by Pintip Dunn
“Okay,” he repeats. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he sounded miserable.
All of a sudden, I can’t be here any longer. Underneath this willow tree, separated from the world by a curtain of drooping branches. His body is too big, the space inside too small. I’m suffocating.
I spin on my heel and march away from the tree. I’m outta here.
But judging from the heavy thuds of his footsteps, he’s coming with me.
Chapter Seventeen
I burst out of the tree, and the outside world appears, as though I’ve crossed through a brick wall from Diagon Alley back into real life.
A couple trades coupons for bright-yellow desserts made out of egg yolk and sugar, while a group of young men slurps rice noodles and beef broth. In one corner, a teenage girl teaches her Caucasian and African American friends how to jeeb and wong, two basic hand positions in Thai dance. Down the middle of the aisle, a young boy pushes his grandmother in a wheelchair. She must be at least ninety, but she is impeccably dressed, her midnight hair arranged in a stately bun, diamonds flashing at her ears, fingers, and neck.
The scent of food floods my nose once more. It had never faded, of course, but it was subsumed under the sunshine smell of Mat’s skin mixed with the woodsy fragrance of his soap.
“Winnie, wait!” Mat catches up with me just as I’m about to enter the fray.
I turn—but he must’ve misjudged his steps. He bumps right into me, his arms automatically encircling my waist. One hot second later, we spring apart.
“We’ve had our date,” I say, a whole lot steadier than I feel. “In Always Be My Maybe, they talk for five minutes, tops, in the farmer’s market. We’ve already passed that time limit. What do you want?”
“I still have to fill out the notebook,” he reminds me. “What should I say we talked about?”
I’d forgotten about that damn notebook. Once again, our actual topic of conversation isn’t fit for recording.
Mat’s eyes snag on a group of high school girls dressed in traditional Thai dance costumes, complete with long, curvy fingernails. “How come you’re not dancing this year?” he asks. “You were so good at the last festival. And, uh, the festival before that.”
I narrow my eyes. The flattery is clumsy, halting. Nowhere near his usual smoothness. “I wasn’t aware you saw my performances,” I say stiffly.
“Oh, sure. You’re like a different person when you dance.” His lips quirk. “Not clumsy at all. Why aren’t you performing now?”
“I don’t know,” I say slowly. Maybe I should be offended by his backhanded compliment, but he’s only stating the truth. I am clumsy. “I mean, my sisters didn’t dance their senior year.”
It was a matter of course that I wouldn’t, either. End of analysis.
“Not remotely the same,” he says. “They applied to…what? Ten, twelve colleges? You were accepted into Northwestern early decision. So you have a much lighter workload.”
I shift my shoulders. I’ve always liked to dance, mostly for the reason he identified. I don’t feel quite so awkward when I’m wearing those gorgeous costumes. My limbs feel less unwieldy when they’re following a predetermined set of movements. For the brief duration that I’m on a stage, I feel like what a good Thai girl should be—graceful and poised. Pretty much the opposite of what I usually am.
But when Mama assumed that I wouldn’t be participating this year, I didn’t argue. After all, Thai dance isn’t going to help me become an economics professor. Who cares if it’s fun?
“You don’t have to do everything like your sisters.”
“I know that,” I say, annoyed.
He raises an eyebrow. “Do you? Because from where I’m standing, your life looks like a poor copy of theirs. Why are you so hell-bent on following in their footsteps anyway? You know you’ll never measure up, right?”
My anger flares. It’s one thing for me to admit my insecurities to myself, in the middle of the night. Quite another for him to say them out loud. “That’s very rude.”
He blinks. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be rude. I’m just thinking of that Einstein quote. A fish judged by its ability to climb a tree will always think it’s stupid.”
“Are you calling me a fish? Or stupid?”
“Neither.” He swats at an invisible fly. “I’m just saying, maybe it’s time to pursue your own path. Be your own person, instead of letting your family dictate all your decisions.”
I’m shaking now, I’m so upset. But I don’t know if it’s because he’s crossed a line—or because he has a point.
At any rate, the festival’s too crowded, and my mind’s too jumbled for me to figure out the meaning and purpose of my life. “Like I said, the date’s over,” I say coldly. “We’re no longer under any obligation to speak to each other. So why are we?”
His eyes shutter, and a memory flashes across my mind. Four years ago, Mama was dropping me off at school and insisting that I wear a coat in sixty-degree weather. I snapped at her, annoyed—but then I looked up to see Mat watching us, a wistful expression on his face.
Maybe he missed his own mother. Maybe he wished that she were nagging him instead of across the world in Thailand.
I never found out how he felt because we had already stopped talking. But he’s wearing the same expression now.
A pang shoots through me. Was I too harsh with him? How many times did he hurt my feelings, not because he’s a terrible person…but because he misses his mom?
Fueled by a sudden clarity, I reach out and touch his sleeve. I want to take back my words. I want to get past our sniping. I want to be friends again.
Before I can say anything, he rips away his arm and takes off.
In spite of his height, in spite of the exceedingly striking way he fills out his phraratchatan, he’s swallowed in the crowd within moments.
Chapter Eighteen
After a few confused seconds, I start walking, too, putting one foot in front of the other without any clear aim. I should probably find Kavya. She’s never been to a Songkran festival, and I should make sure she’s having fun.
But I don’t see her tall, slim figure or that itty-bitty ponytail anywhere. How long has it been since we parted? How much time passed while I was under the willow tree with Mat?
Too long…and not long enough.
I’m jerked out of my thoughts by the line of people stretched across the aisle. Ah. The khanom krok table. The smell alone should’ve clued me in. Designed to be eaten while hot, the snack is made up of two round caps of fried rice flour placed on top of each other, with coconut pudding oozing out of the middle.
Any other year, I’d wait in lines two, three, four times as long. But even as my mouth waters, I can’t bear the thought of standing still, not when my nerves are trying to escape from under my skin.
“Winnie! There you are.” Mama swipes the sweaty bangs off her forehead. “Take over for me, will you, ouan?”
“Ouan” means “fat” in Thai. But it’s an affectionate, rather than an offensive, nickname. According to traditional Thai folktales, demons were believed to steal newborn babies from their cribs, and unorthodox nicknames were a way of tricking them.
Without waiting for a response, Mama sinks onto a folding chair and presses an icy water bottle to her forehead. She opens the bottle, takes a swig, and then replaces it on her head, as though she can’t decide whether her thirst or her warmth needs more attention.
I step behind the portable griddle and flip a hoi tod. The battered oyster pancake sizzles on the hot surface. The sumptuous flavor will pair perfectly with the crunch of bean sprouts and the heat of the sriracha.
“Has Kavya stopped by?” I ask as the scent of the fried egg pancake teases me. I can just imagine biting into a hot, silky, buttery oyster. “I want to make sure she tries my favorite.”
Mama shakes he
r head fondly. “They’re all your favorites. Hoi tod. Nam phrik kapi. Yum pla duk foo. I don’t think I can name a Thai dish you don’t like. You’re my spice girl,” she says, without an inkling of the nineties pop girl group. “Eating massaman curry when you were two years old.”
“Ah. But if he wants to be my lover, then he has to get with my friends,” I quip.
The water bottle slips through her fingers, crashing onto the grass.
Aw, crap. What was I thinking? This is Clueless Parent 101. Do not quote unfamiliar pop songs to your overprotective mother.
“What lover? Are you referring to Mat?” Her voice rises in a hysterical pitch.
I stifle a groan. “It’s a song, Mama. I wasn’t talking about Mat or anyone else.”
I might as well have not spoken. “Winnie,” she says sternly. “Are you pregnant?”
Steam rises from my ears, and it has nothing to do with the oysters I’m cooking. “Seriously?” I grumble. “Must you always skip fifty million steps? I haven’t even kissed him yet.”
The “yet” slips out accidentally. I shut my mouth so fast that I bite my tongue.
Yelping, I drop the spatula and hold a hand up to my mouth. My elbow bumps into a stack of paper plates, spilling them to the ground, and the pancakes start burning.
Holy macaroni. This is not my day.
Mama takes a new, clean spatula out of a shopping bag and nudges me aside. Expertly, she removes the pancake from the heat and pours more batter on the griddle.
“I’m a pediatrician,” she says calmly, which just figures. So like Mama to sound the fire alarm, only to revert to the voice of reason. “I can recite to you the statistics surrounding teenage pregnancy. So you can’t blame me for asking the question. I have another. Do you need any contraceptives?”
I grit my teeth. “Oy tai, Mama. No.”
“I’m just asking,” she says, still composed, still serene. “It’s always better to ask.”
Before I can respond, Papa emerges from the crowd. He deposits two plastic bags of fresh bean sprouts on the table and pulls out a pan to start grilling them. “Good morning to two of the four loves of my life.” Glancing around furtively, he leans over and kisses Mama on the cheek.
I blink. “Hey. I saw that.”
Mama turns chili-pepper red. “Papa!” she says furiously. Once upon a time, they must’ve called each other by their nicknames. But for as long as I can remember, they’ve used the same name for each other as their daughters use. “What are you doing?”
I understand her outrage. PDA is particularly un-Thai. Uncommon for adults and unheard of for a good girl in her teens.
I don’t think I’ve seen any of the aunties and uncles of the older generation kiss each other, ever. They tell the filthiest jokes at the dinner table. They stay up until six a.m. on New Year’s Day singing karaoke. But the lips of one spouse never touch another’s in public.
Papa adjusts his wire-rimmed bifocals. “I just read this article,” he explains. “A person needs at least twelve hugs a day in order to thrive. With the twins gone, our daily allotment of hugs has dropped significantly. And I thought this would be a good way to up our supply.”
“That was a kiss, not a hug,” Mama retorts. She begins to plate the hoi tod and gestures for me to flip over the sign that states that the station is open for business once more.
“Your hands were busy,” Papa says practically.
I try not to giggle. I love my parents, as exasperating as they are. “Hey, can I hug people, too?”
“No,” they respond in unison.
“Do you want me to shrivel up and die?”
“Of course not. That came out wrong.” Papa darts a look at Mama, as though asking her permission, and then returns his attention to me once again. “I’ve been giving this a lot of thought. And, well, my first instinct is to suggest that you not hug, since I’m your father. But I have to face reality, too. You’re dating now, and so it’s not out of the realm of possibility that you might kiss someone. Among, uh, other things.” He winces. I wince even harder. “Winnie. We need to have a talk.”
“A talk?” I repeat warily. “About what, exactly?”
The tops of his cheeks turn pink. “I’ve been reading all sorts of articles, preparing for this moment. I’ve never had to do this before, you know. Your school offers sex ed, and goodness knows, the twins never seemed to want my help. Besides, they didn’t date in high school, so it was never an issue.” He whips out his phone, scrolling through the screen. “Hold on just one second. I’ve created graphics.”
My eyes widen. Holy moly. The twins may never have had this experience, but this is a first that I don’t want to have.
“Ah, here it is,” he says. “So you see, a male has a body part, called a penis, while a female possesses what is called a vagina—”
“Ahhh!” I cover my ears. “Make him stop. Mama, for all that is holy in this wat, please make him stop.”
“Now, now, Papa.” She ladles batter onto the grill. “Is this absolutely necessary?”
“Those words never have to come out of your mouth, ever,” I clarify.
He puts down the phone. “But I made a PowerPoint presentation so that I could be sure I got the explanation right. Don’t you want to see my slides?”
“Not with a single cell in my body.”
He blinks. “Are you sure? There’s this one diagram that’s particularly enlightening—”
“Oh, I see Dr. Song,” I say, spying Mat’s dad across the aisle. “He loves hoi tod. I think I’ll take him some.” I whisk up a plate and stride away.
“You forgot the sriracha!” Mama calls after me.
But I don’t turn around. Dr. Song is just going to have to enjoy his oysters without the chili because I can’t risk one more moment in Papa’s company.
Chapter Nineteen
“Dr. Song!” I call, flagging down Mat’s dad.
If Mat is my sworn enemy, then his father is the opposite. I’ve known him my entire life—literally—since he was the obstetrician who delivered me. He’s as close to me as a real uncle, and the only reason I call him “doctor” is because the title holds more reverence than “uncle.”
“Orrawin,” he says, my full name warm and affectionate on his lips.
There’s a moment of awkwardness as I lower my head over the plates I’m carrying, in an attempt to wai him. If I were a true Thai girl, instead of the Americanized version, I’d know the proper etiquette. Do I put down the plates first before greeting him? Where? On the ground, as there’s no nearby surface? Or do I hand him his plate and then wai him?
I don’t know the answer because I’m just a bumbling Thai American, who doesn’t belong fully to either world. And so the plates go up with my hands and kinda get smashed together as I pay my respects.
He smiles indulgently. “Hoi tod is my favorite. How did you know?”
“Because you were the one who taught me to eat it,” I remind him.
I remember the moment as if it were yesterday. I was five years old and on the verge of a tantrum because I didn’t have any champagne to toast, like the adults. Dr. Song swooped in, handing me a plate of hoi tod. He showed me exactly where to stab, to procure an entire oyster, and we held our seafood high in the air so that we could “chaiyo” like everyone else.
It was the first time anyone had treated me like a grown-up. His example set the bar for how I should act, rather than the way I wanted to act.
He gobbles down a bite now. “This dish always makes me wonder how Mat is my son. Refused to go near oysters ever since he was a kid, that one.”
“One of his many faults,” I say, forgetting that I’m speaking to his father. Oops.
But Dr. Song’s not insulted. “You always did keep him on his toes.”
We both pause to chew and swallow. I hand him a napkin, and he pats
his lips and regards me quizzically. “So. How do you like dating my son?”
I almost spray out the final bits of mashed-up oyster. “Er, okay. I guess.” My mind whirls. Does he read the composition notebook along with my parents? Maybe he thinks I’m a dating disaster. I wouldn’t mind if he pulls Mat from the project—but will that make my parents consider me a failure? “I mean, it’s going really well. I’m having such a wonderful time.” Great. Now he’ll think I’m in love. “The truth is—it’s…” I let out an exasperated breath. “The truth is, I don’t know what it is. What does Mat say?”
His eyes twinkle. “You know Mat—he doesn’t say much. But last Saturday, I caught him trying on half a dozen shirts before going to the mall with you.”
Wait, what? He changed his clothes before seeing me? Why?
I rack my brain, trying to even remember what he wore. Black jeans. A navy thermal shirt that hugged his solid chest. All in all, the outfit was pretty nondescript, even though he looked good. I mean, he always looks good.
I shake my head, but the muddled thoughts refuse to clear. “We’re not dating for real. It’s just a favor he’s doing for Mama. You know that, right?” I peer at him. “Since you gave Mat permission to trek across Asia? Another day for his trip for every day he fake-dated me.”
Dr. Song chews thoughtfully. “That’s right. As much as I’d like to, I can’t just hand over the funds for that trip, you know. Gotta make him work for it, even though we’re all each other’s got.”
I blink. “What do you mean, you’re all each other’s got? What about Auntie Nit? I know she’s in Thailand, taking care of her dying mother. But you still have her. I video call my sisters once a week. Don’t you do the same?”
Seconds pass, and the silence turns the ordinary conversation into something extraordinary.
I shift my weight. Now that I think about it, Auntie Nit’s been gone an awfully long time. Four years. The same duration that Mat and I haven’t been friends. Isn’t that a hefty amount of time for a person to be dying?