Page 8

Chapter Eight

VIVI

I dream of Sài Gòn lights, cold beer, and the face behind the bookmarked tabs on my laptop. I dream of her running away from me, and my hand reaching out—so close, but not enough—before she slips away.

My phone blares through the room and I groan into my pillow. I press the snooze button, slide the phone under the pillow, and roll onto my side. Just yesterday, I was in my own bedroom in California, and now I’m halfway across the world. Light streams through our thin window curtains, bringing noises from the street.

The door cracks open and Nga slips in, her hair damp. She massages her face with a wet towel and looks at me. “I know you’re up, Vivi. I can hear that alarm from down the hall.”

“But Ngaaaaa, five more minutes.” Someone’s chickens crow at 6:00 a.m. here, and the streets are loud through the night—how anyone expects my body to sleep well is beyond me.

I open an eyelid, and see her rolling her eyes at me. “It’s already nine. You’ve been pressing snooze for the past hour. Those five minutes will turn into another hour and you’re going to be upset when we’re all eating bánh mì except you.”

My stomach responds happily to the word bánh mì by letting out an embarrassingly loud grumble.

“It’s the same bánh mì that you ate yesterday. I’m a regular there, and ch ? Lan makes the best breakfast bánh mì.”

“Fine,” I say. “Just because you’ve convinced me.” Still, the word bánh mì reminds me of what had happened last night, and the hurt and embarrassment that followed when she ran off. Maybe it’s my fault for daydreaming about my fateful meeting with the author of A Bánh Mì for Two . She looked… scared, though I guess I would be, too, if someone showed up, stole my notebook, and accused me of being the thief.

Oh, I was an ass.

“Now get up.” Nga tugs at my arm and helps me out of bed. “Cindy’s already complaining downstairs.”

“Doesn’t surprise me one bit.”

I greet the busy streets of Sài Gòn from the sidewalks of our dormitory again. It’s only half past nine in the morning, and still the sun shines relentless heat on my cheeks. A line of motorbikes and customers curves around the stall as people shout their orders. But even with so many customers, only three people are working—an elderly lady, a boy, and her . My heart skids to a halt when I catch sight of the girl from yesterday perched next to the bánh mì stall. She’s wearing a hat today, shielding her face from the harsh sun. In the daylight, her skin shines golden and still glistens with sweat, but her braid looks the same, neat and dangling over her right shoulder.

That’s why she was so scared. The author of my favorite blog is a street food seller. Her words on the blog suddenly have a new meaning. She wasn’t just writing about the hardships and labor of street food that others face every day. She was writing about herself. No wonder she’s so passionate about writing about street food, and no wonder she knows so much about it. Still, I wonder why she hasn’t said anything about being a street food seller herself.

Her long-sleeved blouse sways with every movement, elongating her slender arms as I watch her go from slicing baguettes to pouring soy sauce. There’s a rhythm to her movement, to the way her fingers pick through the ingredients like chords on an instrument. But her eyebrows scrunch with dismay, and despite her making each order effortlessly, there’s an air of restlessness. The scorching sun highlights the beads of sweat on her face, and I have a weird urge to dab them away.

I continue stealing glances at her as we approach the front of the line. A stout lady grills meat behind her, and a smoky hint of charred pork wafts to my nose. I spy bánh mì crumbs on the girl, remembering how she left those crumbs on my shirt last night—like leaving a piece of who she is with me. I wonder how long she’s been doing this. Selling street food, feeding people.

Nga, ahead of us, waves furiously at the girl. “Ch ? ! Goooood morning! Can I have the usual? Oh! These are my friends!”

“Morning, Nga! One bánh mì ch ? l ? a and one cup of cà phê s ? a ? á for you, then.”

My eyes dart back and forth from Nga to the girl, watching them exchange Vietnamese fluidly with each other. The language rolls off their tongues like a song, and I realize I hadn’t ever listened to Vietnamese without a sad tone. Mom likes talking in English and reserves Vietnamese for when she’s upset or for words without translation.

“What about you?” the girl repeats in perfect English, her voice jolting me from my thoughts. Her expressions betray almost nothing, but there’s a slight twitch in her temple. Does she remember me? Maybe I saw a different side of her yesterday, a glimpse into who she is apart from being a street food seller.

Flustered, I repeat the same order as Nga’s.

Money already in hand, I pass her the bills, our fingers slightly brushing. I stare at her face as she takes the money, finding myself hoping for her to remember me. The scents of the grimy street and grilled meat surround us, clinging onto our clothes, and yet she exudes a woodsy smell, almost like a fresh summer rain. Suddenly I’m fully aware of the way my chest rises and falls.

“I’m sorry about last night.” The words escape my mouth before I can stop myself. Cindy gapes at me, shock and confusion on her face, but the girl—she just stares at me, though I can see her mouth moving, teeth grinding against her cheek.

She breaks eye contact and digs into her pocket for my change. “Anything else?” She clears her throat, already looking past me to the next customer.

Still, I continue. “I was an ass. One hundred percent, and I should have trusted you and given you back the notebook right away.”

She chews on her bottom lip, her eyes darting from the dirt between our feet to the notebook next to her on a plastic stool. The very same notebook from last night. With another inhale, I rehearse the words I’ve wanted to say for so long: “Thank you—for your blog, your stories. You’ve helped me a lot, more than you know. I’m staying right across the street and will probably come by often.”

The girl finally meets my gaze, and my eyes snap to her lips as she silently sucks in a breath. “It’s… okay. Thanks for reading, that’s a really nice comment. And thanks for finding my notebook.”

She hands me the plastic bags containing the food. I rush to help her with the drinks, our fingers skimming across each other; I almost drop the bags.

Without thinking, I blurt out. “What’s your name?”

She blinks. “Lan.”

Lan. Lan of Bánh Mì 98. Lan of A Bánh Mì for Two .