Page 21 of A Banh Mi for Two
But the girl won’t relent. “You can wait.”
Even her friend joins in. “Get back there, asshole.”
I smirk to myself. Americans sure have guts, even if they’re seemingly small and not at all frightening. “Yeah, sorry. It’s pretty long, but I’m sure you can wait.”
“You speak perfect English!” He looks shocked.
“Why does that matter?” the girl and I say at the same time.
“Okay, you’re a total dick. I get it. That’s why you cut and shoved me out of the way. You think you run the world because you’re tall, speak English, and aren’t Asian,” she continues.
“You know what? Fuck this bánh mì stall. And fuck you. I will not be coming back here ever again with this kind of customer service,” he shouts before walking away.
“Pretty sure his temper tantrum is futile because… it seems the locals here really don’t care,” her friend says. A foreign face. Brown hair and brown eyes. “See? No one’s even looking.”
She’s right. It’s just another day for people in Sài Gòn. “Thank you.” I hand the girl her order, and our hands brush once again. There’s a flutter—a spark—so faint I almost miss it, until I look up into her eyes. Bright and wide, her face eclipsing the sun.
“What’s your name?”
“Vivi.” She smiles, clutching the food—my food—so close to her chest. “This is the best bánh mì in Sài Gòn.”
Chapter TwelveVIVI
“So, after spending so much money buying bánh mì… you want to waste more on books?”
“My two true loves in this life. Please, you promised me we’d go.” I sit up on the bed, admiring Cindy in the flouncy white dress she picked up from the boutique next door. “Anyway, back to the topic at hand: Lan asked me for my name! Can you believe that?”
“Yes, Vivi! You’ve been subjecting me to the same conversation for the past forty-eight hours. And I’ve been coming along with you every time you ‘crave bánh mì.’ She asked you for your name and you still haven’t tried asking her anything else. The ball’s in your court now.”
“It’s hard!” I whine. “There’s always such a long line and I feel bad about holding people up. I have anxiety!”
I wish I had a dollar for every time Cindy rolls her eyes at me. “I can’t believe I’m going to spend the rest of this trip following you around to the bánh mì stall across the street. I want my own romance!” she says, clutching her chest.
“Someone’s watching too many study abroad rom-coms.” I can’t blame her, though, the shows and movies did get the sense of feeling out of place right—but I’m not a tacky American. Am I?
“Oh shit!” A text from Mom comes through. “My mom’s asking for more photos. What should I do?”
“Hmm.” She purses her lips. “Fine. Let’s take some photos near the bookstores you wanted to go to. Natural light and no need for me to photoshop. Easy.”
“Won’t she… notice something’s off?”
She shrugs. “Not if we go to a modern bookstore and only pose with English books?”
“Good point.”
Ðu?ng sách Nguy?n Van Bình is a dream. A street lined with bookstores. The smell of paper, both fresh and old, tickles my nose as we walk into a store filled with twinkling lights. From Vietnamese literature to graphic novels, stationery, English books, and more. I float through the rows and catalog where different genres are. Colorful paper lanterns hang from the ceiling, softly glowing against the incandescent light. They look like constellations, and as they twinkle at me, I’m reminded of home—of my bedroom in Little Saigon full of bookshelves Mom and Dad built for me, and of the paper lanterns Mom likes to hang around our home. Then it hits me: This will be the first Trung Thu, first Mid-Autumn festival, that I won’t be home for.
Cindy skips toward me, her arms full of journals. “I have to say that the Google reviews and your glowing recommendation were right. I could live here.”
I smile. “I told you!”
She raises her arms, sighing. “Yes, I accept defeat.”
“Good.” I laugh. “Now that we’ve taken more than enough pictures for my mom, I’m going to look at more English books at another store!”
“Be careful!”
“You sound too much like like my mom!”
