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CHAPTER 1 VI?T

All Vietnamese kids understood that the stork story could never apply to them. Sure, the idea was great. Viet even thought it was comforting that a majestic bird could have carried him in its secure beak before delivering him home. Unfortunately, Viet’s real origin story, according to his parents, was that they found him in some trash can, with ants crawling over him—an embellishment they liked to add before uncontrollably laughing.

Viet’s parents learned their jokes from their parents, which basically meant they didn’t learn how to tell jokes at all.

As he grew older, Viet realized he was carefully planned, like everything else in his parents’ lives. They waited to have him until their wholesale distributor business in Westminster was stable. But since that took years and years, his parents had more gray hair than other parents of classmates his age.

Especially the ones here. Viet’s mom and dad never experienced college life or move-in day; they didn’t know what to expect, so they looked unusually lost as they stood in the Tercero parking lot at UC Davis, surrounded by other incoming freshmen and their families rushing from their cars to the dorms.

“I’ll get my welcome packet. I’ll be back,” Viet said just as his parents started whisper-arguing.

The minute he turned, he exhaled. He should be used to this—all their arguments. During the car ride, beneath the crooning of Vietnamese ballads, his parents blew up at each other after Ba took a wrong turn. Suburban areas turned rural, then back to suburban and then eventually, the town and the campus was a mixture of the two. When they finally reached the parking lot, his mom came out of their van scowling. A familiar, uneasy feeling swelled inside Viet. With him gone, how were they going to survive each other?

At the check-in table, upperclassmen Student Housing volunteers were way too peppy, but their energy was contagious, so Viet’s wariness waned, and the excitement that started up last night returned. He was here, finally. A volunteer handed him a twenty-minute unloading pass and a thick folder containing plans for this week’s Aggie Orientation.

Soon enough, other leaders redirected his father to park closer to the curb outside Laben Hall and helped them unload the trunk. The students were surprised when M? also got to work immediately. His mom was barely five feet and might look like she knitted for fun, but in reality, she was weight-lifting crates of fresh produce all over Bolsa every day.

Laben Hall was sandwiched between Campbell and Kearney. Inside the dorm, the air was ripe with Lysol, flowery perfumes, and pungent cologne. The hallways were narrow, walls covered by flyers in serial-killer block letters. Scratch that; maybe Viet shouldn’t have stayed up late watching reruns of CSI: Miami.

As they passed different rooms, he heard roommates and parents in conversation. Laughter exploded from somewhere at the end of the hall, but all was quiet on their end.

Viet and his parents stood before a door with a plaque reading ROOM 136 . Hands full, Ba urged Viet forward with his hip, which was made of iron, apparently, because the next thing he knew, he was through the door, nearly landing face down.

His new roommate and his parents turned; they weren’t what Viet expected.

Instagram stalking had easily led him to Wren’s page. His posts showed off his chalk art and wall graffiti, but Viet couldn’t find a clear photo of him.

Over boba at 7 Leaves, Viet had passed Wren’s profile to Bao and Linh. After checking out Wren’s art, Linh, also a painter, said she’d love to meet him. Bao asked if he should be worried about “competition,” prompting Linh to steal back the strawberry boba they were sharing. He didn’t even protest. Bao was so whipped for her. They were sickening.

What Viet didn’t expect to see was a kid wearing khakis and a polo shirt—but why was it buttoned up all the way to the top?

They exchanged poorly timed hellos. Wren’s dad matched with his own pressed khakis, and his mother had on a white blouse, pink pants, and beige flats. She reminded Viet of a rich woman on Law their work life and social life were deeply embedded in Little Saigon, where people looked like them, used the same language, and shared the same history.

After a while, Wren’s mother switched over to voicing trivial observations—“This room is so small, isn’t it?”—where his parents could nod their agreement. Viet felt bad for judging the woman earlier based on her impractical, well-to-do outfit; she was friendly enough.

Soon, Wren and his family left for dinner.

Ba checked one of the two wardrobes, scowling when he discovered one of the doors wouldn’t close.

“Make sure you switch it with the other one,” he said, and Viet had to laugh. He could be funny sometimes. But Ba’s humor tended to come out at family gatherings, when he had four or five Heineken beers with the other men. Then there was no shutting him up.

Meanwhile, his mom parted the curtains of a window. Dust motes danced in the air. She peered outside as if she was expecting someone.

Ba placed the last cardboard box onto his desk. It had most of Viet’s books and DVDs—and some things he didn’t want his dad to see.

“Uh, I can do it—”

But in Ba’s hand was The Forensic Casebook , a rare title in English that was shoved into one of T? L?c Bookstore’s crowded shelves, forgotten.

Viet stilled.

Truth was, he had never intended to tell his parents about his idea to go into forensic science. But then he watched his best friend, Bao—who never cared so much about anything—find his calling as a writer and an editor, and finally told his parents nearly a year ago. They proudly hung up one of his articles. Turned out they didn’t care what Bao did; they only wished he could find a passion.

Their reaction gave Viet hope. And he thought maybe his parents would want the same thing for him. He brought it up at dinner at around the same time—and found he was completely wrong.

Their meal forgotten, his father had started ranting about how much he and his mother sacrificed to give Viet a stable life, to pave him a path to somewhere , versus the literal and figurative dirt road they had to navigate when they’d landed in America. For their son to show interest in a “fake” science like forensics was akin to taking an ill-advised detour or a major wrong turn.

“Passion? What is passion, you Americanized kids all talk about?” His dad had looked to his mother across the kitchen table, as if she’d have the answer. She showed confusion rather than share his father’s anger. “We cannot afford to have passions.”

Like usual, Viet let his dad rant. He picked at the rice in his bowl as his dad’s emphasis on afford echoed in his head. He knew what his father was getting it. Viet had gotten into a couple of schools—big names, like the ones his parents’ friends often name-dropped—but with little to no scholarships attached and knowing the number of loans he’d need to take to attend, they all agreed to choose a good state school. Because that was what they could afford to do.

It wasn’t like he had his eyes set on Stanford or whatever big-shot school. Never did. He just wanted—

What Viet really wanted to tell his parents—

His mind returned to the present. Viet took the book from Ba and slid it underneath his other textbooks—for his “real science” classes.

“I think I can handle it from here,” he said quietly.

His dad opened his mouth, but his mom interrupted them from a few feet away.

“This isn’t working. Not cold.” She was bent over, placing her hand inside the mini fridge. Ba went over to check on it himself. As M? stood up, she shot Viet a tired, almost understanding smile.

“The school can’t even give you a working fridge?” Ba complained.

Grateful for the distraction, Viet joked with Ba: “Do you want me to switch it with a fridge from another room?”

“Can you?”

M? lightly slapped Ba’s shoulder, telling him in Vietnamese that this would only get Viet in trouble. It was a familiar but rare move—that slap. Fun. They didn’t seem to have any fun these days. Maybe work was getting tough; by the time they came home, they looked like they lost days of sleep.

Turned out the fridge worked; it was just the outlet that was bad.

When it was time for his parents to leave, Ba pulled out his wallet and offered Viet some money. “Nè. Take it.”

“No, it’s fine, I don’t need any money.” He’d saved enough from working at Bao’s family restaurant.

“Th?i, don’t argue.” Ba physically pried open his fingers, placing five hundred dollars in his palm. He must have taken it out just this morning because the bills were still crisp. “Use it on whenever con need it. Text Ba if con c?n more.”

Viet accepted it. “Cam on, Ba.”

If they were another pair of son and father, they would have hugged. But his dad always kept his emotions bottled up. So, Ba settled with a pat on Viet’s shoulder, and Viet knew what he was trying to say.

His mother reached for his free hand. “Study hard. Be careful. Don’t forget to call M?. At least every weekend. ??ng lo cho M?. And if con don’t call, M? will drive back up.” The threat was undercut by the tremble in her voice.

Guilt washed over Viet. He thought about the emptiness of the house after his parents’ explosive arguments—nasty words and insults worming through the air vents. He thought of his hesitant steps toward the kitchen, where his mom would often distract herself by washing the dishes. By then, Dad was always gone, driving to clear his mind. He’d come back later.

They had been three for as long as Viet could remember. With him six hours away this year, how would they function as two?

Who would be there for his mother when she needed someone to listen to her rant? His mother always told him not to feel bu?n, but who would be there to soothe her sadness?

Yeah, a part of him was glad to be away. An escape from being his parents’ buffer.

But the image of his mother in his head, in that kitchen, was heartbreakingly tiny.

Viet squeezed her hand. “I’ll call. Promise.”

Now he was alone. Viet sat on the bed, even though his duffel bag with his running shoes challenged him from across the room, urging him to move instead of remaining still. Because nothing good ever happened when he was still. The setting sun entered through the window, slicing up Wren’s side of the room. Music blared from down the hall—some sort of gathering. He tried to will the earlier excitement from today to come back to him. To fight away the familiar sadness.

College was going to be good. Everything would be all right.