Listen, Slowly

  Bet you she’s the type to raise her hand in class and everyone groans.

  I’m not backing down. “When my friend Montana wore a thong to class the first day of sixth grade, everyone thought she was unique and started copying her. Not just our grade, but the whole school, then everywhere. I’m not kidding, everybody wears them in America.”

  Okay, not even close to everyone, especially not me, but who would know here? I can say anything about life in America and they’d believe me. I’ve appointed myself an expert on America.

  Many are asking, “What did she say?” I understand but have to look blank. This clandestine double-language trick is exhausting.

  Anh Minh seems panicky. “Miss, are you talkin’ about the truly revealin’ undergarment of ladies? I don’t know if there’s a Vietnamese name for it.”

  I try to help. “Could you ask Cô Tâm for a pair of panties?”

  Anh Minh turns red. He whispers to Cô Tâm and then just leaves. Walks straight out of the house. Hey, can an official, personal translator just blow off his duties? Not professional at all! Fine, I’ll do everything myself. I pull down my capris just a bit to show the top of my panties. “Có không?” Have this?

  Cô Tâm, looking worried, comes back with a pair: white, big, grade school.

  I hold up a pair of scissors and ask with my eyes if it’s okay to cut. Still looking worried, she nods. I must say the Vietnamese are the best hosts in the world. They just want to please you, even if it means ruining obviously brand-new underwear.

  I cut two half circles from the cheek-covering part, leaving the unmistakable tree shape of a thong. Then I hem each side. Not even close to perfect stitches, but good enough. I hold it up, ta-da. Massive confusion. Making a point is such work. I’m going to have to do it . . . put on the thong outside my capris to show how it works. The girls just shake their heads.

  “They wear tiny underwear on the outside? Is that unique?”

  “Why can’t the buttocks be covered?”

  “Is this like that yellow-haired singer wearing a bra shaped like two miniature cone hats?”

  Ugh, I go in the back and put on the thong under my capris. I come out and pull my pants in tight and point to my butt. “Không thấy,” can’t see. They gather around.

  “Can’t see what?” Út says.

  “Cái lằn,” the lines, I almost scream. I spin her around, pull tight her icky man shorts and point to the panty lines. “Yes.” I point to her butt. “No.” I point to mine.

  “Why can’t we have lines?” Út again.

  I answer, “Không sạch,” not clean. I mean not clean lines, as in you’d want smooth, sleek slopes down your butt cheeks, but my speaking skills only go so far.

  Cô Tâm understands. “Ðúng, sạch hơn,” yes, it is cleaner. “Con hiểu tiếng Việt phải không?” You understand Vietnamese, don’t you?

  Did I just give my secret away, over a thong? Noooo, I was waiting to reveal my listening skills, imagining some dramatic scene that would embarrass Út, the ultrapain, like telling everyone that Froggy is actually a toad or, hmmm, what else would annoy a girl who’s forever rubbing her buzz and grinning?

  I panic and lie. “Không,” no. Not really a lie because speaking at a Tarzan level doesn’t actually count as speaking.

  Cô Tâm looks confused, trying to process that I understand enough to answer I don’t understand. She smiles and pats me on the head anyway. Told you, perfect host.

  I did it; I got to the mom. She loves me. I point to her mismatched, frumpy, froggy-obsessed daughter. “Làm?” Make? Meaning make a thong for Út?

  Her mother nods and runs off. I can feel Út’s stare searing through my skull, but I still look straight at her and smile, huge and metal. Cô Tâm comes back with not one pair, but an armful. Each girl begins cutting. The afternoon should pass quickly for me, not so much for you-know-who.

  There’s no computer. A whole afternoon spent gnarling my fingers and going blind—for nothing. Add to that the awful truth that I’ve forced a whole group of clean, trusting girls to become self-conscious about lines on their butt cheeks. Each girl is wearing her new thong. Some have embroidered chrysanthemums or orchids around the hems. They took the project way too seriously.

  We’re leaving now to go eat phở, in celebration of our creations. I started this mess so I have to come along.

  On the main dirt path to the open market, we begin picking at our cracks, straighten up, then pick again. I can’t believe I got myself into this. I hate thongs. I hate how they look, how they feel, what they represent. Never have I worn something so tight as to need a thong. But I can’t backtrack now. They think I’m an expert on American girly cleanliness.

  I’m making it a point to walk behind Út, who’s really slow. She doesn’t just pick but scratches, wiggles, lifts a leg, and writhes in obvious misery. This is so worth my own suffering. I don’t see how Montana wears them every day. Come to think of it, she did spend most of the time picking at her booty.

  Because Út and I lag behind, we’re the only two to see her sister’s best friend, Chị Ngọc, come out of nowhere in a . . . fluffy light-pink skirt! I have to address Lan and Ngọc as Chị to show, you guessed it, r-e-s-p-e-c-t. Just a while ago, Chị Ngọc was wearing flowy silk pants like everyone else. How did she change so fast? She doesn’t see us. Without saying a word, Út and I hide behind dusty leafy bushes on opposite sides of the dirt path.

  Chị Ngọc keeps glancing back as if waiting for someone. It can’t be for her best friend, who is way ahead with the group. I hear stomping. Anh Minh comes running up the path, panting, stirring the red dust. I almost sneeze but catch myself just in time. Why is he running? Where did he go after walking out? He’s really panicking.

  Chị Ngọc stops. Is she smirking? I know that smirk, all eerie like Montana’s.

  “Where is Lan?” Anh Minh asks. “I must inform her I have to leave now.” Anh Minh is sweating and inhaling gulps of dust.

  Where’s he going? I’m about to jump out when Chị Ngọc flips her hair. Please, the predictable hair flip. She’s talking to him in a baby voice, all the while tilting her head and twisting a strand of hair around her index finger. Has she been watching bad Hollywood teen movies? Or did the American teen movies copy Asian flirty moves that probably have been around from way back when?

  He runs away. Hey, I almost yell, but Chị Ngọc calls out his name in a helpless voice, forcing him to turn around.

  She turns and flips up her skirt, exposing two white moons separated by the silky tree trunk. The moons bounce a little. NOOOO!!! I can see Út’s eyeballs about to booong out of their sockets. Anh Minh chokes, stumbles, then runs even faster. Chị Ngọc (should I keep calling her Chị?) fluffs down her skirt and prances along. I notice her heels, not Hollywood heels, but in this land of flip-flops, heels!

  I look over at Út. We blink, no doubt trying to wash away the image of white, bouncy moons. Both our faces scrunch up, then we look at each other, really look at each other, and crack up, braces glinting in the sun.

  CHAPTER 14

  Anh Minh has been called to the American embassy in Hanoi, this much everyone knows. His parents, who have sold their home and moved in with his aunt and maternal grandparents so all can pitch in to cover what his scholarship doesn’t, talked about their son to his aunt’s cousin. That cousin told someone, who told Cô Hạnh, who acts as the village newspaper.

  Now during meals/chewing events, villagers come by to ask Bà if I, being American born, have some magic dust that can poof away their darling’s student visa problems. I wish. If I were so embassy-connected, I’d be home already, parental approval or not.

  With Anh Minh gone, Út and I are the only two to have witnessed the moon flashing. Somehow, this unites us. Without actually speaking or even a handshake, we have decided to take down Con Ngọc. BTW, I no longer have to say Chị Ngọc. Út has downgraded her all the way to Con. It doesn’t sound like much, but that’s the equivale
nt of saying “Yo, Ngọc.”

  I’m not even sure what I have against Con Ngọc. I could get righteous and say it’s about taking a stance against deception. But really, Con Ngọc cannot be the first person to use her butt cheeks to maneuver feelings to her advantage. Not classy, but it happens. Or I could say I’m helping out true love, but then true love wouldn’t fall for a moon-flashing trick anyway. Fine, I admit I’m all hyper about Con Ngọc because I have nothing else to do.

  Hours here stretch into days and those days disappear into routines and before I know it, I’m hanging out with Út. I wouldn’t say she’s fun but definitely different. I’m so desperate for company I would pass time with Froggy. It’s a bonus that Út comes along.

  Besides, focusing on the village triangle keeps me from obsessing about being stuck in this village. If things turn out well here, then the good karma might carry all the way back to Laguna. I know that sounds desperate, but you try being banished to a swampy sauna and not succumb to a little superstition. Did I just release an SAT alert? Succumb. It’s a great word. I no longer have the energy to monitor myself. Tap into whatever vocabulary vault you want, brain, I’m just trying to hang on until Anh Minh returns or the detective returns or my life returns.

  I wonder what’s keeping the detective from dragging in the overly sensitive guard. Really, who cares if anyone thinks Bà is paying him for information? Doesn’t he want to be paid? I’ve not voiced this out loud because I’m being sensitive.

  Dad, still, is waiting to see if his patient will recover. Something about a mom letting her toddler eat real rice instead of cháo too soon after the surgery and now the palate has healed with grains of rice stuck inside the roof of the mouth. Mom has hired scouts to hike into the mountains, get updates, then hike back to where there’s Wi-Fi to send her reports. She can arrange that, but she’s as helpless as we all are in getting the guard to appear.

  Thank goodness for the fourteen-hour time difference because one of us is always sleepy, so our texts are short. I text that I’m hanging in there (sort of), that I’m eating well (too well), that I’m helping Bà (who’s in easy, quiet mode), that I’m staying busy (plotting a love story, not the most brilliant way to spend time, but I don’t have many choices), that I miss her dearly (which causes an avalanche of smiley faces in reply). My final text always uses the SAT word for the day in a sentence, which is also the signal for my brain to forget the word.

  My mind is supercooperative these days. I’ve willed it to put Montana and HIM on pause. I had no idea I was so powerful, but so far, I’ve only panicked three times. I’ve got a bet going with myself. If Anh Minh and Chị Lan do get together, I’ll initiate a real conversation with HIM when I get home. Any other ending, I’ll have to think about letting HIM go. Not that HE was ever mine, but HE has been ultrareal in my mind.

  We know where Anh Minh is, we can guess what he’s wearing (blue pants/white shirt, the self-imposed uniform of any boy here who opens a book), we also have detailed reports on what he’s eating (phone calls from maybe-relatives in Hanoi).

  But no one knows when he’s coming back. It’s been four long days.

  Anh Minh doesn’t have a cell phone. Út, subbing as my translator, is determined to email him. That’s why she needs me. It’s okay for me to email my official translator, but what reason would Út have? Appearances, proper, improper, the rules are endless.

  Turns out, Út has been studying English since first grade. She likes to memorize grammar books. No comment. So she’s reading fluently in English, but when it comes to speaking, I can’t understand one word she says. Her Vietnamese-born English teacher studied French first and thinks it’s classy to pronounce everything with a French accent. Conversation turns into “con-va-SA-see-ong,” and iodine becomes “ee-OR-dean,” which came up in a panicky moment when Froggy hurt his leg. But that’s another story.

  Even without understanding her English, I get Út because she talks to herself in Vietnamese, like a lot. It’s not my fault I have the superpower to hear Vietnamese. Út keeps mumbling, “He has the luck to be in Hà Nội. One trip there, that’s all I need, one trip.”

  What’s so great about that moped-insane, horn-obsessed, body-congested, nostril-bruising city?

  Út, though, is a remarkable speller with perfect handwriting. So, as long as she writes things down, I get it, although it’s still fastest when she talks to herself.

  She writes, “We need Anh Minh to confess to sister. His feelings and her feelings are truth.”

  I write back in English but Út can’t read it. Mom always nagged me about my scribbles while I argued we have technology for a reason. Who knew I’d be across the world scratching on paper with a stubby pencil?

  Now I talk and Út writes. But I have to speak Tarzan-ish Vietnamese because Út says she doesn’t understand my non-Frenchy English. It’s exhausting, but so is my life.

  “Làm gì?” What to do?

  Perfect cursive: “Anh Minh and my sister must stare at each other alone.”

  “Làm sao?” How? “Ði rồi.” He’s gone.

  “We will email that you require him.”

  “Cho gì?” For what?

  Út frowns, staring me down like I’m useless and she has to think of everything. I smile sweetly. It feels weird, all this effort to be charming, but life would be unbearable if she and my translator were to disappear.

  “No, tell better your Bà needs him here. Now.”

  “Cho gì?” For what?

  She gives me another exasperated look. Fine, think, think, brain, think.

  CHAPTER 15

  Before lunch the next day, our scheming takes us to the stacked house where everyone first greeted me and Bà. Red of blood, yellow of skin, five stories. You can’t miss it. The woman who answers has the smoothest, clearest skin I’ve ever seen. Mom, who spends half her paychecks on jars of face cream, would be so jealous. She’s Cô Hạnh, Út’s real aunt and I’m sure my maybe-one.

  “Ah, Út, right on time, I need you to pick rau muống. And you, come in and sit.”

  Apparently, you can’t show up to someone’s house with internet service and zoom straight to the computer. First, Út asks after Cô Hạnh’s husband, son, daughter, mother, father, countless cousins, barking dog, algae in the pond, some ripening fruit at Chú Tư’s (chú means uncle, another maybe-relative?).

  We all head to the back to look at the fruit. I’ve yet to meet anyone in the village who doesn’t go gaga for fruit and vegetables. I could put this backyard scene on a postcard—it’s that dreamy. Wooden houses surround a huge pond. Each house has a porch that juts out into the water and sits on stilts. Gigantic orange koi swim under the porch planks. Willows are planted like fences so you can kinda see your neighbors, but not really.

  Út points to the tree across the pond that has branches crawling out just above the water. So cool. Red clumps cling to the branches. “Are they ripe yet?”

  “I wouldn’t know. You know Chú Tư cherishes them as if they’re his children. I’m lucky if I get one at the end of the season.”

  “He’s always given quả sung to me. He likes me.” When Út says something like that, she’s just stating the truth. He probably thinks she’s great. I’ve noticed people either swoon or sneer at her. My sneering is moving toward the middle.

  Suddenly, Cô Hạnh grabs me by the chin. Her eyes bug out and zoom in. Forget about swooning over me, she’s even past sneering, she’s downright horrified.

  “Tut-tut, what have you been putting on your skin?”

  Nothing! Honest! I’m not into makeup. Watching Montana apply rounds and rounds of lip gloss has damaged my view of what is probably a perfectly normal activity. I try to wrestle away but Cô Hạnh grips my chin.

  “What’s clogging your pores? We have to cure these pimples before they leave scars.”

  PIMPLES? SCARS!!! I just realized I haven’t seen a mirror in forever, since the hotel. And I haven’t missed it! That’s because I’ve been living in sh
ock.

  How can I have pimples? I’ve been so careful, washing my face with a cloth twice a day and never touching my fingers to my . . . OMG, I have PIMPLES! I thought my face was a little bumpy when I applied sunblock every day, but without a mirror I just imagined I had a heat rash or insect bites or some other consequence of living in muggy land.

  “Gương!” Mirror! Cô Hạnh leads me to a huge mirror with lightbulbs all around like you’d see in a movie star’s dressing room. The megawatts don’t hide one little bump. Tons of yellow dots are pushing up on tiny red hills scattered all over my forehead and cheeks. The colors of Vietnam’s flag. ON MY FACE! This is not how I imagined connecting with my roots.

  “Không sao, không sao,” not a problem, not a problem, Cô Hạnh murmurs, seeing me close to tears. “I know exactly how to cure this.”

  It’s fascinating that people will talk to me like I understand, even though I’m playing dumb. I think people just like to listen to their voices.

  First, Cô Hạnh sends Út to the kitchen to bring back a bowl of raw rice soaked in warm water and citrus peels. I swear Út is kinda smirking. Whatever, deep breath, deep breath.

  Cô Hạnh then goes to the garden and picks lots of leaves and a cucumber. Is the cure a salad? Right away I start panicking about the right dressing because I can only eat salads with this one balsamic vinaigrette. Without it, I’ll gag and that always makes my stomach . . . Focus, focus! I sit on my hands and make myself look away from the brightest mirror on earth to prevent an urge to pick and squeeze.

  Út returns first. Patting her own cheek, which I admit is smooth and clear but I bet little cancer cells are blooming beneath all that bronzeness, Út writes, “Go in the sun and clean your skin.”

  “No!”

  Út shrugs. Look at her, all buzzy and bronzed and bracy and mismatched and frumpy, but she’s as happy as she can be. How is that possible?