Page 9

Chapter Nine

LAN

No one ever asks me for my name. The people of Sài Gòn stream through our stall like water, and no one stops long enough to bother. I recognized those dimples the moment she entered the line. My heart banged against my chest when I saw her move closer and closer. I prepared myself for more questions, even anger from the stranger, but it was something I hadn’t expected: a girl insistent on the impact of my blog, even thanking me and saying sorry. She did ask me for my name, and I gave it to her.

Before I could ask for her name back, she had already hurried across the street and disappeared into the dormitory. I wonder if what she said is true, that she’ll come by often. Maybe it would be nice to talk to someone my age that’s not Tri ? t.

I feel myself forgiving her for the notebook. It was the way she said it, how her eyes looked into mine with so much sincerity. How my writing affects her so much.

I peek at the notebook that’s practically glued to my body now. The more I think about the contest, the prize , the more my head aches.

M á slices a mango next to me, skillfully taking apart all the juicy meat of the fruit from its seed. She hands me a piece and I pop it into my mouth. “Did you hear about C? Chau’s daughter? Tram? The one who was in the same grade as you?”

Vietnamese mom gossip. Can always count on it. “No? What did she do this time? I remember her skipping school.” Nothing gets M á —or any Vietnamese mom—more excited than gossip, especially if other people’s problems are larger than ours. It’s the only way Má and I communicate, anyway; it’s easier to talk about someone else than about ourselves.

“Her kid ran away to Hà N ? i last year! I didn’t know.” She shakes her head. “But she came back just yesterday. Looking all different, too! Her face is thinner, and her skin is more tanned. She’s also enrolling at Hà N ? i University.”

“Wow. Good for her.” No wonder she was the target of the community’s gossip for the past year. Tram was reserved in high school, eating lunch alone and never hanging out in the hallways after the last class. I should have said hi more. Maybe she was struggling. Maybe that’s why she left.

“It’s a miracle she turned out all right.”

“All right? She’s attending a prestigious university.”

“You don’t get it, con. In this life, family is all you have. How did she even make money to live there by herself? Who took care of her? Who housed her? Many bad things could have happened.”

I can kiss my dream of traveling elsewhere goodbye, I guess. “At least she seems happier,” I whisper.

We sit in silence again, the latest gossip not enough to sustain our strained relationship. Other people’s problems don’t matter at the end of the day if we’re just playing pretend. There are so many things I should ask her—how she’s doing, if she misses Ba like I do, and if she ever thinks about retiring the bánh mì stall—but I can’t.

“You should go to school, Lan.”

My gaze jerks up to M á . “What?”

Not this conversation again. Is this why she brought up Tram?

Not looking at my face, she cuts open another mango, peeling the skin before answering me. “You were talking to the international students, weren’t you? It’s okay if you want to go to college. I can take care of the stall myself.”

I look down at my sandals, gritting my teeth. My muscles feel tight and the sweat on my forehead suddenly becomes unbearable. I shake my head. “You’re wrong, M á . College is unnecessary. And I’d be bored every day.”

She makes a tch sound with her tongue. “But—”

“Má, I don’t want to go.”

M á sighs and closes her eyes. My stomach is in knots, tangled by shame and guilt and hurt. I hate lying to her. I hate that we always circle back to this conversation. I know M á would say that this is what Ba would have wanted me to do. But what Ba wanted doesn’t matter anymore, especially now, because he’s not here. I force myself to swallow the mango’s sourness and the wave of grief threatening to overtake me.

“You can go rest, M á . Go have some lunch.” I hand her a water bottle as an offering, an exchange of peace to let her know that I’m not mad—I never am. But I don’t want to talk about university. I know it’s a privilege to go, and I should go .

It’s the right, linear life path. But what if I want to do something else? But that doesn’t matter, because I need to focus on what’s in front of me—the bánh mì stall. Family.

Má takes the bottle and reluctantly gets up. “Con, I worry about you sometimes. You push yourself very hard.”

My chest throbs. “Má, you don’t need to worry.”

“But I have to. You’re my daughter. My family.”

I squeeze her hand. “I’ll be okay. Remember to take your medicine after lunch.”

She holds my gaze, squeezing my hand back. “Con, you don’t have to worry so much. I’ll be fine.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, nodding as the warmth of her palm slips through mine. Right after Ba’s accident, I often thought about scenarios where something really, really bad happened to M á and tried to figure out what I would do in that situation. Find the nearest clinic and the best nurses in case her pain worsens. Have the phone number of everyone she talks to. Try to text Tri ? t every five minutes—I’d worry him sick with my antics.

With all my fussing, no wonder I wasn’t the first person she told about her diagnosis.

I cool the beads of sweat on my neck with a damp cloth, my fingers clenching the material too tight. I scrub the towel on my face until my cheeks are raw. My eyes burn, and I slump my head onto my knees. Sài Gòn noises whirl by me, no one pausing to look. I feel small—just a girl on a plastic stool in the middle of one of the busiest cities in the world. Everyone has things to do, places to be. That American girl, she has somewhere to be, too. She’s here for a short time before she goes home or maybe to a different city. She’ll travel. See the world. Leave home. Find herself. Despite how much I envy her, my mind replays the small interaction between us. For once, someone cared enough to ask for my name. In that moment, I wasn’t just a street food seller. I was Lan.