Listen, Slowly

  I log on. After an eternity, I get twenty-nine messages. Some from Mom. Each with an inspirational message about hanging in there and a new SAT word for the day. DELETE, DELETE, DELETE. Being across the world rocks! Most from Montana. A crisis about tan lines, a crisis about too-glossy lip glosses, a crisis about choosing a French, lobster-tail, or waterfall braid. DELETE, DELETE, DELETE. There’s an FB notification from Montana. I log on and wait. Mia Le. Weird to see that name. I haven’t been her in a while.

  OMG, on my wall is a tagged pic of her and HIM at Anita, a beach where almost-teens go to get away from moms and little kids. I click over to her wall. Wait. And wait. Finally, I’m in. More photos, all bikini shots. Did she Photoshop to make her boobs look extra big? How big do they need to be? I don’t want her boobs, but I have to confess I do want the attention they get her. Does that make me pathetic and sophomoric?

  There HE is, just as I suspected, standing right behind her butt bow. She’s smiling over her shoulder. I know that smirk. HE’s not smiling back though, kinda looking up, way up. I scroll down and it says HE and she friended the day I left. That means she asked HIM. Still, HE shouldn’t have accepted.

  What’s wrong with me? HE can do whatever. Beads of sweat, mixed with sunblock, slide into my eyes, letting me cry a little.

  But I can’t indulge and throw myself down. Anh Minh and the girls are standing behind me, not sweaty, but definitely misty, eyes on the screen, looking at the beach photographs. I would give anything to have an hour alone.

  Anh Minh, seeing me see him, pretends like he hasn’t been staring at the screen and flips his concentration to the tin roof, like it reveals some unsolved theorem. He’s already told me he’s going to be a mathematician/professor/poet. Please, universe, never let my mother meet him. I can just hear her comparisons and sighs.

  Út is twisting her mouth and gearing up for questions about Montana, no doubt. I kick my expression into neutral, but my heart is pumping blood to my face. Stop it, feelings, do not show that I’m flustered having seen evidence of Montana and HIM together. I have no idea if my feelings are listening.

  The two older girls keep whispering to each other. I’ve never actually heard them speak. Anh Minh straightens himself, so grateful to have translation to do.

  “Who’s she with breasts so full?” So begins the froggy one.

  “My friend Montana.”

  “Why is she older in age?”

  “She’s twelve, my age.”

  “Twelve? And a baby she has?” Út won’t stop with the questions.

  “What baby?”

  “Her breasts swell for no reason?”

  “Believe me, she has reasons.”

  “Are you certain she’s twelve? Did she fail some grades?”

  “She’s twelve, I told you.”

  “Are breasts the size of human heads admired in America?”

  How can one person be this nosy? I think, but say, “Not her fault they’re that size.”

  “She has to stuff them into tiny triangles?”

  “It’s Southern California. People wear bikinis to the beach.”

  “Must she call attention to her buttocks also? Is she trying to mate? But the males are the ones to court the females.”

  “She’s not a duck or a peacock. She’s my best friend. She’s smart in her own way. She’s very happy, really.”

  “Best friend? She would think of your happiness before her own?”

  I make myself nod slowly. I don’t know why I’m defending Montana, but I feel like if I don’t, my life will fall apart. Út is a pain, pain, pain. I’m in no mood to be interrogated. What does Út know? She’s obsessed with a gargantuan frog.

  I always talk really fast when agitated, as if words could drown out anxieties. On and on I blab about how Montana and I are borderline teenagers and that means pressure and change and freedom and bodies. I forget to pause to let Anh Minh translate. There’s so much to say about becoming a teenager. The more I talk, the more I can fake calmness. HE was looking away from her butt bow, right? I would be able to tell in two seconds if I were standing right there. Dad could not have picked a worse summer for his must-please-my-momma project. My mind obsesses about HIM while my mouth spews out teen facts. Is this what they mean by “split personality”? When I do pause, Anh Minh seems stumped.

  “There’s no word for teenager in Vietnamese, miss. Numbers in English go from ten to eleven to twelve, then thirteen, fourteen. So the jump from twelve to thirteen has cultural plus spellin’ ramifications. But in Vietnamese, we say ten, then ten one, ten two, ten three, ten four, so there’s no change. Literally, a teenager would start at ten and that has no meanin’ here or over there. The closest we have here is tuổi dậy-thì, which is the age of puberty at fifteen, sixteen.”

  “Just tell them it’s a big deal to go from twelve to thirteen.”

  “They won’t believe me because there’s no such change here.”

  What is the point of having a personal translator if he’s going to argue with me about facts, actual facts. Everybody knows turning thirteen is a gigantic marker, the way old people remember where they were when Kennedy was shot or, for the Vietnamese, where they were the day Saigon fell.

  What were my parents thinking, dumping me in a place where teenagers do not exist, where every single person eats some form of rice for every single meal, where napping is a public event, where perfectly well-behaved kids are banished from real conversations?

  The worst part? No one here would listen to my many, many, many complaints. No one even complains.

  CHAPTER 8

  Anh Minh walks me back to Bà. After blabbermouth Út went off somewhere, the older girls giggled and also left. Anh Minh looked longingly after one of them. He reminds me of myself. The sassy hip-shaker is like Montana, and Chị Lan is like HIM, the one who gets to choose. Why is my most secret heartache being replicated in a love triangle in a tiny Vietnamese village?

  The sun, still scorching, is sinking toward midafternoon, almost wake-up time. We pass back through the market and, like in a cartoon, handkerchiefs rise and fall over the faces of snoring merchants. At first, it’s embarrassing to witness something so private, but after a while it makes perfect sense that people who spend all their waking moments together would also synchronize their naps.

  I wonder if anyone ever feels lonely here. Earlier, when we walked by a four-story house, I heard Út say if she were home alone in such a huge house she would be scared of ghosts. Strange coming from Út, who seems impervious to everything. But I guess if you’re used to constant company, that much silent space would be creepy.

  As we enter my courtyard, the cell rings. Anh Minh bows and leaves.

  “What took so long?” is Mom’s sleepy hello. My muscles instantly relax. Yes, the perfect person to complain to.

  “You have no idea how crazy busy they keep me here. Every second, something is expected of me. People are everywhere. I never have a second alone. There’s no outlet in the house, so I about died of a heatstroke going to charge the phone.”

  “Let’s start over. How are you, sweetie?”

  “Terrible. I couldn’t be worse. It’s hot and muggy and I’ve got enough mosquito bites to do an elaborate dot-to-dot, and my pants are all wrong and my sandals are all wrong and my clingy shirt makes me hotter and I don’t know why I’m being punished.”

  “Mai.”

  There she goes again, saying my name in a way that can’t help but be soothing. I don’t want to be soothed.

  “Mai, love. What is it?”

  “Everything. I hate it here. Why did you make me come? It’s not fair. I didn’t do anything wrong. I can’t help that Bà’s husband got taken away in THE WAR. Why is it on me to make it right? I’m just a kid. I want to go home.”

  “Mai, deep breath in, now out. I’m sorry, I should have packed long, loose pants and lots of anti-itch ointment. But I know a trick for mosquito bites. Rub your own saliva on the bump to counteract the anticoagulant that
the mosquito released when it bit you. But it must be your own to stop the itch, not someone else’s.”

  “Mother! I would never slobber my spit over myself! Why would you even suspect I might use someone else’s?”

  “My, you’re in a mood. Is this about him? Is he with Montana?”

  My insides turn to liquid, surging a gigantic tidal wave of nausea into my throat. I literally drop the phone. The ground spins. I plop down on the dirt and squeeze my head between my knees. Why does my life have to suck this much? How did Mom guess that I liked someone? Have I been visibly pining? I’m afraid to ask. I breathe in and out, in and out. The phone is getting dusty. I pick it up and polish it; after all, it’s my one link to real life. I stand up. Mom is still yakking on and on.

  “At times, being away is the best test. If he’s truly worthwhile, sweetie, he’ll be here when you get back. It’s a test for you and Montana too. What do you want in a friend? Besides, you have a lifetime for boys, why not enjoy your summer with Bà and see what will surprise you?”

  The only thing worse than Mom guessing my most private, private thought is her using every cliché to advise me about it. Did I talk in my sleep? How does she guess exactly what I’ve been thinking, even when I didn’t want to think it? What do I want in a friend? If that question doesn’t breed a panic attack, I don’t know what will. First, bossy Út asked if Montana would put my happiness before hers, now this pep talk from Mom. I wish people would stop stomping around in my head.

  “Mai? Say something, help me stay awake. It’s about midnight here. I’ve had you on automatic dial every hour since we last talked. Are you all right? Say something.”

  “Something.”

  “Now, now. When you’re ready to talk, I’m here. I’m always here even if I’m not right next to you. I got international calling plans so we can talk anytime.”

  “I hear Bà,” I lie, but it’s about the time when Bà would wake and want her tea.

  “What if we talk again when I’m up? That’s our only real chance because tomorrow will be a trying day in court. That should be around ten at night for you. Can you stay up?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Before I forget, SAT word for today, conundrum, c-o-n-u—”

  My finger somehow holds down OFF. Oops.

  That’s it. I’m on an SAT revolt, erasing all five-dollar words from my cobwebby mind. Expunged, good-bye. Wait, is expunge an SAT word? Probably. Rewind. How about zapped? Zapped, good-bye. It’ll kill Mom when I come back espousing the vocabulary of a middle schooler, which I am. Wait, is espouse SAT? I’m going to have to be vigilant. Vigilant? OMG, Mom has completely warped me.

  I keep the phone off, ostensibly to save the battery. But I can’t handle Mom just yet. She will try too hard to help and will drive me batty. No one, not even Mom, can fix my gargantuan problems. Other than flying home right now and rolling Montana in a rug and stashing the rug in a garage, I don’t know what anyone can do. I don’t even know if HE likes her, or me, or someone else, or anyone at all. It doesn’t help that I’m stuck in a mosquitoey swamp on the other side of the world. Where is that quack detective?

  Of course it’s pouring. We would have to visit during the rainy season, when, in addition to being hot and muggy, which mosquitoes love, there are also downpours to provide puddle nurseries. Every time one mosquito sucks a hint of my blood, she has the nutrients to have zillions of babies. So glad I could help.

  Bà and I and Ông’s Brother are in the front room, drinking tea by the window, watching arrow-like raindrops puncture the cement courtyard. There’s no talking. We sip and stare, sip and stare.

  I’m supposed to call him Ông Thuận. Bà wrote down the name and pronounced it over and over. But I can’t simultaneously pucker my lips, twist my tongue, push the vowels front to back really fast, flip my intestines, and close my throat. So I keep calling him “Ông’s Brother.” Predictable, but how inventive can I be when I’m this distraught? When all I can think about is how often has Montana’s butt bow been menacing HIM? And how long has Mom known about HIM?

  We’ve had three refills when Ông’s Brother starts talking. Startled, I nearly spill scorching tea on my lap. That’s all I need to make this day perfect, a third-degree burn.

  Ông’s Brother points to a huge wooden block mounted on a thick tree stump. He tells us that long ago Ông built this square birdhouse, each side carved with four perfect circular nests, which have never been empty of doves.

  “Years ago, I took a pair of doves to the mountain on my yearly search for ginseng,” Ông’s Brother says. “I released them, thinking they would crave the wild, but they returned before I did.”

  “It’s impossible to forget the core of one’s being.”

  “Even if lost, I sensed they never would have relinquished finding a way home.”

  “Unless something intruded.”

  “He would have returned if he could.”

  “What might have prevented him?”

  “Even without knowing, we can provide him with a proper place to rest.”

  “Rest?”

  “His spot in the family plot still awaits, as yours. I myself have rested a son there. His body was lost in the war, but his spirit I buried at home.”

  “How did you know the moment to release waiting?”

  “After the war ended, I hoped. Every day I looked into the horizon for his frame. Soldier after soldier returned, on feet shredded like cloth, on bicycles of dented wheels and without tires, they returned from the lowest tip of the South. Each year fewer came home. By the third year, I saw nothing but dust in the horizon. Day after day. Then his mother stepped into the next life and took him with her, side by side.”

  Bà nods. Ông’s Brother looks deeper into the horizon. They return to silence. I understood every word, but somehow the meaning is as impossible to hold as each drop of rain.

  As quickly as the rain slammed down, it suddenly thins to brushstrokes. Bà stands up and walks toward the birdhouse, her head uncovered, striding with purpose. She will get damp, enough to chill her. I scramble after her. Right then, the doves fly out of the birdhouse, and by some invisible cue, they hover above us with white wings wide, creating a feathery, rhythmic umbrella.

  Bà traces each circle on the birdhouse, sixteen in all. I know she’s thinking Ông’s own hands had carved these circles. Somehow, that makes him more real to me. Ông walked this village; he slept in the blue goddess room; he ate grapefruit from the garden tree. I trace each circle too.

  Bà starts a long, murmuring chant. I listen, not to actual words but to their undeniable weight.

  I’m all set to hate it here, then something magical has to happen.

  CHAPTER 9

  I’m pinching myself to stay awake. Twenty-three more minutes until midnight, which will be 10:00 a.m. the day before in Laguna, the time Montana should be up but not yet at the beach.

  All night I’ve planned as much as possible, channeling efficient Mom. I borrowed a pair of Bà’s pajamas, saying I want to be comfortable, and they are supercomfortable, but really I need to cover as much skin as possible so I can talk outside without bloodsuckers devouring me. I practice sounding light and fun, like I’m calling to check in. I have to make sure I do not slip and mention HIM, even though I hope Montana will refer to HIM in an offhanded, flighty way. Montana doesn’t have Mom’s power to X-ray thoughts, so my secret is safe.

  I do feel guilty having missed Mom’s call at 10:00 p.m., the phone vibrating like a silent scream. Mom texted and texted, but it was a perfectly believable time to be asleep. Bà was. Mom must be worried, her mind automatically imagines the worst. I don’t know how long I can avoid her. But she would have interrogated me, plucking out each little bit about HIM. The sad truth is we barely have bits. We know who each other is and have said hi, that’s about it. HE’s always been around, but I didn’t notice HIM at school until a few months ago when HE talked about a love poem in class. HIS face softened to reveal a look of longing I gre
w up seeing in Bà.

  It’s time. I crawl out with Bà’s socks on. That leaves just my hands and face exposed. Surely, I can jiggle to protect three little areas. I rush past the birdhouse, all the way to the grapefruit tree at the farthest edge of the garden.

  I punch 001 before Montana’s number, harder to do than you’d think while jiggling. She’s supposed to have memorized my number too, in case an earthquake happens and we have to call from someone’s phone. But I have a feeling she memorized as far as the area code.

  “Mont, it’s me.”

  “Is it really you? I can just die. It’s been so weird without you. I can’t believe it’s really you. You have no idea how wrong my life is right now. Like yesterday, Hadley was over, and I could not for the life of me teach her the lobster tail. Then she just put on my favorite lip gloss, without even asking, then she was all ‘I don’t like the smell.’ Can you believe that? She’s shuttling in any minute and I swear I’m done, like done done. I think she likes that boy in English class, you know, the one who talked about that poem . . .”

  I know exactly which boy, my boy. The familiar tidal wave of nausea. I fight it by pacing. Forget standing still and jiggling, I’ve got to pace to buffer against mosquitoes and dread. “You can’t be at the beach already, with Hadley?”

  “Yeah, I said I didn’t like her but you always have, so I’m, like, fine.”

  “You know I’m calling from across the world. You know I didn’t call to talk about Hadley.”

  “Guess who’s here?”

  “Why are you at the beach at ten in the morning?”

  “It was supposed to be so awesome, a huge pod of dolphins was spotted really early, but by the time we got here . . . Hey, you can’t be leaving?”

  “Me? No.”

  “Not you. I’m talking to Poet Dude. Hadley is all wrong for him, don’t you think? Hey, come here, stop walking away, talk to Mia, she’s calling all the way from Vietnam, that’s where she’s from. . . .”