“Not for a lack of trying.” “No. I started out Fs on all tests in Mr. F’s class. What kind name that for teacher, anyway?” “His name is Fadenreicht , OK? He’s doing you a favor.” “I know. He my teacher. He probably not even pronounce his own name. That why he Mr. F.” “He’s a great teacher.” “For you, maybe. Me . . . I just want come home. See friends. Hang out in clubs with girls. Stuff like that.” “Goal oriented.” “I thought for sure I can get kick out when we start Zooming. I was plan Zoombomb Mr. F’s class.” “You’re awful.” “Yeah, I putting together cool video. But I too late. Mr. F went to 100 trainings in spring break and now can stop me and all Zombers.” “My teachers didn’t get much training. The other day my Post-Colonial Lit teacher accidentally shared his Zoom screen and we all saw him shirtless, running his fat belly to the back of his apartment to escape his webcam and find a shirt, clean or not.” “I wish—” “So you’re still in the class?” “Ha! Not take much. Mr. F and all teachers desperation—” “Desperate. Are desperate .” “Desperation to keep students.” Hopeless. “Did you ever consider the fact that maybe Mr. F and all the Coastline teachers might just be extra compassionate right now?” “ Compassionate like passion ? Anyway, what I do if I kick out? I no can fly home.” “There are a few flights.” “Right. When I land, army take my bag, put me in dormitory for 14 days. Prison.” It was hard to keep from laughing. Tri was getting what he deserved. Here he was, sitting at home, our home, with his own room and my mom and grandma cooking for him and doing all his laundry while he played League of Legends all night and only got up before noon two mornings a week. By now he couldn’t even find his textbooks in his room, though he didn’t spend much time looking for them. Grandma shuffled through the kitchen in her orange and black polka dot robe and fluffy pink slippers on her way to the backyard. “Chào buổi tối, cậu bé lười biếng.” Grandma kept moving, out the kitchen door and on her way to water her precious passion fruit tree, her once-a-week chore. She was fortunate that we had lots of sunshine in our yard. “I couldn’t quite catch that, Tri. What did she say?” “Good evening, lazy boy.” That’s what I thought. Hien was the only reason Tri got up Monday and Wednesday mornings to join Mr. F’s Zoom meetings. Not that he could do anything about her, what with the quarantine and the transition to online classes. He texted her. That was it. And she ignored his texts. Like she didn’t turn on her video during the Zoom sessions. When his initial texts got no replies, he switched to asking her about homework assignments. She fell for it at first but then went silent again when she realized Tri and homework weren’t on speaking terms. Hien wanted to be a pharmacist. Exchanging flirty texts with Tri wasn’t on the Coastline counselor’s educational plan for her. Or, more importantly, her parents’. “What happening Sunday, Trang?” “Not much. Why?” “It Easter, right?” “Yeah, but all the churches are closed. My Lutheran
date with that hot girl in your grammar class, tryin’ to make a rebel of the careless man’s careful daughter?” “Passionate from miles away. Trying to think of the right thing to say. How the boyfriend, Trang?” “Tri, it’s fun talking to you—or your idol—but I’ve got to get ready for my lab tomorrow.” “What your class?” “Biopharmaceutics and Nanomedicine.” “Two classes.” “One.” I left the living room and went back to my bedroom to study. Before I finished Coastline and transferred to UCI, I had no idea how tough it would be. I learned right away. So I studied. And studied. To tell the truth, I was jealous of Tri. His family back in Vietnam had a lot of money. Not like my family. My dad was working at Chipton-Ross in Anaheim as an electronics assembler, and my mom was doing nails at Nailed It during the week and cooking for Pho-Out on the weekend. The family bottom line did get me aid at UCI, though. Free money, no loans. When my bimmer- driving friend Houng complained about the cost of a UC, I didn’t say anything. I knew her family was sending me money through DC and Sacramento. Tri had never wanted to come to the U. S. It was his father’s idea. His dad, my mother’s brother, owned 35 McDonald’s franchises in Vietnam, and he wanted Tri to improve his English. Dad didn’t think memorized Drake lyrics would allow his son to communicate with American McDonald’s executives. I don’t know why. Tri, on the other hand, saw no reason to take ESL classes at Coastline. Or anywhere. He didn’t really want to command thousands of burger chefs. He dreamed of producing music. He’d asked his dad to fund a recording studio in Ho Chi Minh City, but his father answered by sending Tri to Coastline to study English and live with us, my mother and father and grandmother, in a tiny three- bedroom in Westminster. Tri’s dad was paying, so he got his own room while I was forced to move in with Grandma. Tri had gone to every class of the spring semester but only because of Hien. The poor girl was in class with Tri about 12 hours a week, Reading/ Writing/ Grammar in the morning and Listening and Conversation in the afternoon. A beautiful trapped bird in a cage. Week 9, Spring Semester, 2020 I couldn’t believe my cousin. We were sitting at our green Formica kitchen table with the spindly metal legs angling out that we’d found at a yard sale in Huntington Beach for $15. The plastic on the chairs looked like someone had taken a knife to it. Tri was eating a bowl of rice for breakfast. Or was it lunch? He had just gotten up. It was 1 pm. I was having noodles with passion fruit on the side. Dad had planted a tree in our postage- stamp backyard for Grandma, who said it reminded her of home, the countryside of South Vietnam. She always said “South Vietnam,” even though there was only Vietnam now, no “North” or “South.” “Trang, I’m fallin’ apart. I headed back Ho Chi Minh City when virus come.” “Too bad, Tri.” I lied. "I thought for sure I can kick out Coastline and come home.”
Made with FlippingBook - professional solution for displaying marketing and sales documents online