Page 5

CHAPTER 5 VI?T

Viet’s first few weeks of college would make for a good film montage. He had orientation and Week Zero, when academics seemed to come second behind campus life. The school desperately wanted them to feel involved, so as part of their Fall Welcome, freshmen were thrown into events. Free food, free swag. There was a rally where everyone was plunged into darkness and at one point the freshmen had to put their arms around each other and sway to a chaotic beat set by the marching band.

Viet had looked at his neighbor—a mousy boy from his floor who looked even more out of place than him—and together they silently agreed not to touch each other.

There was also the Running of the First-Years—yeah, that was exactly what it sounded like. RecFest at the Activities and Recreation Center was all about the sports clubs, and Viet had gravitated toward the running club table. He didn’t even think of trying out for the actual XC he wouldn’t have time, and practice was likely brutal. But he knew he wouldn’t stop running.

By the end of September, Viet had run with the club a few times. The club was coed, and its officers were either third-years or fourth-years. Viet’s routes were led by a third-year named Tate, a tall guy with dyed blond hair and two streaks of dark brown running down the middle. Chipmunk , he had thought the first time Tate introduced himself. Viet liked the guy who chatted with members regardless of their year. He confidently led them from the front. He’d slow down if there was anyone struggling behind and let out words of encouragement: “You got this, man!” or “Nice stride!”

Their routes were intense, and Viet didn’t know for sure if the club was for him in the long run. But they seemed eager to have more people.

After one practice, Tate announced he was throwing a party at his apartment at The Green.

Viet wondered whether Wren would want to go, though his roommate was never without plans. Whenever they were in the dorms at the same time, they talked about nothing and everything: classes, the food at the dining hall, plans for the weekend. Wren immediately ditched his khakis and wore jeans. He added a backward ballcap at some point. And he’d started coming home late, and judging by the chorus of voices shouting goodbye at him each night, he was fitting right in.

Some people could be like that—chameleons.

Viet showered after his run, then worked on his homework in his dorm until it was dinnertime. The door opened, and a mess of limbs and laughter sloppily piled through. Viet recognized a few in passing—on the way to the communal bathroom, to classes in the bleary mornings. Their names escaped him, though, and they already looked too pregamed-out and obliterated—eyes glazed, a manic energy to them—to know his. One guy boldly jumped on top of his bed to sit on the edge.

They only noticed Viet when Wren asked, “What are you doing? Studying?” He was searching through his drawers and pulled out some shot glasses. One of the guys removed a whole bottle of Svedka from under his sweatshirt—wait, from under his sweatshirt?! This didn’t seem to faze anyone else in the slightest.

Wren poured it into the glasses and passed them around. “Reddy, Rodriguez, Jones—V, you want a glass?” V, that was a new one.

Suddenly all eyes were on him again, and Viet was reminded of his old middle school bullies who turned vicious when boredom hit.

“Uh, no, I’m good, man,” he answered. But his answer was drowned out by Wren pushing his friends to drink at the same time, and they did it, just like that.

They all strategized their next plans.

“Okay, Palmer said we should meet at his dorm, then we can head over to the AEPi party—”

“And Taylor said she’d get some of her friends to come.”

“Taylor and you playing matchmaker tonight!”

“Maria’s going to be there too.”

Somehow that settled their plans, and without another word, everyone started moving toward the door.

Wren said, “Okay, see you, V. I’m gonna be back late. Will try not to wake you.”

The room was a disaster in their wake. The kid on his bed had left his shot glass tipped over on the comforter, but at least it was empty.

He wouldn’t have felt anything but relief—to be alone again—if it weren’t for what one of Wren’s friends said next, just as the door was closing behind the group:

“You have the most boring roommate ever.”

Everyone laughed, and the sound faded as they moved down the hallway.

Viet didn’t hear Wren’s response.

It finally hit him. He was doing homework while everyone was out partying. There was some truth to what the kid said—he was boring.

And then Viet got angry. Not because he was alone; he wouldn’t have wanted to be invited to a frat party. But because Viet could have chosen differently. Tate, from the running club, had mentioned a party; it was for everyone and anyone to accept, so why shouldn’t he go?

What could go wrong?

Viet woke up with a spoon in his left hand.

A spoon?

“Oh, hey, he’s waking up. I guess the spoon worked.”

“It was just a coincidence,” another voice whispered. “The spoon had no effect.”

“Nah, it was the spoon. Supposedly it’s colder than your body temperature, so he must have sensed it and woke up.”

A hand lightly tapped his cheek, and Viet raised his hand to brush it off.

“Don’t slap him!”

“I didn’t slap him.”

So many questions. A tornado of them swirling in his mind, but the first sentence out of his mouth was, “It wasn’t a slap.” His voice was all scratched up; he cleared his throat, but it still felt dry. Inside his head, everything sounded as noisy as the crates of produce his dad would unload during his delivery runs.

The exclamation “He lives!” collided with this mystery person’s answer, “See! Not a slap.”

Then Viet was helped up into a sitting position. When he was somewhat at a ninety-degree angle, he heard: “You good?”

“Yeah, I’m just… I don’t know where I am.” Viet blinked and the tanned face of a guy came into focus. It was Chipmunk.

“Well, I guess it was a good sign that you know you don’t know where you are. That shows you’re conscious at least. Here, drink.” He offered Viet an ice-cold Solo cup. “Water. Just what you need.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m taking food orders. You want anything? Might as well eat since you’re here. Eggs? Pancakes?”

“Uh…” Viet’s mind felt blank.

“Actually, maybe just drink your water.” Chipmunk—no, Tate—clapped him on the shoulder before jumping off and bounding toward the apartment’s open kitchen, partitioned by an island with four stools tucked underneath. “We’ll just make something and hopefully you’ll like it.”

The first sip delivered a rush of crystallized wake-up signals through Viet, and he gulped down the rest in five seconds. He glanced at the state of the living room: A folded table used for Ping-Pong games lay collapsed in the middle of the living room. Crushed Solo cups, cans of White Claw and Truly, and one large bottle of C?roc just begging for some hungover kid to trip over it. Bodies were on the floor, snoring away. Most were nestled in sleeping bags, from who knows where. A few were from the running club, and the rest were probably Tate’s other friends.

Viet’s chest was heavy. Someone took the time to essentially tuck him in with a fuzzy Aggies blanket. Last night’s events seeped into his mind. Wren and his friends. The club invite. He got to The Green—somehow—and sat by himself mostly, and someone kept handing him drinks, and now—

Delicately, warily, like a newborn calf, Viet stood up. He walked over to the open kitchen’s bartop, where Tate was washing dishes. He was now wearing a shockingly bright yellow apron.

“Um, need help?”

“ Someone wants to help for once? Am I in the right apartment?”

A second guy—the one arguing with Tate as Viet woke up—carried in two bags of Hawaiian buns and placed them on the island. He was Asian, unlike Tate, and shorter as well. This new guy’s pillowy brown bedhead contrasted his face, which looked severe and fully alert. Subconsciously Viet straightened up; his energy reminded him of Bao’s mother when she was controlling the restaurant’s kitchen. Bao would find that comparison hilarious, but this person… not so much, maybe.

“Can you handle a knife?” Bedhead ended up asking.

Viet wasn’t an expert, but he’d watched Bao’s mother enough to know how to use one. Her temper was legendary, and she might have had a soft spot for him. Viet never dared push it, so he’d learned all his knifing skills from her and the line cooks who could cut at warp speed. “I’m not bad at it.”

“Hmm. Promising. Unlike many firsties—Tate, where did he come from?”

Standing before the kitchen sink, Tate squinted, and Viet felt mortified thinking he probably couldn’t even place him. Wouldn’t even know his name. “Oh, that’s Viet. La Quinta High School. Westminster. Runs a mile in 8.2 minutes.”

Viet blinked. Correct.

But the Asian guy seemed unimpressed and walked over to the dish rack to grab a pair of kitchen knives. “Thanks for the robotic introduction. Most people say name, year, and major. Well, I’m Kale Thammavongsa.” KAH-leh, got it. “And you apparently know Tate Galanos. He’s taking care of the dishes because that’s the extent of his kitchen skills.” Tate started protesting, and Kale ignored him, then stood on his toes—being two or three inches shorter—to kiss him obnoxiously on the cheek. Tate lifted his shoulder to rub the kiss off.

Kale said to Viet, “How about you slice some of these buns and some green onions to garnish the eggs. I’ll get started on them—some might want scrambled eggs, others fried… I have the SPAM and bacon going on the rear, but I don’t know if that’s going to be enough….”

Viet wasn’t certain if he was prattling to anyone in particular or just thinking out loud.

Eventually, they formed… an idea of an assembly line at the bartop. Next to Viet, Kale had four different sauté pans going. He ladled beaten eggs into one of them and started talking. This was definitely not his first time cooking—and maybe not the first time he let a blacked-out stranger crash at his place.

“So you’re a runner like Tate?”

“Yeah, I’ve only been to a couple of club runs.”

“You’re not one of those who joined just for the parties, right? Because while these parties are fun—well, crazy and slightly illegal, maybe—the club’s practices are pretty brutal. I joined and look what happened.”

Still at his station, Tate added, “He fell in love with me and realized he didn’t have a running bone in his body.”

Ignoring his boyfriend, yet again, Kale squinted at Viet. “You don’t look great,” he said bluntly.

“This is the first time I’ve gone to a party like this. I can’t remember much.”

“Oh, you’re such a first-year,” the guy said, and sighed as if Viet had asked him for a favor at the most inconvenient time. “When you black out, you’re not looking for fun. You’re drinking away a problem you can’t face.”

“I wasn’t really getting along with my roommate.”

“Is he why you’re not back at your dorm?” Kale asked. With a flick of his wrist, he flipped over a fried egg, solidly sticking its landing.

After Viet recapped what had happened, Kale had already finished the breakfast meats.

“Maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” Viet said.

“Well, if you ever need to talk about it, just come by. I’ve had my share of troublesome roommates. Tate’s the best one so far.”

“Generous of you to say,” Tate replied. He’d finished washing the dishes a while ago and was now going around the room, gently nudging his friends awake.

Which wasn’t necessary since Kale had started shouting: “Breakfast is almost ready. Get up! We even have vegan eggs and vegan cheese because I don’t want to hear anyone complain. Especially Beth at this godforsaken hour.” With a spatula, he pointed to one of the girls in a sleeping bag.

A curly-haired girl stirred slightly, but remained there, except for her arm, which rose to reveal her middle finger.

“I love her,” he told Viet, resuming his cooking.

He leaned forward to inspect the chopped green onions under Viet’s hands, then nodded approvingly. “Nice knife skills.” He asked Viet to toast the buns next.

Now Viet was wide awake—and it wasn’t just the tantalizing aroma of greasy food. Kale was a talker. While Tate led the running club with quiet confidence, Kale’s confidence was more apparent and unapologetic. He was a third-year food science major and food service management minor. His dad was a chef, while his mother was a pathologist—“she’s not allowed to talk about work at the dinner table,” he said. Kale had transferred from University of Hawai?i, in his home state, in the middle of his first year—“I knew I wanted to get out, just to see more places”—and eventually ended up here, where he found enough “idiots” to be his friends.

Kale only joined the running club to spend more time with Tate, “who was oblivious” to his crush.

“I eventually figured it out,” Tate protested.

Now they were both grinning at each other, and probably forgot about Viet for a second, which reminded Viet that he was still not used to being around couples. To call his parents a couple would be an overstatement; business partners was far more accurate. The aunties and their husbands back home seemed to hate each other, yet refused to divorce. The only relationship he’d seen that was remotely healthy was Bao and Linh’s. They had a way of looking at each other; it was generally nice, maybe creepy after a while, since they were basically in their own world and Viet always felt like an intruder.

Soon enough, a few people who slept over, in all states of wakefulness, grabbed sandwiches as Kale left them out at the kitchen bar. Viet took a seat at one of the stools, done with his tasks. Tate went around, folding unoccupied sleeping bags, and cleaning up traces of last night’s festivities.

Voices soon emanated from the entryway, a collision of “Hello!” and “Rise and shine!” and “We’re back!”

“I hate it when people barge in like that,” Kale grumbled.

“You’re the one who always props the door open,” Tate calmly countered.

More sounds of life. Unmindful of the remaining sleepers who groaned and cursed, the newest guests were cheerful and perky. Viet thought it’d be a good time to leave—clearly whoever was coming were friends of Kale and Tate—until he spotted a familiar face. Evie.

Evie threw her arms around Kale, clinging to him. “I missed your SPAM breakfast sandwiches.”

“That’s all you miss about me?” But he returned the hug with equal energy and gave one to a short Asian girl next to her. Viet heard him call her Lis. Turning around, Evie finally noticed him, and he wished he didn’t have a stain on his shirt. Kale did tell him, “You don’t look great.”

Awesome .

“We meet again! Of all places. I never thought that you’d be here,” Evie said.

Kale, having released the other girl who now went to hug Tate, curiously asked, “Oh you two have met?”

“We’re both from Westminster. He’s friends with my sister—she’s dating his best friend, long story,” Evie quickly explained. “Are you really surprised to see me and Lis, Kale?” she said, sitting down on the barstool next to Viet. “It’s a Saturday!”

“What happens on Saturday?” Viet asked.

While Lis and Kale started conversing, and Tate was setting out more plates for everyone at the bar, Evie leaned closer to him, smelling like clean soap, the nice kind, not the overwhelming smell that made his dad sneeze. Her hair was wet, the end of her ponytail spotting the back of her oversized Aggies hoodie, gold with navy lettering.

“Saturday Sins started one morning when we wanted to erase all the things that happened on Friday night. We were so hungover and hungry, and we used to make a huge meal in our first-year dorm’s common room. Anyone could come by.” She laughed suddenly. “It used to be just breakfast, but now it tends to be dinners because of our different schedules. Kale’s always the host because he’s the best cook out of all of us.”

“You don’t cook?”

She paused. “I do, but not as good as my mom, unfortunately.”

“This poor fellow,” Viet heard Kale say to Lis, “I found him drunk and passed out on the couch.”

“First time drinking, I guess?” Evie’s friend asked gently as she joined in, leaning against the bar counter from the kitchen’s side. “I remember those hangovers very well. That’s kind of why I stopped drinking. Also, I have no palate for the taste of alcohol. You lucked out ending up here, since Kale’s SPAM, egg, and cheese sandwich will completely wake you up.”

She smiled brightly at him, and Kale, clearly touched, busied himself with the last of the food. Tate leaned closer to his boyfriend, teasing him in whispers.

Evie was looking at Viet with a frown. “Not to sound like a mom or anything, but be careful at the parties. They can get intense.”

Lis snorted. “She’s saying that now, but she got a bit buzzed quite a few times when she was a first-year.”

Tate and Kale finished passing out breakfast sandwiches, and the attention moved away from him for a few minutes as the four of them started holding several conversations at once.

“So, Viet. Tell me about yourself. How are you liking school?” Lis asked while Evie asked about last night’s party. If Viet didn’t know better, Lis had turned into Ali. She was always straight to the point. Maybe that was how friends were made. Someone reminded you of someone else special to you, so you felt drawn to them.

“I can’t believe it’s been a month since I moved in,” Viet answered, “and I’m still adjusting.” Or finding where he belonged. Wren had found his group. Evie and Lis, Kale and Tate acted like good friends.

“What do you like to do?”

“Nothing much. I’ve only gone to the running club, so it’s that, classes, then my dorm.” He felt compelled to apologize then. “Sorry, I’m a bit boring.”

Lis shook her head. “As long as you’re happy doing what you do—no need to nudge. We all have different interests.”

“For example, I like cows,” Tate offered. “Something about them calms me.”

Kale stood in between Lis and Tate. “He was in Tercero,” he said to Viet, like that sufficed as an explanation. Then he turned to his boyfriend. “I forgot about that. Or tried. Didn’t you have a favorite cow?”

“Wildflower,” Tate answered wistfully. “She always came when I called her. But she moved on to greener pastures,” he added solemnly.

Viet almost choked on his breakfast sandwich. “Oh, uh, sorry. She died?”

Kale answered for his boyfriend. “No, she literally moved to another pasture, a different field!”

Evie, probably hearing the joke a million times before, threw a balled-up napkin at Tate, who ducked immediately.

“I wasn’t obsessed with the cows, like someone , but when I ended up in Segundo, I was right by the garden. We were allowed to help, and I ended up pilfering all the veggies to feed these people.” Kale gestured to his friends.

“I remember being a first-year and I couldn’t believe all of the clubs on campus,” Evie said.

“Besides the running club, I didn’t see one that interested me. But if there was a forensic science club, I’d sign up. I watch a lot of forensic shows—”

The group froze, and Viet thought: Should he not have said it out loud?

Kale whispered. “Oh no, you summoned Lisbel.” Lis all but shoved Kale away.

“You’re into forensics?” she asked. She leaned so forward that she might as well have climbed over to Viet’s side. “We have a club!”

“But I didn’t see it at the RecFest.”

“Oh, our table was at the far end,” Lis explained. “The club’s agnostic; you don’t need to be in any major to join. It’s mostly grad students and a few third-years, and our advisors are from the graduate program.”

It was a clear invite. A club for forensic science lovers like him. Well, if he couldn’t pursue it as a career, it wouldn’t hurt to join a club… right? “I’ll check it out.”

“We just found a new member!” Lis squealed.

“Let him attend the first meeting at least, Lis,” Kale said. He added, “Though, we’d totally welcome you. I’m also in the club. An alternative slogan for this club is: Welcome to every immigrant parent’s worst nightmare. It’s not that kind of science, but it’s still science. ”

He wasn’t off the mark… especially when Viet considered his parents. Viet remembered what Kale had said earlier. “Food science… and forensics?”

“Once you boil it all down, both my major and the club have to do with formerly animate objects. I still work with dead things—I just make them tasty.”

Beth, the vegan who’d left her sleeping bag and had just started to dig into her breakfast at the end of the island, said, “Nope, I’m not listening to this—not at this hour.”

“Sorry, Beth,” Lis apologized sheepishly on Kale’s behalf, before turning back to Viet. “I’ll send you a few things. Intro packets and stuff like that. Take a look. Feel free to just look and not do anything with them. But it’d be cool for you to join. You’d know me and Kale at least.”

Tate said, “Don’t scare him away.”

Evie gently nudged Viet’s shoulder with hers. “Yes, Kale and Lis are like this without being caffeinated,” she joked. “Already getting second thoughts about saying yes? I know Lis can throw a lot at you.”

“Are you a part of it too? The club?”

“No, I never had the time for it. But I think you’ll really like it.”

Beth, the vegan, managed to finish her breakfast without further protest. She yawned at Kale. “Coffee?”

“Coffee? First, I’m the cook. Am I the barista now too?”

“You literally have a Keurig and Nespresso. Hand me a mug.”

Kale refused. “Put some money in the jar, then…. This is not a charity!”

Viet disagreed; this was Kale’s charity. Hosting people, including a stranger like him. This felt different from Wren’s friends who invaded his space.

Here, Viet was still in the middle of chaos, but he’d never felt more rooted.