Page 15 of A Banh Mi for Two
“Morning, Nga! One bánh mì ch? l?a and one cup of cà phê s?a dá for you, then.”
My eyes dart back and forth from Nga to the girl, watching them exchange Vietnamese fluidly with each other. The language rolls off their tongues like a song, and I realize I hadn’t ever listened to Vietnamese without a sad tone. Mom likes talking in English and reserves Vietnamese for when she’s upset or for words without translation.
“What about you?” the girl repeats in perfect English, her voice jolting me from my thoughts. Her expressions betray almost nothing, but there’s a slight twitch in her temple. Does she remember me? Maybe I saw a different side of her yesterday, a glimpse into who she is apart from being a street food seller.
Flustered, I repeat the same order as Nga’s.
Money already in hand, I pass her the bills, our fingers slightly brushing. I stare at her face as she takes the money, finding myself hoping for her to remember me. The scents of the grimy street and grilled meat surround us, clinging onto our clothes, and yet she exudes a woodsy smell, almost like a fresh summer rain. Suddenly I’m fully aware of the way my chest rises and falls.
“I’m sorry about last night.” The words escape my mouth before I can stop myself. Cindy gapes at me, shock and confusion on her face, but the girl—she just stares at me, though I can see her mouth moving, teeth grinding against her cheek.
She breaks eye contact and digs into her pocket for my change. “Anything else?” She clears her throat, already looking past me to the next customer.
Still, I continue. “I was an ass. One hundred percent, and I should have trusted you and given you back the notebook right away.”
She chews on her bottom lip, her eyes darting from the dirt between our feet to the notebook next to her on a plastic stool. The very same notebook from last night. With another inhale, I rehearse the words I’ve wanted to say for so long: “Thank you—for your blog, your stories. You’ve helped me a lot, more than you know. I’m staying right across the street and will probably come by often.”
The girl finally meets my gaze, and my eyes snap to her lips as she silently sucks in a breath. “It’s… okay. Thanks for reading, that’s a really nice comment. And thanks for finding my notebook.”
She hands me the plastic bags containing the food. I rush to help her with the drinks, our fingers skimming across each other; I almost drop the bags.
Without thinking, I blurt out. “What’s your name?”
She blinks. “Lan.”
Lan. Lan of Bánh Mì 98. Lan of A Bánh Mì for Two.
Chapter NineLAN
No one ever asks me for my name. The people of Sài Gòn stream through our stall like water, and no one stops long enough to bother. I recognized those dimples the moment she entered the line. My heart banged against my chest when I saw her move closer and closer. I prepared myself for more questions, even anger from the stranger, but it was something I hadn’t expected: a girl insistent on the impact of my blog, even thanking me and saying sorry. She did ask me for my name, and I gave it to her.
Before I could ask for her name back, she had already hurried across the street and disappeared into the dormitory. I wonder if what she said is true, that she’ll come by often. Maybe it would be nice to talk to someone my age that’s not Tri?t.
I feel myself forgiving her for the notebook. It was the way she said it, how her eyes looked into mine with so much sincerity. How my writing affects her so much.
I peek at the notebook that’s practically glued to my body now. The more I think about the contest, the prize, the more my head aches.
Má slices a mango next to me, skillfully taking apart all the juicy meat of the fruit from its seed. She hands me a piece and I pop it into my mouth. “Did you hear about Cô Châu’s daughter? Trâm? The one who was in the same grade as you?”
Vietnamese mom gossip. Can always count on it. “No? What did she do this time? I remember her skipping school.” Nothing gets Má—or any Vietnamese mom—more excited than gossip, especially if other people’s problems are larger than ours. It’s the only way Má and I communicate, anyway; it’s easier to talk about someone else than about ourselves.
“Her kid ran away to Hà N?i last year! I didn’t know.” She shakes her head. “But she came back just yesterday. Looking all different, too! Her face is thinner, and her skin is more tanned. She’s also enrolling at Hà N?i University.”
“Wow. Good for her.” No wonder she was the target of the community’s gossip for the past year. Trâm was reserved in high school, eating lunch alone and never hanging out in the hallways after the last class. I should have said hi more. Maybe she was struggling. Maybe that’s why she left.
“It’s a miracle she turned out all right.”
“All right? She’s attending a prestigious university.”
“You don’t get it, con. In this life, family is all you have. How did she even make money to live there by herself? Who took care of her? Who housed her? Many bad things could have happened.”
I can kiss my dream of traveling elsewhere goodbye, I guess. “At least she seems happier,” I whisper.
We sit in silence again, the latest gossip not enough to sustain our strained relationship. Other people’s problems don’t matter at the end of the day if we’re just playing pretend. There are so many things I should ask her—how she’s doing, if she misses Ba like I do, and if she ever thinks about retiring the bánh mì stall—but I can’t.
“You should go to school, Lan.”
My gaze jerks up to Má. “What?”
