Page 30 of A Banh Mi for Two
“Mommy will make you wonton soup when you come home. Mommy didn’t know you like it so much.”
My stomach lurches. The semester has just started, but I miss home already. I miss the smell of bún riêu after school, the taste of fried dumplings and the pandan waffles Mom packs for lunch. What would she say if she knew? Would she kick me out and never cook for me again?
“I miss you,” I say. “But I have to sleep now… it’s late.”
“Okay, con, Mommy have a question. Do you know where my photos at?”
I suck in a breath. “What photos?”
She clicks her tongue. “Old photos that Mommy have. I cleaned my closet last night and they are missing!” She passes the phone to my dad, who only nods.
“Hey, Dad.” I wave at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mom. Maybe you misplaced them somewhere.”
“Yeah, con is right. They’re very old.”
“I’m sure they’ll turn up.”
Mom’s looking directly into the camera now. I feel like her eyeballs are going to see right through me. “Okay, con. Good night. You promise you are good?”
“I’m good, Mommy. Good night!”
“Jesus.” Cindy blows a raspberry as I hang up. “You sure your mom isn’t some kind of psychic? We were literally just talking about her and then she called.”
“Yeah, that was really creepy,” Nga adds. “But what’s going on, Vivi? You’re here illegally?”
I let out an exaggerated sigh. “It’s not illegal. They signed the paperwork. Are you sure you want to hear my explanation?”
“Well.” Nga joins Cindy on her makeshift bed. “We’ve got all night. And I’d love to hear about Lan, too.”
Chapter FifteenLAN
“Are you free right now?”
I blink, looking up from the baguettes in my hands to Vivi, and suddenly, I’m all too aware of my pulse and the dampness of my palms. I’ve spent the last few nights tossing and turning, my heart skipping when I think about her arms around me and how the sky was so pink and red and orange, and how her eyes shone at the sights of this city.
“Vivi—good morning? What are you doing here?”
She smiles. “Can’t miss the best bánh mì in Sài Gòn from my favorite food blogger.”
My face burns. I hadn’t realized how lost in thought I was. I force my mind to shut up, locking away all the fluttering feelings and hot cheeks and fidgety hands that come up when she’s near me.
But Vivi has no idea. She’s distracted by my notebook. “Have you been writing? Did anything inspire you? How many pages? I’m sure we can use what you wrote for the contest—”
She starts rapid firing questions at me, and I struggle to follow, but her eyes are so bright that I can’t help but nod along. For the first time since Ba’s passing, someone else is excited to hear about my writing. What I’m up to, what I’ve been thinking about. Maybe I can share the words in this notebook with someone other than Ba.
“Well, there are a lot more words after our little brainstorming session at Café 1975—”
“Brainstorming? We just talked.”
“It helped.” I shrug. “Or it did something because I’ve been writing nonstop, and… I don’t hate my words as much anymore.” For some reason, I want to tell Vivi everything, to not hold on to the pages so tightly and keep them as backlogged dreams like before. She sparked something, and though I’m still not sure what it is, the words haven’t flowed out of me like this for a long, long time.
“Lan, this is good,” she gushes, holding the leather-bound notebook gingerly in her hands. Unlike the night when we met, I don’t feel defensive over Ba’s notebook anymore. Instead, I want her to touch it, to run her hands over my inked words, and I want to watch her reaction. It reminds me of when Ba and I would brainstorm in the kitchen, the scent from the boiling vat of Má’s ph? wafting from the stove.
“This part is about how Sài Gòn comes alive at night? Let’s throw in some adjectives, like ‘Sài Gòn’s vibrant colors emerge when the sky is the deepest blue,’ and you’re solid.”
I burst out laughing. “Okay, that is so corny—I love it.”
She grins. “Looks like it’s slow right now. Let’s go do some field research.”
