Page 6

Chapter Six

VIVI

Custard pudding. Salty and buttery puffs. L ? p x ?? ng sticky rice. Mung bean pancakes. On days when I’m sick, pork floss served on piping-hot congee sprinkled with black pepper and dried onions. Flavors so distinct I see the food even with my eyes closed. Textures that shaped so much of my childhood.

A pillow lands squarely on my face.

“Ewwwwww, Viv! You’re salivating all over the bed!” Cindy’s voice echoes through the room, its shrill pitch hauling me from my sleep.

I muffle my face with the pillow and pretend to drown her out. “For the love of God, let me sleep. You passed out on that plane. Not me.”

She yanks the pillow from underneath my arms and smacks my face with it—hard. “You slept for two hours. That’s enough rest already. We’re going to dinner. Our first dinner in Vi ? t Nam!” She shakes my shoulders. “I’m going to jump on you.”

I refuse to budge.

“One.”

“Cindyyyyyyyyyyyy…”

“Two.”

“I would never do this to you.”

“Three!” she yelps, her voice somehow squeakier, and clamors onto my twin XL, which was definitely not made for pillow fights. Cindy jabs at my sides, tickling me.

“Okay okay okay! I’ll go!” This girl is relentless. “I said I’ll go!”

“Get up by yourself right now and prove it.”

I whine into the pillows. “Why now? We have months to see Sài Gòn!”

Cindy huffs. “You’re the only Vietnamese American in the program, so you’re obligated to be the most excited.”

A knock comes from the other side of the door. “Hurry up! We’re hungry!” Nga calls out.

“Coming!” I yell back. Shit, everyone’s first impression of me is ruined because of one tiny nap. Sleepyhead is basically branded on my forehead now.

I stick out my tongue at Cindy, who’s raising one eyebrow with a very, very smug smile. “Give me exactly three minutes to wash my face. And yes, time me,” I dare her.

I race down our tiny hallway and splash water onto my face before lathering on deodorant and stumbling down the stairs. The rest of the cohort is lounging in the living room, debating where to eat. They wave me in, and my ears perk up at the mention of ? c xào—chewy snails drowned in an explosion of spices, Thai basil, and lemongrass. Mom makes this dish often, and a wave of homesickness slams into me. I miss her, and I wish I could text her about my flight, about the bánh mì we ate, and everything about this city.

Together, we strap on our sandals and wander through the streets. As much as delicious fatty sea snails enthrall us, so does Sài Gòn’s nightlife. It’s electrifying and dizzying in the best ways.

“Damn, Viv,” Cindy says. “Your favorite blog didn’t lie about Sài Gòn.”

Nga glances back at us. “What travel blogs do you read?”

My ears feel hot. I wasn’t expecting to be put on the spot about blogging and Instagram and well, my somewhat parasocial relationship to this stranger. “Um, I only follow A Bánh Mì for Two .”

Nga jumps, turning to me, her eyes wide. “I know A Bánh Mì for Two ! That blog is huge here. A lot of kids our age read it, and the businesses they post about get hundreds more customers the next morning.”

No way. After years of pestering Cindy about the blog, it feels great to know that people in Sài Gòn love A Bánh Mì for Two as much as I do.

“I like that the author writes about food. I mean, what’s not to like about food? Their blogs about friendship over cà phê s ? a ? á and spring roll–making parties on weekends made me want my own big friend group, too,” I say. “And to be honest, everything about that blog made me want to come to Vi ? t Nam. Now I’m here.”

“Soooo poetic and romantic,” Cindy comments.

Nga pulls out her phone and scrolls down A Bánh Mì for Two ’s Instagram feed. “We should definitely visit this cá viên chiên place they literally just posted about. It’s at the same park we’re heading to!”

My heart races. The same park? I’m surprised Nga’s even more on top of A Bánh Mì for Two ’s notifications than I am. “Maybe… the blogger will still be there? We can look for—oomf.”

My nose lands right in the middle of someone’s solid back.

“Maybe look where you’re going instead,” Cindy teases. “Man, you have such a crush on that blogger.”

“Cindy!” I say, my jaw hanging open. “It’s not a crush—”

“Then a weird parasocial relationship.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. You can call it that. Wait, why are we stopping?”

She shrugs, standing on tiptoes to see over the rest of the group.

“We’re about to cross the street to the park,” Nga says.

Minh, the other Vietnamese local student volunteer in the program, extends his arm toward a busy traffic-filled street. “All right, kids, lesson number one: Learn how to cross without stoplights.”

A student gapes at Minh. “You’re kidding.”

Thank goodness we paid for travel insurance.

Motorbikes, cars, and bicycles swarm the street. None of them look like they’ll be stopping anytime soon, but pedestrians around us just jump straight into the fray. Like they’re following some unspoken rule, the cars and pedestrians weave around each other. No one slows down, but somehow, no one crashes. I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants and grab Cindy’s hand.

Nga laughs at us. “Americans. Just follow me.”

Cindy looks at me with alarm and I almost burst out laughing. People jaywalk in the States all the time, but this is another beast. People on motorbikes swerve by the group, blaring their horns and shouting in Vietnamese.

We all let out a collective breath once we’ve crossed.

“That wasn’t so bad?” I nudge Cindy.

She looks at me like I’ve grown another head. “You do it alone next time, then.”

“Maybe not.”

We walk over to the ? c xào vendor next to the river and pull three plastic tables together, wide and large enough to fit everyone. One by one, we sit on the tiny stools. The evening breeze teases my back and takes the humid air and sweat with it.

Nga comes back with bottles of beer, setting one in front of each person. “Listen and learn! This is how Vietnamese people nh ? u. Nh?u just means drinking beer and eating food—such a fun hobby, right? And don’t say you’re under twenty-one. The law’s eighteen here, and I’m pretty sure you’re all adults, anyway.”

Mom would absolutely freak, but somehow that fact emboldens me. I bring the bottle to my lips and tip my head back. The bitter taste of the beer coats my tongue. “It’s… stale, but refreshing?”

How do Vietnamese uncles from Little Saigon drink this?

The worker comes out of the stall and drops two full plates of food in front of us. The sweet-and-sour aroma wafts around the tables, making everyone drool.

I recognize the ingredients immediately. Mom always stocks the fridge with the same Vietnamese staples. Her taste buds since Vi ? t Nam remain unchanged, save for her obsession with our local pizzeria. The dishes look just like how Mom would make them. Periwinkle escargot in tamarind sauce. Sea snails in coconut milk and lemongrass. The exact meals she’d cook every Thanksgiving because we don’t like turkey.

Did she learn how to make them here? From who? Did she grow up eating with friends just like this, too? Drinking stale beer under the Sài Gòn skyline?

“Everyone!” Nga calls. “Raise your beer and let’s make a toast! Repeat after me. M ? t, hai, ba, dz?!”

One, two, three, drink , what a silly phrase. We each raise our bottles and clink them against each other. “M ? t, hai, ba, dz?!”

Nga beams. “To a semester of fun!”

“Wooo-hoooo!” Cindy cheers, jumping from her seat to dive into the food, knocking her beer onto my pants in the process. The pink blouse she’s been wearing since we were in California is miraculously fine.

“Shit, Cindy!” I grumble. The dampness doesn’t bother me, but it’s my favorite pair of jeans. Jeans that Mom stayed up past 5:00 a.m. to hem just because I asked her to. Cindy fusses, wiping down my clothes with spare napkins from the table.

“It’s fine.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Uh, whenever you say that, it means that it’s actually not fine.”

“I’m going for a short walk to air-dry this. You guys eat first.” So much for eating ? c xào. Mom’s is better anyway.

I walk toward the river, watching the lights from the city bounce off the water. My eyes survey the sight in front of me: families laughing, children running up and down the sidewalks, students egging one another on. I stay there for a moment, watching these strangers in a city I’ve only been in fewer than eight hours.

Another message from Mom.

Mom : How’s Singapore? Did con eat yet?

Yes. I had bánh mì , I start to type before remembering my lie. Do they even have bánh mì in Singapore? Never mind that, Mom would be asking all kinds of questions. I do a quick Google search of popular Singapore street food before settling on a lie. Wonton mee. I even attach a Google image before hitting send.

Mom : Ok. Stay safe.

So ominous. Part of me wishes I could send her photos of Sài Gòn. Talk to her about what a whirlwind my first day has been. Send photos of the food and of my friends. Tell her I know what nh ? u is. I untuck the photograph of Mom in front of the cathedral from my wallet, letting the streetlight cast a glow over her face. She’s pointing at something—laughing at someone behind the camera, and my heart lurches at that wide, open-mouthed smile in the photograph. I want to know about her life here, all the little stories and moments that I never knew growing up.

She wouldn’t get it. After all, she kept all of this away from me.

I keep walking, still watching everyone that passes by me. I wonder if any of them are my family, if Mom’s sister had just passed me without knowing, and if I’ll ever meet the people in the photograph wedged between the edges of my wallet.

My right foot kicks something hard.

A notebook.

I pick it up and flip through the pages. Whoever wrote this scribbled out most of it, the black ink practically bleeding through the paper. A line catches my attention.

This park sells the best Cá Viên Chiên! The stuffed fish balls are sweet, spicy, and explode with roe when you chew. It’s best to enjoy the delicious snack while watching the sunset with someone! The owner is a working mom with the cutest daughter. Whenever you get the chance to come to this park, do support them!

The very caption from the photo A Bánh Mì for Two posted on Instagram. Today. Hours ago. My heart pounds wildly in my chest. They were here—are they still here? A million thoughts are racing through my head. Where are they? Out of all these strangers, whose face belongs to the person that wrote the blog that made me want to come to Sài Gòn? I have to tell Cindy.

My feet pivot, and for the umpteenth time today, my body collides into someone.