”

She nods slowly. “I’ve heard about it. Why does everyone speak Vietnamese? Don’t you have to learn English?”

“You don’t! There’s a Vietnamese version of everything. Most of the staff in the local coffee shops, tax offices, and even schools often speak and understand Vietnamese. We even have Vietnamese driving schools, where they teach you how to drive a car and get your license… in Vietnamese!”

“Wow. I can’t even imagine that—a giant Vietnamese city outside of Vi ? t Nam. It sounds so cool .”

I tear my gaze away from hers, cheeks hot. “No one’s said that before or described Little Saigon with awe.”

“Why not?” The crinkled eyebrows resurface, and her eyes lock into mine, genuinely curious. “I want to see more Sài Gòns in the world. The Sài Gòn beyond this Sài Gòn. Vietnamese restaurants in Laos. In France. In America.”

My heart thumps. “One day, I’ll show you my Little Saigon. I promise.”

“Better keep your promise,” she says, her eyes twinkling.