by Loan Le
* * *
That feeling of missing having my sister around? Disappears in not even two hours, especially since Evie’s back to sharing a room with me for the weekend. She’s already dismayed by how messy I’ve made it. “If I find one thing missing, I’ll kill you,” she says casually as she searches her drawer for something. I actually think she’s taking inventory until she pulls out Q-tips. She just emerged from the shower and has her long hair wrapped up in a towel turban.
Evie bends over to examine a sketch of mine. “This one’s great. Did you just draw it?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t understand how you can do things like this. See something, then put it on paper. I can barely do stick drawings.” She’s only teasing me; she’s remembering the kitchen table conversation.
“Tell that to Mẹ and Ba.”
She sits down on the edge of my bed. “They told me about your interview with that engineer. I almost didn’t believe it. How’d it go?”
“Horrible.”
“Figured. Engineering’s not for you.” She says it like an undisputed fact, though I wish it were my parents stating that. “I have tons of friends majoring in engineering. They’re logical, organized—” I throw my pillow at her, which Evie deftly catches with a grin. “Hey, I’m not finished! What I mean to add is a ‘but.’ They can’t look at a painting and see what you see. And they can’t create things like you do. Not instinctively like you do.”
Now I want to take back my pillow. She’s being nice. She’s always nice.
“I think about telling them. But I have this feeling that it won’t go well.”
In a better reality, Evie would dispute that fact, would tell me to “go for it.” But Evie is Evie. She grew up with me. She knows our parents. She knows what they’ve said about having art as a career. So thoughtful silence is the expected response.
“I lied about it going well,” I admit.
“Figured. You know how your face gives you away.”
“You’re, like, the fourth person to say that about me!”
She lifts her chin, appearing haughty. “I’m your sister, so I know. I always knew whenever you stole one of my shirts.”
I roll my eyes. “That only happened twice.”
She points at me. “Lie.”
I shrug. I might have stolen from her a couple more times, but at least she’s older and she won’t enact revenge against—“Oof!” The pillow slams in my face.
“Evie!” I protest loudly.
From their bedroom, where Ba was probably trying to fall asleep, he yells for us to quiet down.
We laugh mutedly and fall back into bed. Evie cuddles closer to me, while I pretend to kick her away, telling her to go back to her bed. But we only have a day or two together, and then she’ll be back at UC Davis, miles away, living a completely different life from me. I don’t mean it. I want her close by.
In one perfect move, Evie launches the pillow at the light switch, and we fall under darkness. We lie in silence. I’m counting each time the ceiling fan makes a complete turn, signaled by a nearly indescribable screech.
“UC Davis is good?”
“It’s better than I could have ever imagined, Linh. The campus is beautiful. And the science lab—” She sighs. It sounds like she fell in love with her lab instead of, like, a person.
I envy her. She’s where she wanted to be. Where she always dreamed of going. Plus, while she and my parents have disagreed on things—curfew and sleeping over at a friend’s house—they’ve never argued about Evie’s future. They never had an issue with it.
“I wish I could like what you like,” I whisper in the dark.
Evie’s foot touches mine; it’s cold and I kick her. I can feel her smile in the dark. “If you liked what I liked, you wouldn’t be Linh.”
“Life would be so much easier if I liked what you liked, though.”
“Easier?” I imagine her lifting herself into a sitting position. “How would that have made it easier?”
“It’s something safe. It’s something our parents approve of.”
“Safe. Huh.”
I sense Evie’s mood shifting, then I replay what I just said. “I don’t mean that in a bad way, Evie. It’s just, you’re doing something that Mẹ and Ba approve of. Meanwhile, I want to be an artist. Definitely what they wouldn’t want me to do.”
She doesn’t answer right away and it’s making me uneasy. I have half a mind to get up from bed and turn on the lights, just so that I can see her expression.
Then she sighs. “It’s not easy, Linh. It’s never been easy.”
She’s speaking not at me, but to me. “If I’d ever taken an art class in high school, I’d get an earful. Whenever I asked them to hang out with a friend after school, they’d say no, there were too many things I needed to do. I had to wear them down. But for you, it’s different. They treat you differently. They allow you to do more things.
“And there are some moments where I think about how I decided on biology. Am I doing this because Ba and Mẹ pushed me toward it? Or did I always like biology? Where does the line between what I want and what our parents want end?” I had to think, too. I’m not so sure. “See, I don’t know. It’s different for you, though. Two years makes a whole lot of difference.”
“I’m sorry,” I say in the dark. “I didn’t… well, I guess I didn’t notice.” But I was only younger by two years, and I lived in the same house, so how could I have missed this?
Evie eases back into bed. She throws her leg over mine. “It’s generally accepted that in families like ours, the older kids have it way harder. We’re the guinea pigs in a real-world lab.” Her tone shifts to something more playful. “What did Hasan Minhaj say one time? Older siblings ‘go to war’ for their younger siblings? Because that’s what it was like. That’s what I did. So that really means, you owe me everything.”
I shove her lightly by the shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re made for biology. I don’t remember you ever liking anything else.”
“That could be.” Evie sighs, and yawns.
CHAPTER NINETEEN BẢO
Slowly, I’m getting used to being on the newspaper, being a part of a team. After the success of my first review, Ali’s not so on top of me anymore. In her eyes, I’ve stepped up; she’s still delegating proofreading tasks to me, but she’s giving me multiple articles—more than anyone else on the editing team.
My classmates are coming by to talk about their edits, having revised what they wrote and asking me to look them over. One side of me wonders if they ask me because Ali can be a little intense—“passionate” was Linh’s word—but I like to think that they truly want my help. Even if my classmates are using me to avoid Ali, it feels good to be approached like this. To have them trust me with their work.
Each writer looks at language so differently. Ali focuses on the message in writing—is the point getting across? Where can the writer be clearer in their intention? Me, I like the writer’s style. One person can say something that’s been said before but in a way that’s completely different; their unique experiences and personality infuse their words, their sentences.
I’m working with Ernie’s article summarizing the National Honor Society’s induction of new members. Ernie shrinks under attention in person, so whether he knows it or not, he uses a lot of passive voice in his writing. Things are done to the subject; the subject isn’t taking action. The budget cut to the arts was cut by the budget committee—not the budget committee cut the budget for the arts program. Compared to Ali’s writing, which gets straight to the point, Ernie lacks confidence.
“I couldn’t get into astronomy; that’s the only reason why I’m here,” he says glumly, reading my edits.
“I didn’t want to take this class either,” I say, trying to cheer him up.
“Yeah, but you’re good at it. And Ali doesn’t go after you.” As if she were right behind us, Ernie glances over his shoulder.
Ali’s sandwiched between two desig
ners huddling around her. They’re going over proofs for the next issue. I might not understand their process, though I don’t have to. It’s hers, it’s theirs, something only they can understand.
Ernie’s eyebrows scrunch together like he’s reading a different language. I know where he’s coming from.
“Journalism might not be for everyone, but you’re not bad at all. Maybe you just need to find something you like writing about,” I finally say, channeling Linh. “What are you interested in?”
“I dunno. I like skateboarding. Reading comics.”
“Anything else?”
“I guess I watch a lot of Netflix. TV stuff.”
I remember Ali trying to recruit Việt as a writer. This might be perfect. “Would you want to write about a show? You can ask Ali if you can do it. She’s looking for a reviewer.”
“Really?” he asks hesitantly. “Do you think she’ll let me?”
Looks like I’m not the only person who’s intimidated by her. I laugh. “I’ll talk to her.”
Later, as the dismissal bell rings and students fly out of the classroom, I stop by Ali as she’s scrolling through her phone, answering texts. “Oh, hey, Bảo. Did you work through Ernie’s article? Thought it needed to be tightened but otherwise it’s good to print.”
“Yeah, everything worked out. I heard Ernie’s into TV shows. Watches a lot of Netflix. Maybe he should try the entertainment section.”
“Really? He never told me that.”
“He didn’t know we had an open spot.”
Ali nods, calculating something in her head. “Sure. Why not?” The alarm clock on her phone goes off. “Shit, I’m gonna be late.”
“Where are you going?”
“Part-time gig at a local newspaper.”
“You work at a school newspaper and a real newspaper too?”
“Of course, what else would I do with my time?” she says simply. I pretend not to look so shocked but, first she doesn’t use study hall in favor of heading the newspaper here. And now I learned that she also works part-time. She must really love the newspaper.
* * *
Imagine my surprise when one of Việt’s friends sits down in front of me at lunch. It’s miserable and raining outside so most people are in the cafeteria. Việt hasn’t even sat yet, but Steve, the banana-eating captain, takes a seat across from me. He’s grown out his brown hair, tied it into a little ponytail—to be ironic? In all our time together, we haven’t really held a conversation.
“Hey, you busy?”
“Uh, no.”
“I wanted to see if you can do something for me.”
“You’re asking me?”
“Yeah, Việt said you’re on the newspaper or something. Said you edit shit.”
“Uh, yeah, I edit shit.”
He digs into his backpack that almost looks Army-issued. Removes his brown-bag lunch. Used tissues. A paperback and dog-eared Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People.
My eyebrows go up.
Steve clears his throat. “My mom wanted me to read it,” he mumbles.
Fascinating. “Right. Uh, you needed my help on what, exactly?”
Finally, he yanks out a crumpled, lined piece of paper with his chicken scratch all over it. He smooths it out against the table’s edge, like you would with dollar bills at a vending machine. “I’m working on my personal statement for some college applications, and I have an essay, but I can’t really make the first paragraph stick. My sisters read it and liked the essay in general, but they say the introduction makes me sound like a fifth grader.”
“Ouch.”
“I know.” He grimaces. “But I think they’re right. I know we always have to open something with a strong statement, but I can’t come up with anything. Can you help?”
If Ali were in my seat, she’d have a few more words to say to Steve, probably things worse than his own sisters. But me, I try to be more sympathetic.
I feel for my red pen in my backpack and blow out some air. “Okay, what are you trying to say here, exactly?”
His essay is about his love of running. How it’s not just a physical thing, but a mental thing for him. When he’s stressed out or upset about something, he puts on his shoes and just runs, no destination in mind. As I switch between listening to him talk and reading his words, I’m starting to understand what his sisters said about the introduction. It doesn’t even sound like him. It sounds mechanical, forced.
“Start with a feeling,” I tell Steve finally, circling his paragraph. “I like what you said about letting your mind take you on a trip and how you like being surprised by where the run’s taking you.” Kind of like how Linh talks about painting. “So why not open with that?”
“Yeah, but shouldn’t I write some sort of thesis statement, too?”
“In a way, yeah. But to call it a thesis statement makes it sound like a school paper. You’re writing a personal statement, a personal essay, about something personal to you: running.”
Steve nods, looking down at his pages.
I add, “So be honest and open with that. Make the readers feel what you feel when you run.”
Steve doesn’t say anything immediately. I re-cap my pen just so that I can have something to do. Maybe I’m not even helping. Maybe I’ve made him more confused.
Việt finally arrives, saying something about waiting for more Sloppy Joes. By then, Steve’s nodding to himself, reading my edits. When he looks up, he’s a bit more reenergized. “Thanks, man.” He fist-bumps me before sneaking away to the library to type up his new introduction.
“So, did you help him?” Việt asks through a mouthful of ground beef.
“I think so. Why’d you tell him I was good at editing?”
He shrugs. “Because you are.”
“How would you know?”
“Ali.”
“You’ve been talking to Ali?”
“Yeah, she’s cool. She keeps trying to recruit me for the entertainment section, and I keep telling her no.”
Việt: My best friend with nerves of steel.
“Well, I think we might have someone for that section now and I just told her. Maybe she’ll leave you alone.”
“It’s all good. She doesn’t really bother me.”
A sense of unease settles inside me. They’re talking to each other, which means they must like being around each other, which means… “What else do you talk about?”
The saying “Waiting for the other shoe to drop” has never felt more pertinent as I lean forward, expecting Việt’s admission of feelings for Linh’s best friend.
“We talk about when you and Linh are getting together.”
That shoe, from who knows where, never falls.
“What?”
Việt grins. “Yup. Ali’s saying after the fourth review. I’m saying way before that.”
“Why are you even making bets?”
“Something to pass the time.”
“Who do you think is gonna win?”
“I am, which is why I’m telling you now that this all needs to happen after the second restaurant review. So hurry up.”
Việt’s more invested than I thought he’d be and—Ali.
Oh God. Has she said anything to Linh?
Before I can even ask these important questions, a plethora of bright colors blocks my field of vision. I look up to see pin-straight bangs against a prominent forehead.
Kelly Tran, president of VSA, the club I’ve ditched way too many times.
“Bảo. It’s been a while.”
“Uh-huh.” This cold reception is expected, given how I skipped duty on a Saturday because it was a Saturday.
Việt quickly excuses himself from the table.
He also skipped along with me.
“You know, I’ve been meaning to find you. I’m feeling like you’re not taking your membership seriously. If you continue to miss more meetings, I’m afraid you can’t be in the club anymore.” There’s a threat to her voice,
but it’s entirely ineffective since I wasn’t even aware I was still a member.
Movement behind Kelly’s head brings my focus to Linh, and my heart leaps. An excuse! An escape.
“Oh, hey, Linh. Great, you finally came. I know we have to go to that thing.”
“Thing?” Linh asks, an eyebrow quirked. Then with a familiar smile, she says, “Hey, Kelly.”
I say, “That thing, yeah.”
“Oh.” A pause. A side glance at Kelly. “Oh. Yeah, totally. Let’s go.”
Kelly’s looking between us, probably wondering how we even know each other. “Wait, since you’re both here: How about you join our table at the Thuận Phát next weekend? We’re raising money for the club.”
Damn it.
“Um,” Linh says, hesitating only a little. “Sure, I think I can do it.”
“Awesome!” Kelly does a French exit, relieving me of her colors. “Thanks, Linh. Thanks, Bảo!”
“I guess I’ll be there, too,” I say grudgingly.
“Sorry, I didn’t think you’d be roped in,” Linh says sympathetically.
“Yeah. Well, you’re too nice. You could have said no to Kelly.”
“I like her. We had some classes together and she was always nice. And this club is her baby, so of course I want to help.” She bumps shoulders with me. We’d started walking together without thinking. “C’mon, I’ll be there. It’ll be fun.”
“You’re forgetting one thing. This is public. Way public. My mom, her friends—hell, everyone who owns a business near us—shop there. Weren’t we trying to avoid being seen together?”
“Now you’re just trying to get out of volunteering.”
Yes and no.
Well, mostly yes.
“Wear a disguise,” she says somewhat cheekily. “We’ll figure something out.”
* * *
Baseball cap and sunglasses. That’ll be my disguise for today.
“Who are you? Are you trying to be a gangster?” Mẹ asks immediately when I come down from my room in the morning.
“No, I’m protecting myself from the sun.”
“Well, you don’t look like yourself.”