Girl Giant and the Monkey King

by Van Hoang

  Ma hated to cook, which meant they were having frozen dumplings, scallion pancakes, and broccoli beef, heated in the microwave for dinner. Their dog, Mochi, a white Pomeranian with brown spots, followed her from the dining room to the kitchen, licking his lips and panting each time the smell of a new dish filled the house.

  Thom set the table with two pairs of chopsticks, two spoons, and a paper towel torn in half—one half for each of them. Mochi pranced up to her, his fluffy tail wagging, nails clicking on the tiled floor. Thom reached down to pet him. He came close to sniff her hand, started shivering, and then backed away with a whimper.

  Ma carried a plate to the table. “Mochi, stop it. It’s just Thommy.”

  Thom straightened, and Mochi stopped shaking. He looked up and wagged his tail, so she reached for him again, but then he started shivering again. Her insides tightened and numbed. Even her own dog didn’t like her.

  “It’s okay, cưng,” Ma said.

  Thom was usually embarrassed when her mom called her sweetie in Vietnamese, but at least they were at home and no one could hear. Funny how back in West City, it had never bothered her—the way Ma talked—but now in Troy, Thom didn’t want anyone to hear. Everyone would think it sounded funny. Not haha funny but weirdo funny. And even though she’d never heard anyone make fun of Ma’s accent, she was acutely aware of how Asian it sounded, here in Troy, where Kathy’s family was the only other Asian family they knew.

  “He just being weird,” Ma added. “Come eat. The food is ready.”

  They sat down at the glass kitchen table, which was lined with old newspapers instead of a real tablecloth. Ma piled Thom’s small bowl with beef and dumplings, topping off the mountain with a scallion pancake that threatened to avalanche onto the table.

  “Eat, eat, eat,” she said, waving her hand. “You so small. They not feeding you enough at school. Eat, or they think I starve you.”

  Thom picked up her chopsticks, and they snapped in half, the pieces clattering onto the table. She looked up quickly at Ma to gauge her reaction: Was she mad? Freaked-out? But Ma just tsked, got a different pair from the kitchen, and positioned them correctly in Thom’s hand, so that one was balanced on her middle finger and another on her index.

  “Thanks,” Thom said, reaching for a clump of rice, but her grip must have been too strong again, because this time the chopsticks bent. She was being so gentle, too. She looked at her mother again and caught the widened eyes before Ma fixed her expression into a reassuring smile. “Can I just get a fork?” asked Thom.

  “Ayah, you’ll never learn to use chopsticks if you never practice. Go get another pair.”

  “But—”

  “You ashamed of your culture?”

  “No, I … What does that have to do with chopsticks, Ma?”

  “Asians use chopsticks.”

  “Not all of them,” Thom mumbled.

  “I say go get another pair.”

  Thom slunk to the kitchen, then sat back down, holding the chopsticks with the lightest touch she could manage without dropping them.

  “You talk to Thuy?” Ma asked.

  She nodded, even though it was a lie. Thuy was Thom’s best friend at her old school. They had done everything and gone everywhere together. People thought they were sisters. Though, thinking about it, that was also probably because they were both Asian and had the same dark hair and were about the same height. Truthfully, Thuy had always been much prettier than Thom—her nose was slim, her hair a thick, dark frame around her small face. Thom, on the other hand, had cheeks so chubby that her aunties pinched them until they turned red, a wide, flat nose, and a ruddy complexion that always made people ask her if she was okay, because she looked flushed.

  Now the time difference between Georgia and California and Thuy’s strict tutoring schedule made it impossible for the two of them to talk. Texting was easier, but Thuy hadn’t responded to her last three messages and Thom had given up on checking her phone every few minutes.

  “How she doing?” Ma asked.

  “Good.”

  “You make any new friends at school today?”

  Thom tried to take a bite of the pancake, but it was too chewy—Ma had left it in the microwave for too long—so she shoved the whole thing in her mouth, which gave her an excuse not to answer.

  Ma tsked. “You never get husband if you eat like that.” She shook her head. “Friends?” Ma asked again. She always insisted that this was the true path to happiness. Surround yourself with people, bury yourself in your studies, and keep yourself busy enough that you’ll never have time to realize how miserable you are. It didn’t explain why she had suddenly taken a new job in Troy at the college library. They’d had to move across the country, away from everyone they’d ever known.

  Thom swallowed the lump of pancake. It threatened to lodge halfway down, but then, painfully, it passed. Ma cleared her throat.

  Thom shook her head. No friends.

  “It’s okay. Give it time,” Ma said.

  “Why can’t we move back?” Thom asked. It was the same question she asked almost every day.

  “DeMille is a good school. Lots of good teachers—”

  “It sucks!” Thom blurted.

  “Hey.” Ma’s chopsticks clattered on the glass table. “No bad words.”

  Thom cowered under the Asian stare of death, Ma’s eyes widening, the whites showing, her pupils hardening to sharp black points.

  “‘Sucks’ is not a bad word,” Thom muttered.

  “I pay lots of money for you to go to DeMille. You should be grateful you have opportunity. I make lots of sacrifice for you.”

  Thom stuck her chopsticks into her mound of rice and swirled everything around until the dumpling broke and bits of green veggies and pink-and-white shrimp meat spilled out like guts. She hated it here, hated her school, hated how everyone stared before quickly looking away, hated the way her teachers spoke to her like she was dumb and then were surprised when she spoke English just as well as, if not better than, the other students. She hated how everyone commented on the fact that she had no accent—as if having an accent were a bad thing—hated how everyone laughed behind their hands or how a group of girls stopped talking when she approached.

  She missed her old life.

  “Are you listening to me?” Ma asked.

  Thom nodded.

  “Hey,” Ma said, trying to sound cheerful. “How ’bout we go get boba, hah?”

  Thom’s mouth watered at the thought of an ice-blended lychee frostie with tapioca pearls and jelly, or, no, maybe iced milk tea and popcorn chicken. But then she pictured walking out of the café with her mom, holding her cup with its jumbo-sized straw. It would be just her luck that Bethany or Sarah would see her doing the most Asian thing possible in Troy, as if she weren’t enough of an outsider already.

  “No,” Thom said, and Ma’s face fell. “It’s too far.” Another thing she couldn’t get over—the nearest boba place was thirty minutes away. Back in LA, there was one on almost every block.

  “That’s okay,” Ma said, too cheerful. “It’s worth it. We can get wontons too!”

  Oh God, wontons. Thom missed wontons. But she couldn’t risk running into a classmate. So she used the only excuse she knew Ma would understand.

  “I have a lot of homework.”

  Ma went quiet, then let out a breath. She reached out and patted Thom’s hand. “I’m sorry, cưng,” she said. Thom knew Ma cared about her; she knew that everything Ma did was for her future. It didn’t mean she liked it. “I know things are hard, but just give it some time, hmm?”

  Thom nodded, and Ma squeezed her wrist—the equivalent of a Vietnamese hug—before picking up her chopsticks again.

  But how much time was this going to take? How much longer did Thom have to keep this up?

  4

  AT SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY, there was an announcement from the administrator’s office.

  “Good afternoon, Dolphins.”

  Everyone snickered,
and imitated dolphins giggling, which happened every time their mascot was mentioned. The teacher stood up from her desk and shushed them so hard the blood vessel in her forehead threatened to pop.

  Thom stared at the speaker at the front of the room, the one part of the wall that hadn’t been covered in colorful butcher paper, bright inspirational posters, or examples of other students’ art projects.

  “Welcome back to another wonderful school year,” Peter Jenkens, the student body president, announced over the intercom. “Woo-hoo! Don’t forget that the early-bird rate for the fall dance ends September fifteenth. Pay now, or you’ll be charged an extra fifteen bucks! Also, DeMille Middle School’s first-ever annual Culture Day is coming up in a few weeks! Students are required to pair up with someone else in their homeroom and present an art project. For extra credit, you can also dress up or join the talent show! Sign up with Mrs. Stevenson if you plan to perform. Slots are open for dancing, singing, and … poetry reading?” The sound of papers shuffling came across the intercom. “Uh, okay. Even if you don’t perform, participate by dressing up in your culture’s best traditional outfit and show us all where you come from!”

  As if. Thom looked around the room, but no one was paying attention to her. They were all whispering to one another. One student was busy drawing mustaches on an inspirational poster of a celebrity telling them to read. The teacher was distracted, but it’s not like she would notice, since so much motivational artwork covered the walls.

  Who was going to want to pair up with Thom? She made a mental note to never tell Ma about Culture Day. If Ma found out about the extra credit, she would probably dress Thom up, from head to toe, in ancient Vietnamese garb, and then Thom could kiss making friends here goodbye.

  Maybe she could partner with Kathy Joon. Bethany and Sarah would probably work together, so Kathy would need a partner, and she was Asian, too. Then again, Kathy was different. She was like magic, made of bright, shiny hair and a honey-milk complexion wrapped in the silky sheen of popularity. Was Kathy going to dress up in one of those puffy Korean dresses? A hanbok? She would look so cool.

  Even among Asians, Thom had always felt like a minority. Everyone usually assumed she was Japanese, Chinese, or Korean before eventually getting to Vietnamese, and probably only because they had heard about the war at some point.

  Kathy turned around, and Thom didn’t look away fast enough. To Thom’s horror, their eyes met for a full second. Kathy’s eyebrows lifted slowly before she whispered something to Bethany, who glared at Thom over her shoulder.

  Thom lurched upright. She didn’t know what to do. She forced her lips into a smile, hoping that would do the trick, but Bethany looked away.

  Thom’s face grew hot. Why had she stared at Kathy like that? Her mind had been on traditional dresses and Culture Day, but now they were going to think she’d been obsessing over Kathy like some stalker freak.

  As soon as the bell rang, she hightailed it out of there. It didn’t matter how fast she ran, though; she would still have to face them during soccer practice. God, why couldn’t she just be normal? No wonder she had no friends.

  * * *

  It turned out that she had nothing to worry about, because the dynamic trio treated her the same way they always had: like she didn’t exist.

  After the nearly lethal kick yesterday, believe it or not, Coach Pendergrass seemed to trust Thom more, sending her after the ball and calling her forward in the drills. But it didn’t take Coach long to come to the conclusion that yesterday had just been a fluke. Thom still couldn’t kick the ball right—she tried to only tap it with her toe, and even then it flew too fast and too far for her teammates, which made them shoot her dirty looks. Some of them retaliated, kicking the soccer ball straight at Thom. But it didn’t hurt—at least, not physically.

  By the time practice was over, Thom was ready to burst into tears. Her throat hurt from holding them back, and she didn’t even bother changing, just stuffed everything into her gym bag and rushed out of the locker room.

  Ma was reading a paperback when she reached the car. Thom yanked the door handle so hard it fell off. Fumbling, she quickly tried to reattach it without Ma noticing. But when she looked up, her mother was staring with her mouth open.

  “Thom,” Ma said from inside the car.

  There was no way for Thom to open the door, now that she clutched the broken handle. Ma looked around, like she was checking to see if anyone else had seen. Then she reached over and let Thom in.

  Before Ma could start, Thom apologized profusely. “I’m so sorry. I was just in a hurry. I want to go home. Can we please just go? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Will it be expensive to fix?”

  Ma regarded Thom carefully. “It’s no problem, cưng, we just ask Uncle Kevin to fix it.”

  Uncle Kevin wasn’t really Thom’s uncle, just Ma’s good friend. He didn’t know about Thom’s … condition, of course. No one did. Ma called him every few months to ask him to fix something—with the car, the house, or whatever Thom had accidentally broken. He never asked any questions, not even after the time she had reached for a light switch and ripped it clean off the wall instead.

  “But Uncle Kevin is in California,” Thom said.

  Ma’s face broke for a second, as if she had forgotten they lived in another world now. “Oh, right. No worry. I will take it to different mechanic.”

  The good thing about Ma was that she could always tell when something was upsetting Thom, but she didn’t ask questions, didn’t probe. Thankfully, she turned on the radio and began driving.

  She hummed a ballad as Thom buckled her seat belt. The car lurched forward as Ma shifted gears to exit the parking lot. No one drove a manual these days, which according to Ma, made it the ultimate antitheft device, since no one knew how to drive a manual anymore. To Thom, it only meant lurchy car rides on top of her mom’s questionable driving techniques and angry outbursts at other drivers.

  “How was your day, cưng?” she said.

  “Ma.” Thom felt the need to look over her shoulder, even though the windows were closed and no one could have heard. “I told you not to call me that when we’re at school.”

  “Why? You’re my sweetie, aren’t you?” At the stoplight, she kissed Thom on the forehead, grabbed her chin, and tilted her face up to look into her eyes. “What’s wrong? Something happen? Who you beat up today?”

  This was a running joke Ma thought was hilarious because Thom was so small.

  “Funny,” Thom muttered through the lump in her throat. “Ma…” She looked down at her hands. “Do you think…” She couldn’t finish the question.

  “What is it, cưng?”

  Thom’s vision blurred around the edges. “What would happen if I … quit the … soccer team?” It had never been an option before, not only because she’d loved soccer too much to consider it, but because Ma never let her quit anything.

  Ma was quiet for a long time. “You want to quit?”

  “No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “But you love soccer.”

  She still loved it. But it wasn’t the same here. Not without her friends.

  “Why?” Ma asked.

  Thom wanted to tell Ma about the bullying, the teasing, the laughing. But Ma wouldn’t understand those as reasons to quit. She would just tell Thom to ignore it, and point out that one day Thom would be a doctor while those girls flipped burgers or whatever. Even though Thom was deathly afraid of needles.

  “I just don’t like it,” she said.

  “What you mean? You play since you were nine, remember? With Thuy and your friends. I even buy you new shoes! You wanted the ones that go clippety-clop so much.”

  Thom looked out the window, pressing her lips together.

  “Maybe give it a few more months, hah?” Ma said. “Finish the season. And next year if you don’t want to play anymore, you don’t try out again.”

  Thom bit the inside of her cheek and nodded.

  5

  WHEN THEY GOT BA
CK TO the house, Ma reached for Thom’s lunch pack, frowning at its weight.

  “You didn’t eat the food I make for you?”

  Thom reached down to pet Mochi, but he shied away just as her fingers brushed his fur. “Um, no. I bought pizza from the cafeteria instead.”

  “Why?” Ma took out the bento box full of rice. “I told you not to waste food. You don’t like it?”

  Thom grabbed Mochi’s leash. “It’s just … no one else brings lunch from home,” she lied. Other kids brought food, too, but no one else brought bento boxes with five different side dishes.

  Ma frowned as she dumped the food into the trash. “You didn’t even eat the meat, cưng. That’s precious. In Vietnam, we never get to eat meat like this, you know. Such a waste.” She tsked. “You can’t eat greasy American food all day—it’s not healthy.”

  “Can I bring, like, sandwiches and stuff? Or maybe”—Thom gulped—“salad?”

  “Salad?” Ma grimaced, looking as horrified as Thom felt. “You don’t like rice?”

  “I like it,” Thom said quickly. “Just not for school.” She looked away from Ma’s confused expression. “I’ll eat extra for dinner.”

  Ma turned to the sink, so Thom couldn’t read her expression. “Okay then,” she said, but Thom couldn’t tell if it was a good okay or a bad okay.

  She left with Mochi on their walk before Ma could ask her any more questions. Thom didn’t hate rice, or Asian food in general, but most of the time, the dishes were stinky, and other kids always stared at whatever she’d brought. Maybe someone would sit and eat with her if she brought something less Asian, or if she ate whatever the cafeteria served.

  It was four in the afternoon, and the sun was blazing hot. Thom squinted and shielded her eyes with a hand, letting Mochi tug her down the sidewalk. Moisture clung to Thom’s skin, making the air feel even hotter. She swatted a mosquito that buzzed and landed on her arm, then almost swallowed a gnat. This place was the worst.

  As she walked on the grass beside her next-door neighbor’s house, Thom saw something out of the corner of her eye. Something big and shiny, fluttering in the wind. Or maybe the bright sun was playing tricks on her eyes. But she could have sworn she saw it dart around the bushes that separated the two properties.