Page 13 of A Banh Mi for Two
“It’s not me,” I tell her, and yank my arm away. The notebook tucked in my arms suddenly feels heavy, and my legs burn as I will my body to leave the park. I keep running, running, and running until the park is completely out of sight and my body’s swallowed by the wave of motorbikes. All the while, her words echo in my ears and anxiety rises in my throat.
When the mango tree finally emerges, I squint into the shadows to see Tri?t kicking his legs absentmindedly on our swing. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I touch my left cheek, shuddering at how cold it is. “I found it.” I wave the notebook at him. “I’m going to bed.”
“It’s barely night.”
I check my phone. 21:00. “So what?” I snap, immediately regretting it.
Tri?t whistles. “Geez, sorry.”
“I crashed into someone at the park.” I rub my neck, feeling guilty for snapping at him. My entire body feels awfully sweaty, and to make everything worse, dirt is streaked all over my legs.
He softens his eyes. “Go wash up. There’s blood on your elbow.”
I check and wince, annoyance boiling back up at the state of my body. This scratch is definitely going to hurt tomorrow.
Tri?t looks like he wants to say something. The classic Tri?t look of chewing on his nails whenever he’s anxious.
“What’s wrong?” I could wait until he tells me on his own time. But I also don’t have time.
“Oh, nothing. Just anxious about my exam tomorrow.”
He’s a worse liar than me. There’s a reason why he was waiting. This swing is our spot, where we’d sit and wait for each other whenever something was wrong; I did the same two years ago, when Tri?t found me crying after I had found out about my mom’s health. Oftentimes, we don’t say much—we just listen to each other.
I scoot next to him, lifting my legs onto the swing and holding them to my chest. “Stop stalling before I delete your gaming account.”
He whistles. “These threats from you are getting more serious every day. But I was just thinking about how I’ll be graduating soon.”
“I know. Congrats.” I mean these words. Tri?t worked so hard the past four years, always studying or doing homework while also helping us at the stall. He showed up at our door four years ago with only a backpack of clothes and an armful of books, telling us he’s enrolling in aerospace engineering.
With a well-off family, he could go anywhere he wanted but chose to stay with us.
Má, of course, took him in without question. Like Ba, she looks out for anyone and everyone.
I’ll take care of your mom, Tri?t had promised me.
I sigh, hugging my legs closer. “It’s an exciting thing—why are you scared?”
“I feel stuck. All my classmates are doing internships with Boeing and international airlines… but I couldn’t nab anything. No one would take a kid who needs to work another job for most of the week.”
Oh. The bánh mì stall. Of course it’s the bánh mì stall. When Ba passed, everything shifted to me. I couldn’t cry, couldn’t grieve—at least not in front of Má. I’m her only child, her only daughter, the only other family she has. Without Ba, it’s been me and her against the world. Who else could shoulder these responsibilities if not me?
“I can handle it. You don’t have to help out so much. Go get an internship. You didn’t sign up for this.”
Tri?t was one more mouth to feed, and yet Má still took him in. I wonder if it’s because he’s a boy—because I can’t ever replace Ba for her.
“Shut up. You didn’t sign up for this, either.” He flicks my forehead and brings his legs to his chest, too. We sit side by side on the swing, feeling its motion rocking us back and forth under the mango tree. “I don’t regret helping you and Aunt. Or feel bad about it, either. You’re the only family I have in Sài Gòn, and I sure don’t want to go back to B?n Tre.”
“Don’t you miss your family?” My question lingers between us. Tri?t seldom talks to his family, and when he does, it’s often a phone call from one of his sisters. I never pry; we all have things we’d rather not say. “I’m sure they think of you. How you’re doing in Sài Gòn. If you’re all right.”
“They know I’m alive. I think that’s enough.”
I inhale sharply. “But… don’t you want to go home sometime? The Mekong River… the floating market… it sounds so, I don’t know, peaceful? Away from all this noise.”
If I tell him that sometimes I dream of leaving Sài Gòn, what would he say?
He shrugs. “But this noise is what makes Sài Gòn, Sài Gòn.”
