by Van Hoang
A snake maybe?
No way. It was at eye level, and it was too large to be a snake. But it was white and shiny and definitely looked like it had scales.
“Come on, Mochi,” she whispered, pulling him toward the fence. She knew she shouldn’t walk on private property, but the house had been empty since Thom and her mother had moved in. Except now, the FOR SALE sign was down.
Maybe someone had moved in.
There. Something shimmered again, like off the inside of a mother-of-pearl shell, just above the fence. But that was impossible. Snakes couldn’t fly, could they?
She shuddered, but moved deeper into the yard, too curious to be scared. Mochi whimpered but followed, close to her feet, almost tripping her. Something blue darted behind the house, and Thom rushed forward, with Mochi breaking into a run. When she and Mochi came around the corner, the backyard was empty. She searched the grass, but it had recently been cut, too short to hide much of anything.
She stopped and looked at her dog, who panted, sticking out his tongue. Must have been her imagination after all.
Before she could leave, the door opened. A boy about her age stepped onto the porch and stared at her.
Thom froze, caught standing in his yard, too panicked to run.
The boy didn’t stop staring, so she looked directly back at him. He was Asian, but she couldn’t pinpoint the exact ethnicity. Great. He probably thought they’d be instant best friends, and even though part of her wanted something like that more than anything, someone to talk to and sit with at lunch, someone who didn’t make her feel so lonely, a part of her didn’t.
What if Kathy felt the same way—that just because they were both Asian, everyone assumed they would be friends when Kathy didn’t even like Thom? Was that why Kathy had never wanted to be her friend? Thom’s heart sank with a flood of embarrassment. What if all this time, she’d made a fool of herself by trying so hard when all Kathy wanted to do was be left alone, not bothered by the new Asian kid just because they looked somewhat alike? Thom wouldn’t blame her.
The boy tossed his hair back and grinned widely. “Hi.”
His skin was pale in the way Ma loved—she was always complaining that Thom was too tan, especially since she’d joined soccer and spent hours every day in the sun. He had longish hair styled to perfection in a way Thom could only dream of, and wore fitted jeans hemmed at his calves.
Say something back. Clever. Not too squeaky.
“Hey?” It came out like she wasn’t sure it was the right thing to say.
Mochi lifted his leg and let out a stream of pee on the grass.
“Uh,” Thom said, desperately tugging on his leash, but Mochi ignored her, sniffing the air. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anyone had moved in. I thought I saw a snake or something.”
“Really?” The boy’s eyes darted back and forth. “Weird.” He cleared his throat. “I’m Kha. What’s your name?” He was Vietnamese then.
“Thom.”
He held out a hand, and she hesitated before moving forward to shake it. His skin was hot, like he had a fever, and she let go quickly, both in shock but also because she was afraid to hurt him. Even when she stepped back, he felt warm, or maybe she was overheated from standing in the sun.
“I have always liked it when girls have boys’ names,” Kha said.
She blushed. “Well, it’s also a girl’s name.”
“It means ‘pungent’?”
“‘Sweet-smelling,’” she said, echoing Ma’s explanation every time Thom asked why she’d chosen a boy’s name. “Like a rose.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, my grandma always says it when something smells delicious.”
Thom sighed. Every time she told someone her name, she had to defend it somehow, explaining what it meant or giving an excuse for having it. This probably never happened to Bethany. Or Sarah. Or Kathy.
“We just moved in,” Kha said.
“Cool.”
“You go to DeMille?”
“Yeah,” she said. “You?”
“Yeah. I start this week. Seventh grade.”
They were in the same grade. They might be in the same classes. Thom had skipped a grade back at her old school, when about half the kids her age were doing the same. It hadn’t seemed like such a bad idea then, but here in Troy, everyone was taller, bigger … meaner. Even some kids in the fifth grade were a foot taller than her.
“Maybe we’ll see each other at school.” He smiled.
Kha looked like he could be popular even if he didn’t try. You could just tell—some people were like that. Their very existence exclaimed cool. He had nice jeans and hair, for one thing, and he just looked comfortable, like nothing could bother him.
It would be nice to have someone to sit with at lunch instead of pretending she wasn’t hungry and hiding in the library. But he was probably just being nice, because, one, they were neighbors, and two, Asian. It felt like cheating, somehow, like she was using her culture to gain something she didn’t deserve.
And besides, who did he think he was? What if she were popular and too cool for him? How could he charge in and demand they be friends, just like that?
Actually, what she was really annoyed about was why she had never thought she could charge in and demand to have friends, just like that. People weren’t supposed to, were they?
“Yeah, maybe.” She tugged on Mochi’s leash as he moved toward Kha, his nose twitching, his tongue flopping out. He stopped suddenly, then whimpered, easing back and bumping against Thom’s leg.
“Um.” Kha’s wide eyes were fixed on Mochi. Was he afraid of dogs? Of Thom’s five-pound Pomeranian? Seriously, Mochi was made of 70 percent fur. “I gotta go,” Kha said. He stepped back into his house and grabbed the door.
Mochi growled and barked. She’d never seen him like this. Usually, he loved people and wanted to go home with everyone, as if he owed Thom and Ma absolutely no loyalty for raising and feeding him.
“Mochi,” Thom whispered. He whined and pulled toward their house. “What’s wrong with you?”
“See ya,” Kha said.
As soon as he closed the door, Mochi calmed down, prancing back to Thom and wagging his tail. But when she reached down to pet him, he whimpered and backed away.
“You are such a weird dog,” she said before tugging him toward home.
6
THOM KNEW SOMETHING WAS WRONG when she got back from her walk. She walked slowly into the living room to retrieve her backpack, but it was no longer on the couch. The room was spotless like usual, no throw pillows or blankets, just a plain white couch in front of the TV that they rarely watched, and several bookcases organized by genre and then author. Ma hated when Thom left things lying around, but she usually gave her at least until dinnertime to tidy up before scolding her. Why was the backpack already gone?
Ma was leaning against the dinner table, reading a piece of paper, Thom’s backpack lying open next to her hip. Thom lurched to a stop in horror.
“Thom, this is great. Why didn’t you tell me?” Ma waved the flyer for Culture Day. “You can wear your best áo dài! You’ll look cute. Everyone will love it.”
Thom opened her mouth to say something, but Ma kept going.
“You can wear the blue one with the pink flowers. Or maybe the white one—that’ll look better now that you’re dark. You need to stay out of the sun. Maybe if you stay inside until then, you’ll be pale enough and won’t look orange in the blue áo dài. Okay, that’s it, we keep you inside all weekend until Culture Day, and you won’t be tan anymore.”
Thom glanced at her reflection in the hallway mirror. She was tan even when soccer wasn’t in season, but Ma was obsessed with pale skin. She and Thuy’s mom had always lectured them to stay out of the sun, shoving hats in their hands and pushing the school to incorporate caps into their soccer uniforms. None of it had mattered, though, since they would never get the milky-white skin their mothers wanted.
But pale skin or not, Thom was never goin
g to wear an áo dài to school.
“You can wear the … What you call that in English?” She gestured around her head. “A headdress. Yes, we have a matching one for your blue áo dài. You really need to be careful and stay inside when you not soccer playing, okay? You got it?”
“Ma,” Thom started, but Ma, too excited, wasn’t listening. Thom never wanted to wear áo dài, not even when they lived in West City, where it wasn’t as weird. They were long traditional Vietnamese dresses, like maxi dresses, but slit down the sides and paired with flowy white pants. The neckline went up to your chin, and was made of stiffened silk or chiffon that pressed into your throat and made it hard to breathe. The buttons went across your collarbone and down to your left armpit, and if you so much as raised a finger, they popped open, which meant you always had to be careful and walk around like a robot. Plus áo dài were always too tight and uncomfortable, and she hated them.
But that wasn’t the only reason she didn’t want to wear them. She would be the only one in her school who would dress up in something so … Asian. She really couldn’t imagine Kathy wearing a hanbok to school, and even if she did, she would look beautiful and exotic, while Thom could clearly picture how the dynamic trio would laugh if Thom showed up in an áo dài, stiff and dorky. No way.
Ma clapped her hands together. “Shoes! We buy you new shoes. I saw sale at the mall—we go there now, buy two pairs, and then you get to pick which one you wear!”
“Ma.”
“I can’t wait. You gonna look so cute. Too bad Thuy is not here. Then you girls can both wear like sisters.”
“I don’t want to wear an áo dài.”
Ma’s mouth opened and closed. “What you mean you don’t want to wear áo dài? I got you some cute ones from Vietnam last year. They cost a lot of money, you know.”
“No, they didn’t. You go to Vietnam to buy them specifically because they’re cheap there.”
Ma rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine, but I buy for you, and you never wear. Such a waste. Don’t tell me it’s because you never get the chance—now the perfect chance.” She held out the flyer. “Maybe you can even do a dance, or recite poetry. Or play the đàn bầu. We can get you private tutor until then.”
“We don’t even own a đàn bầu,” Thom pointed out. It was a Vietnamese guitar-piano type of instrument. The ones that made you want to curl into a ball and die, they sounded so depressing. How Ma thought she was going to learn how to play a song on that thing in a few weeks, she had no idea. It was like saying she could learn to play a violin in the same amount of time.
“I special-order.”
It was getting hard to breathe. “Ma.”
“Why you don’t want to dress up for Culture Day? It’ll be fun.”
There was a strange tightening in Thom’s throat. Her nose burned like that time she’d tried wasabi.
“Because they’ll laugh at me!”
And then, to both their horror, Thom burst into tears.
Crying wasn’t really allowed in their house. Or expressing yourself outside of the two main emotions—serious and happy. Ma always said Thom should never cry unless someone died, because tears were sort of a bad omen, like crying could literally kill someone. Thom tried to stop as soon as she started, but tears squeezed out of her eyes and spilled off her chin.
Ma’s expression was furious, her eyes rounded, her fists clenched by her side, as if Thom had told her she was quitting school for good.
“Why you upset? Who hit at you at school? Tell me. I sue them. I sue their parents. I sue everyone.”
Thom tried to explain, but nothing came out except more tears. She stomped her foot, feeling like such a brat, but it was the only way she could express how she really felt.
“Okay, okay, stop already. I’m not dead yet. Why you cry?”
This, for some reason, worked. The tears stopped like a dam had sprung up out of nowhere, and inside, Thom felt numb, frozen.
This was why she really didn’t want to participate in Culture Day: It was a big fat joke. There were only two nonwhite kids at their school. Everyone else would look so cool in their historical costumes. She could only imagine how uncool she would look if she was the only one who showed up in something like an áo dài.
She sniffled and wiped her eyes.
“Anyone bully you at school, cưng?”
Thom shook her head.
“Good,” Ma said. “They bully you, you punch them once and they never bully you again.”
Thom choked back a half sob, half laugh. Ma had no idea how close to the truth that was. Because if Thom punched someone, they’d probably never walk again.
“Now tell me, why you don’t want to dress up for Culture Day?”
“Because everyone will laugh at me.” Thom could already picture Bethany and Sarah snickering behind their hands. She could only imagine what they would think of her and her weird-looking đàn bầu and her Vietnamese áo dài and headdress.
“Why they laugh? Áo dài beautiful. I show you some pictures.” Ma grabbed her phone.
“No, Ma, I don’t want to see pictures. I know what they look like.”
“See this one—so cute.” She showed Thom a long white dress with sumi-painted flowers. “And this one—you would look adorable.” She made an aww face at her phone, then at Thom, and then back at her phone.
Thom shook her head. “I’m not going to wear it. They’ll think I’m weird and…”
“And what?”
“And fobby,” she added in a low voice. The word tasted dirty. It meant FOB, “fresh off the boat,” something you called an immigrant who didn’t act as American or as cool as they should. It was the worst thing you could call an Asian person, especially when they hadn’t just moved and had lived in America for a long time, or in Thom’s case, was born here.
Ma crossed her arms. “What wrong with being fobby?”
Thom sighed. She regretted saying it, regretted saying anything. She should have just agreed, pretended to be happy and obedient, like a good, filial daughter.
“What’s wrong with being in touch with your culture?” Ma said. “You ashamed to be Vietnamese? Is that it? You don’t want kids to know you Asian?”
“Ma, everyone knows I’m Asian. It’s not like I can hide it.” Thom’s voice grew higher. She needed to stop Ma, convince her away from this madness. But once Ma set her mind on something, she saw it through, like the time she sued their old temple for teaching antifeminist ideas. She didn’t win, but Thom and her mother had stopped going. If Thom didn’t end this now, Ma would get her way and force Thom to dress up for Culture Day, and Thom would die. Emotionally. Psychologically. Literally. It would be the end of her social life.
“Being Vietnamese is cool. Better than being white like everyone else.”
“That’s not the point.”
But Thom couldn’t think of what the point was, if it wasn’t that. She just knew that no one at school liked her because she was so different. She looked different, she brought strange foods for lunch, and her mom was loud and spoke funny. Thom couldn’t change what her face looked like, but if she could hide everything else, if she could be a little less … herself … maybe they would accept her.
Ma shook her head, clicked her tongue, and pointed her index finger at Thom. “No, I think this exactly it. You think the white girls at your school are so cool you want to be just like them. That’s why you don’t bring rice to school and why you don’t want to use chopsticks and why you don’t want to wear áo dài to Culture Day. That’s why you hide this from me.” She shook the flyer.
“I didn’t hide it.”
“No, I know exactly what going on. Go put on your jacket.”
“Why?”
“I show you something. We leave now.”
“But—”
“What did I tell you to do?”
It was too late. There was no going back now. No changing her mind. Ma raised her brows at Thom, and Thom slumped up the stairs to get her jacket, e
ven though it was 80 degrees outside and she was already wearing one.
7
MA DIDN’T SAY A WORD on the drive, but she blasted Vietnamese ballads the whole way, which was even worse than any amount of lecturing. The staccato chords of the đàn bâu were painfully sharp, each beat throbbing through Thom’s head. She pressed her face against the glass and watched the traffic rush by.
When the car stopped, Thom opened the door, dragged herself outside, and followed Ma across the parking lot. They were at the Thien Than Temple. She hated this place. It was always dimly lit with creepy fake candles and eerily quiet, and it smelled like smoky incense and old prunes. The curving roofs sharpened sinisterly to razor points against the blue and orange sky. The eyes of stone dragons outside followed her, their shadows elongating in the golden light of the setting sun.
“What are we doing here?” For some reason, Thom felt the need to whisper.
Ma didn’t look at her. Thom was almost jogging to keep up with her brisk strides.
“To show you that Asian things are just as cool as white people things.”
“I believe you. Let’s go home.” The back of Thom’s neck tickled. “Is it even open? It looks closed.”
“It’s fine. Look, there are people praying.”
Inside the temple, candles punctuated the darkness, casting flickering shadows across the three statues. Guarded on either side by goddesses, a huge Buddha grinned at them like he knew a secret, a joke he didn’t intend on sharing, his huge earlobes sagging down to his chin. Thom recognized some of the mythical characters, but most of them blended together in her mind. They had once been mortals who had reached enlightenment and gone to the heavens, where they performed duties as fairies until they achieved true immortality and became gods.
“Look,” Ma said, pointing at all the statues. “Aren’t these cool? Better than your white-people heroes, right?”