A Pho Love Story

by Loan Le

  Something just for me.

  I take out my phone and text Ali.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN BẢO

  I groan the moment I walk into work. My mom and her circle are planted in one of the side booths, cackling about something. The General’s telling the story, her face pink with laughter. I’m sure this is after she brags about her son at Stanford and her other son at MIT, both of whom rarely come home.

  “The meats they use are never fresh! One day I’m sure they’ll poison their customers.”

  “You shouldn’t say things like that,” one of the women says while laughing, her voice nasal.

  “But it’s true. I swear. I’m surprised that restaurant is still standing.”

  Of course that’s why they’re laughing.

  Biting back my disgust, I quickly walk to the back, though not before registering my mom’s laugh, dimmed compared to the General’s. I wonder—considering how much she talks shit about the restaurant to me and my dad—does she really want Linh’s family gone that much? Does she truly want the other restaurant to fail so badly?

  I nod absentmindedly at one of the line cooks, Trần, who goes into a series of coughs as he breaks down cardboard boxes. Eddie’s prepping vegetables, his knife-chopping at warp-speed. A pile of onions takes over the prep table and newly washed aprons sit nearby for the taking.

  Before, I would have let these thoughts slide; they were normal things to hear. Not now, though. I remember Linh, her near breakdown in the alley, the pleasure in her mother’s voice as she heard how customers complimented her cooking.

  Maybe there’s good reason for the Mais to hate us.

  “God save us,” Việt groans as he enters the kitchen, backpack hanging off one shoulder. “Bà Nhi’s voice gives me the worst headaches.”

  I smirk. I call her the General, but Việt calls her by the term usually reserved for older people. Bà Nhi, bà quỷ.

  “At least she’s going to leave soon.”

  “How would you know that?”

  Việt swipes through his phone. “My mom says she heard from Tracy’s cousin’s uncle that Bà Nhi’s planning to get a nose job. So she has an appointment.” It takes a minute for me to connect the dots. “The uncle at Star Nails.” Still doesn’t help, but if Việt’s mom is the source, I’ll believe her. She’s judicious about the people around her.

  Trần, still dealing with the boxes, coughs so hard that spit flies from his mouth.

  “You okay, man?” I ask.

  “Ugh, I’ve been so sick. But I can’t miss out on work. Got some bills to pay.”

  My mom comes into the kitchen. “Mày bệnh hả?” she asks Trần. She doesn’t wait for an answer. Despite the usually threatening-sounding “mày,” she steps closer and rests the back of her hand against his forehead. “Why are you working? You are burning up.”

  “But—”

  “Go home. Sleep.”

  “I know but I kind of need the money and—”

  “Go home. You will get the money.” She pivots on her feet and heads to the stove where broth simmers in two pots. “Here, take some of this home. It’ll be good for your throat. Bệnh mà còn đi làm.” She tsks. Then she calls him an idiot.

  Again he tries to protest, but Mẹ steamrolls over him. She won’t take no for an answer. Giving up, Trần thanks my mom as he backs out of the kitchen.

  A few years ago, Trần’s wife had had their first daughter, but she couldn’t take off more work—her company didn’t have maternity leave—so on certain days, Mẹ let them leave the baby in the room with air-conditioning. The other servers and I would rotate shifts, poking our head in. Ba had worn the baby monitor on his belt like it was some fashion accessory. But my mom mostly looked after her, cooed at her in a pitch I’d never heard from her.

  I watch now as my mom gives Việt a to-do list for today, her voice sharp and leaving no room for arguments. This is the mom I see all the time. But she’s also the type of person who’d give a sick man a container of broth, who’d babysit a kid at a busy restaurant.

  My mom is still a kind person, even though she hangs around the General, and listens to jokes at the Mais’ expense. She has to be.

  * * *

  It’s 8:00 p.m. on the dot, and I’m finishing up to go home to do homework. My mom made a point to let me out early even though the shop closes at ten.

  I spot Linh’s door creeping open. That’s right. She also leaves at this time. She’s too busy stuffing something into her messenger bag to notice me at first. A week ago, I’d count the seconds until she was gone. Today, though…

  Risk. Once I think about it, I’ve never really taken a risk. But I’m taking a risk today. Seized by an emotion I can’t place, I’m out my own door in a split second.

  “Hey, Linh!” I shout.

  Alarmed, she looks up, then her expression melts into recognition. She says something, but a beat-up sedan decides to struggle through at the exact moment, dragging away her words. We smile when it’s gone. I realize my parents also have a clear view of us enemies fraternizing with each other.

  Getting the same idea, Linh gestures to a spot out of window view. She’s tied back her hair into two small buns, exposing her face so that when she’s smiling at me, like now, her left dimple shows. My stomach does a dismount. I recover and smile back as best I can.

  “So, there’s this boba place that I love,” Linh says, as if we’re just continuing a conversation. “7 Leaves.”

  “Yeah!” Hold back, Bảo. I clear my throat. “I mean, I’ve gone there all the time.”

  “You wanna meet there? We need to figure out some sort of plan if we’re going to work together.”

  “We are?”

  “Yes. I’ve decided, why not have some fun?”

  My heartbeat spikes in excitement. “Yes, a plan.” Apparently I can only say monosyllabic words. “I mean, that sounds great. Copacetic.”

  I wince. I just said that, didn’t I?

  Luckily Linh laughs. “Meet you there in an hour? Just want to change. I smell like fish sauce.”

  That gives me an hour to get ready. I probably smell like fish sauce too.

  I sniff myself.

  Yep.

  Once Linh disappears around the corner, I bolt in the opposite direction toward home.

  * * *

  I will be “studying with Việt.” The normal translation is that we’d just play games at his house. But now that’s changed. Việt texts me that I need to pay him each time I use him as my cover. When I respond with a GIF of Stephen Colbert lifting a certain finger, Việt merely sends back a kiss emoji. But really, any activity that was Việt-related was okay in my parents’ book and they barely acknowledged me as I flew out of the house, Mẹ occupied with a Korean drama because she’s all about the drama. Ba waved me aside, more preoccupied by his bowl of warm, sugary chè xôi nước.

  Linh is outside 7 Leaves, her hair free around her shoulders, dressed in jeans and a white tee.

  I never thought walking to the cashier would cause an internal freak-out, but it did. I order milk tea while Linh orders a strawberry. Do I pay? I should pay, right? The counter person, some twentysomething bored-as-hell guy glances between Linh and me, looking like he pities us. Awkward teenagers, he must be thinking. Then he sighs out loud. Definitely thinking about us. Just to relieve us from his gaze, I pull out my wallet and the cashier nods almost approvingly, like, Good on you, bud.

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Consider it payment for the chocolate milk the other day.”

  We get our drinks and sit down at a table sandwiched between two others: one table with a couple, Chinese from my guess, who act all lovey-dovey with each other, and another table with a grandpa sleeping on a stool—impressive—wearing a fishing hat, a black vest over a plaid long-sleeve shirt, and beige cargo shorts. A fisherman who doesn’t fish. The cashier says something, but the grandpa has zero reaction. Probably the owner or the owner’s father.

&nbs
p; The upside of meeting here is that it’s easy to see who’s here and who’s not. Especially if anyone is a part of Mẹ and the General’s group.

  The seat beneath me is chilly. My stomach gets jittery the moment we sit down together. The quiet in the room, the hum of the fridge, accent our proximity. Our ankles touch, and all of my body—I mean, all of it—wakes up.

  Linh’s taking out a notebook and pen; she’s serious about coming up with a plan, and maybe that’s the only reason she suggested meeting here. To get something off her checklist. I try to tell myself I’d be okay if all we talked about was the new beat.

  Only thing is, I’d be lying.

  “I’m nervous.”

  I glance over at her, but she has her eyes to the table, her fingers playing with the edge of her notebook.

  Maybe I should have played it off, thinking about how guys are supposed to be cool and charming—like the male leads of so many films: Chris Pine, Will Smith, Henry Golding. In reality I’m more of a Randall Park character. “Me too. I keep thinking someone we know will pop up and see us, and word will get around.”

  “Like spies wearing sunglasses.”

  Instantly, the image of my mom popping out from behind the serving counter, in sunglasses and some funny hat, nearly makes me choke on my drink. “I think we’re safe.”

  Linh cups her drink. “Part of me chose this place for that reason.” We smile sympathetically at each other. “But if you’re having second thoughts, you don’t have to do this. Ali can be pushy sometimes, but I can let her know this isn’t your thing.”

  “This could be my thing,” I joke. “It might even be my favorite thing out of all the things I like.”

  Linh catches on. “Careful or Ali might volunteer you for other things.”

  I pretend to shudder. “Don’t tell her.” The tension lets up and I want it to stay that way, so I rush through. “Look, I would honestly not be here if I didn’t want to be. But it’s sounding like you might be second-guessing all this.”

  This time, she raises her chin, like she’s accepting a challenge. “I’m not. Not anymore.” She fiddles with her straw. “Why are you here?”

  “Because I’ve been thinking that it’s ridiculous we grew up across from each other and never truly met. Because the night we worked together proved that you aren’t like what I’ve been told. Well, at least what I’ve heard about your family.”

  “What have you heard about us?”

  I hesitate to answer. It might cut this meeting short. “You really want to know?”

  Linh nods.

  “Gang members.”

  “What? That’s what my parents have said about you!”

  I try to picture my parents as gang members—my mom might actually be a believable leader—but I keep that to myself. “They also said… that you drove out Bác Xuân from his place.” Linh’s mouth drops open at that. She looks truly offended, and I wish I could take it back. “I mean, that’s what I’ve heard. I’m not saying I believe it.”

  “We would never! He was a family friend. I was there the moment he told my parents that he wanted to retire. That he wanted to spend more time with his grandchildren! Did your mom say that to you?” My face must have given me away. “Honestly, your mom can be brutal.”

  I bristle. It’s never a good feeling to hear someone you know get called out. “You think she’s brutal? Haven’t you met Nhi Trưng? She’s the real leader. She’s the worst.”

  Something we can agree on. A part of me is relieved the attention’s off my mom; I’m not sure I want to hear more about what may have been said against us.

  “Oh, we know about her,” Linh says. “She wanted the restaurant so badly that she wanted to drive us out to get it. I’m sure she’s still trying.”

  I shrug helplessly. I have nothing to use as a counterargument, because it’s true.

  “Sorry,” I manage, worried that I’ve ruined things before we could even start working together. In my mind, this newspaper project is like an old rickety bridge above a roaring waterfall. One false move and we’ll tumble over.

  “I’m not mad at you. It’s just—” She has a faraway look in her eyes. “I wonder what else we’ve been told that turns out to have been a simple rumor that grew into something else.”

  I lean forward. Careful. “We can agree that our parents are both protective of the businesses and maybe that’s why they’re like this. I know my parents have spent everything on the restaurant. I can’t tell you how many times they’ve worked through nights just to make ends meet.”

  Linh grimaces. “I know. Nights when they probably left us alone more often than they should have.”

  “And when we were too young to stay home by ourselves.”

  “It’s one of the best-kept secrets in this community.”

  The bridge is stable again.

  “What was it like for you, growing up in a restaurant?” I ask. “All of my childhood memories seem to have taken place there.”

  Linh’s eyes light up. “Let me guess: It’s where you’ve watched all segments of Paris by Night? Played lava across the tiles?”

  “Yes! Getting side-eyed by the regular customers whenever I took over a whole booth.”

  “Did you have a nap room, too?”

  “You mean the place where we stored our bags of rice?”

  It was really like parallel lives. The storage room, with all the rice and nonperishable foods, was where I napped as a kid, and as weird as it was, it still brought me comfort whenever I walked in to grab something. I remember it now—the hot summers when I wasn’t yet in school, sleeping on a small cot while my parents were working in the kitchen. A pink fan near the end of its life jaggedly blowing cool air at me. A tiny dictionary that my parents kept there just in case they needed to look up words from the customers—I’d look through it when I was bored being out in the main room. A small stool for Mẹ to sit on when she fed me lunch, which happened after naptime.

  “I guess to answer your question about growing up in the business: It hasn’t been completely bad. I mean, sometimes I’d rather be drawing instead of working, but”—Linh shrugs—“it’s such a part of my life that I can’t separate myself from it… as much as I try to.”

  Underneath Linh’s writing notebook, I spot a sketchbook—white with a bunch of doodles on it: her artwork. Ignoring her questioning look, I take it from under her arm, examining the drawing, which is similar in style to her family restaurant’s flyer, only this time it’s of a couple strolling down a brightly lit boulevard in some city. It feels like I’m there with the couple.

  “Nice. It’s cool. Looks like New York.” I slide the sketchbook back at her.

  “I’ve never been. It’s just something I pulled from Google images.” She mumbles the last part, as if she’s embarrassed.

  “Do you want to go to New York?”

  “I don’t know, really. I feel like that’s what real artists are supposed to do, and I can see why. It’s probably cool to see all the skyscrapers, stand in Times Square, just seeing all sorts of different people and cultures. But I can’t even think about that yet. I first have to figure out a way to tell my parents that I don’t want to do engineering.”

  I make a face. Engineering. It seems too boring for Linh. Where would her colors go?

  “So your parents are the typical Asian parents.”

  She nods almost morosely.

  “I think you should be an artist.”

  A short laugh escapes her and some tension leaves her face. “Okay, sure, that solves everything.”

  “You’re really serious about art. Even when I met you that day. You did some damage to that paper with your crayons.”

  “You were the kid with the bowl cut and weird Spider-Man obsession,” she recalls, the corners of her eyes crinkling. She’s smiling.

  I raise my hands in defense. “Don’t tell me you weren’t obsessed with something when you were younger. Mine just happened to be Spider-Man. You apparently had something agains
t art supplies. Poor crayons.”

  “It was a pointillist drawing!”

  There’s a look that people get when they’re excited—a spark, I guess, in their eyes. I see it when Việt’s face lights up, talking about the latest SVU episode. In Mẹ when she’s cooking bánh xèo. In Ba whenever good food is involved. Even Allison’s focused gleam as we’re in the newsroom comes to mind. Here, with Linh, she has that sort of light behind her eyes. Makes me want to know what that’s like.

  “Can you tell me about it? Your art—like, what it’s like when you’re working on something?”

  Linh sits back, chewing on a boba. “It’s like I go away from my body for a second. It’s not an out-of-body experience, exactly. Like, I’m not hovering over my body or anything like that. But I guess I’m zoned in. And nothing can distract me. Whenever I’m working on a piece, my mom always complains that I don’t hear her when it’s time for dinner.”

  Then the gleam kind of disappears and she has a faraway look in her eyes. She shakes her head, coming back, not telling me where she went, even though I think I know. Her parents probably popped into her mind. “What about you? What do you like? Are your parents bugging you to do something you don’t want to do?”

  “I’m basically a failure and they’d be happy if I just found something to do.” Let’s get right to the truth of it.

  “Oh, c’mon.”

  “No, really, I’m nothing compared to Linh Mai of the Oh Mai Mai family.”

  “Be serious.”

  I shift in my seat. She thinks I’m kidding, but how do I tell her I’m not? “I’m not good at anything. I’m not sure I will ever be.”

  “There must be something. Cooking?”

  “There’s a reason why I’m not allowed to stay long in the kitchen.”

  “Singing?”

  “Sure, I can sing a song now, but I wouldn’t want to traumatize you.”

  “Sports?” At my look, Linh stifles a laugh. “Well, who cares if you’re good at anything? What do you love? What can’t you live without?”