No Place Like Home, page 2
But Lan couldn’t bring herself to put the book down. She was filled with the strangest feeling that it was important. She might never find it again if she walked away now. Pins and needles lit up the tips of her fingers. She stood frozen.
There was only one thing to do. Lan stuffed the tome in her bag before she could think twice. A furtive glance around her showed no one in sight. A few of her classmates lingered by the library counter, but most had taken off for lunch. Lan’s heart pounded, too insistent to ignore. She’d never done anything as outright shameful as stealing, but just as she considered changing her mind and returning it, Manav stepped into view. His arms were crossed, ready for an argument. Something about his righteous glare made Lan set her jaw, prepared to defend herself.
“Seriously, Lan?” he said. “You’re straight up gonna steal a book now?”
“No clue what you’re talking about. Why are you following me, anyway?”
“I wasn’t following you. I actually thought I’d be nice and remind you that track tryouts are in ten days, but instead you decide to commit theft right before my eyes.”
“I’m not stealing!” Lan protested, knowing that had been exactly her intention. “Maybe I wanted to carry it around, or make a note of the title, or shelve it in the proper place because it doesn’t even belong in this section!”
Lan waved at the sign above them, which read Biographies, 9–12. Manav rubbed his forehead. What now? Would he demand the book back, march her to the counter, and rat her out to the librarian? Lan’s hand tightened around the smooth spine. For a split second, she thought about making a run for it—but Manav’s next words were so unexpected her mouth dropped.
“If you want it that badly, I’ll get it for you.”
“You’ll do what?”
“Give it here. I’ll get it. My parents gave me a fifty. I’ve got change left over.”
Lan stared. Manav’s earnest eyes told her he meant it. Her father would certainly not approve. He’d taught her better than to behave this way, but just once, did he have to know? Just once, was it okay to accept a gift she so desperately wanted, even if it had been offered out of pity?
“You don’t have to...” Lan began.
“Of course, I know that,” said Manav, “and I didn’t say it’d come without a price.”
“I won’t be able to pay you back. Forget it.”
“Who said anything about money? There’s plenty of other ways to pay.”
“What do you want?” Lan asked warily.
Manav eased the book out of her hands and turned it over.
“Weird,” he murmured, examining the gold dandelion print on the otherwise blank red cover. “Did you take it out of its sleeve? Make it easier to steal?”
“I wasn’t stealing!” said Lan automatically. “I found it like that.”
But now that he mentioned it, Lan thought, it made sense. Someone must’ve removed the shiny shell that all hardcover books came wrapped in. Perhaps that was why it looked so out of place. Covers made books inviting. Without them, the plain weighty tomes were almost foreboding.
“What do you want for the book?” Lan repeated. “I don’t have much.”
Manav looked up and smiled. “Sure you do. Like I said, I stayed behind to remind you about track tryouts, ten days from today. I’ve seen you run. I’ll get you the book, but I want you to come try out.”
“You’re kidding,” Lan laughed. “Try out for track and field? No way.”
Manav looked confused.
“Why not? You’d totally make the team.”
Lan stared at him. She could not tell if he meant it, but even so, this was middle school! There were lines you had to be very sure about crossing, and trying out for track was one of them. Lan’s scene was the library. If she made a fool of herself on the sports field, she would never live it down—especially not in front of the snickering kids who kept trying to rhyme her name with weird words.
“That’s a popular-person sport,” said Lan, “and in case you haven’t noticed, I definitely don’t qualify.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” said Manav, frowning. “For the record, people talk to you! You just don’t talk back.”
“That’s exactly what a popular kid would say.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Manav said with a groan, “but, like it or not, that’s the deal.”
“I’ll just embarrass myself.”
“No, you won’t. I live two doors down from you, and I’ve seen you run to school when you’re late, which is actually super often. You sprint faster than me biking! We’re up against tough competition at provincials this year, and the team could really use you.”
Lan hesitated. Manav could be pompous and ignorant about some things, but he was never malicious. Besides, track and field was his life. He wouldn’t go to the trouble of setting her up for nothing, would he?
“Even if I did try out,” said Lan, “I wouldn’t be able to join the team. Your meets are so far away. My dad wouldn’t agree to the fees, not to mention your fancy uniforms and early practices. It’ll mess up our schedule, and he’s busy enough these days.”
“Have you even tried to ask?”
“Yes,” said Lan at once. She had asked too many times. In September, she’d wanted to run with the cross-country team, but her dad said it’d be too hard to keep tabs on her whereabouts. He worked such long hours at the superstore across town. It was far easier to know that she’d be at school and home at the same time every day.
“We’ll figure that out later,” said Manav, looking unconcerned. “The book’s yours, but Monday after next, you show the team what you can do. Deal?”
He held out his palm to shake. Lan stared at the story clutched in his other hand. There were certainly easier ways to get hold of books, but would she find another one like this? Lan wanted to know how Annabelle would escape and cross the great desert, whether Marlow would prove as loyal as he appeared, and where they’d find a witch to help them get to Asta with the magical items for the king. Besides, if Lan had learned anything from fantasy novels, she knew she could not let a mysterious book pass her by. That was just foolish.
“Throw in a chocolate bar, and you’ve got yourself a deal,” said Lan at last. She took Manav’s hand and shook before he could respond. “No take-backs.”
“Hey, that wasn’t fair. I’m the one getting you the book!” said Manav, but Lan could tell he wasn’t truly upset. “Fine, I’ll bring you chocolate, but only when I see you on the field! Make sure you show up.”
“I’ll be there,” Lan said. It was a sweet deal. She wondered if she might soon regret her promise, but at least she had a good story to look forward to on the weekend.
They walked to the counter. Lan couldn’t remember the last book she’d bought, let alone a hardcover, and barely noticed the librarian’s puzzled expression when he scanned it through. He turned it over several times before using another book’s sleeve for the barcode. Then it was back in her hands—and truly hers! Manav said something that Lan did not catch. All she could think of was how she couldn’t wait to dive back in.
What Longing Does
Lan turned down the driveway of the red house on the corner of Langdon Street after a tedious hour of history. It left a strange taste in her mouth. All these “explorers” were overrated, she decided, or straight-up villainous. Taking over people’s homes was far from heroic.
Thinking of home made Lan’s heart ache for the bustling streets of her own familiar town, the lakes scattered throughout the city, and the branches of red flowers bent over the wide boulevards. At least Canada’s bitter cold had let up. The snow had been cute for a few days last December, but by April, it was sickening. Unprepared for the chill, Lan had stayed inside most of her first year in Toronto, buried under blankets, escaping into whatever story she could scrounge up. Now she tightly clutched the book from the fair, ramming her shoulder against the door to wedge it open, eager to start reading the moment she stepped inside their basement apartment.
Homework discarded on the coffee table, Lan hopped on the tattered couch and picked up where she’d left off in the library stacks. No matter how many fantasies she plowed through, sword fights and spells never got stale when compared to her less-than-thrilling routine—and reading about other people’s quests made her hope that her own adventure might be just around the block, waiting for her to step into the right shoes or find the right wardrobe...however many she’d tried.
“You know, it’s not a bad thing if you want to cry,” said Marlow.
Annabelle glared at him, his elbow propped on the fence post, somehow making their drab Academy uniform look good. It was easy to see why her bunkmates stared each time he moved. It made Annabelle want to constantly roll her eyes.
“Marlow, I’m fine.”
“I know you’ve been thinking about making a break for it forever. It’s okay to reconsider, though. What your grandmother said—that’s enough to scare anyone off.”
“Don’t be daft,” said Annabelle. “I’m more sure than ever.”
“We could wait—”
“For supplies to dwindle? Those fancy folk in Asta don’t care about us here on the outskirts. We’re getting less every shipment.”
“All right, I get it. You’re right. As usual.”
“You don’t have to come.”
“Come on, Annabelle, you know that was never an option.”
“I’m not kidding. Everyone loves you. You’ve got prospects here.”
“Of joining the elite border guard? Or rising through the ranks to bully the kids as a certified Border Academy trainer?”
“You’d never bully anyone. In fact, I daresay you’re a shockingly good teacher for someone so cocky.”
“A genuine compliment from you? You must be missing me already. No need to beg, Belle. I already told you, I’m coming with you.”
Annabelle had to laugh. Even now, Marlow spoke with a sureness born of more talent than anyone should be allowed—talent, and a lack of familiarity with loss. Escaping under darkness from the Border Academy? No problem. Crossing the enchanted desert with whatever rations they could steal? Bring it on. It almost made her believe that her wild plan was possible, that there was a future where she could return to the Solian coast where she belonged, instead of living in this old training camp where meeting Marlow had been the one good thing.
Tucked in, with the fluorescent lights bright, Lan read deeply as Marlow and Annabelle plotted their escape route, and as they planned to leave under the cover of a new moon. The latch on the upstairs screen door creaked, but only when her dad came in, bags of groceries in hand, did Lan glance up.
Lan’s father was a man aged solely by hardship. His youth shone through the moment you got to know him, in his thick mostly black hair, unlined face, and muscles from his karate days. Lan knew people didn’t usually see those traits when they glanced at him scanning items behind the counter of the superstore where he worked as a cashier. She herself had noticed his creased eyebrows and stooped frame much more since those long winter days. But back in Việt Nam, he had been laid-back and confident on his electric-blue motorbike. The minute he stepped inside the apartment, he shrugged out of his navy T-shirt, along with the name tag that read Ben rather than his real name, Bình. It meant peace. He smiled when he saw Lan.
“How was school?” He did not wait for an answer before unloading food into the freezer. “Did you eat?”
“Not hungry,” Lan lied, not wanting to admit she was sick of microwave pasta.
Their diet now consisted of whatever her dad picked up from the sales racks, which hardly compared to their meals in Việt Nam. They’d been spoiled in a family of great cooks and voracious eaters. Lan’s mom had been especially skilled at whipping up any dish. Lan folded the top of her page over to mark her spot as the fridge door thudded shut.
“Tối nay ăn nem nhé,” said her dad. “Got it on sale.”
“Nem?” said Lan, surprised. Spring rolls were her favorite food, but she had not eaten them since leaving her mom in Hà Nội. “I thought you couldn’t find them here.”
“Well, they won’t be your mother’s,” he said, “nhưng vẫn ăn được.”
Lan put the book down and walked to where her dad was waving a Styrofoam package of frozen nem. She poked at them. They looked nothing like the colorful, delicate rolls her mom made.
Her father headed to the shower, calling over his shoulder, “Con cho vào lò đi nhé. Bố đi tắm đã.”
Lan nodded. She unwrapped the packaging and placed the frosty rolls on the oven tray. Staring at the dull white clumps side by side, she felt an unexpected wave of anger. She knew her dad had only wanted to make her happy, but nem wasn’t meant to look like that. It was supposed to be deep-fried in vegetable oil, freshly wrapped by fingers dipped in water, rice paper soaked in beer. Even now, she remembered the tuck, crease, and roll over a wooden cutting board. Her mother had taught her years ago, not long before they found themselves separated. Lan had been a natural, but in this house—too many foreign ingredients and too little counter space.
Sudden tears rose in her eyes. Lan slammed the oven door shut, banishing the copycat rolls from view. She sank into a hard chair, taken aback by her own bitterness.
When they’d first moved, Lan had even liked the change—the sprawling parks, big hills to roll down, full libraries every few blocks, and the peaceful stillness on summer nights when the sun did not set ’til past bedtime. Her friends in Hà Nội envied her. Everyone had told her Canada was full of opportunity, whatever that meant, and Lan believed them. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly when things changed. Perhaps it was Mother’s Day that first year (an entirely new concept) when she realized the challenge of celebrating special occasions eight thousand miles apart. Or maybe when her hair grew out, and Lan could not do any of her favorite braids by herself.
The sound of water running in the bathroom stopped. Lan coughed and hastily wiped her face so her dad would not see her confused weeping over random spring rolls. It would only make him sad.
Briiing!
From the table behind her, the phone sounded, startling Lan out of her sniffles. Seeing the name on the screen, she took one more breath, forced her face into a smile, and picked up the call. A second later, her mom was peering at her, pixelated.
“What’s wrong?” she said at once, squinting at Lan’s face. “Sao trông buồn thế? Something at school?”
Her mother’s pixie-bob haircut and similarly round face took up most of the video screen, but Lan could see the potted plant with the giant leaves in their sixteenth-floor apartment peeking out from behind her. The window was open. It looked sunny, a hot May morning. Lan spoke with her mom often, but tonight, her throat constricted at the glimpse of her former home.
“Nothing new,” Lan began. She cleared her throat. “Well, I might be trying out for the track team in a week. That’s new, I guess, and a bit scary.”
“What team is that?”
“It’s like a competitive running club. Well, I’d be running at least. There are other parts like long jump or shot put.”
“Running is good. You’re a fast runner.”
“I am?”
“Don’t you remember beating all those neighborhood kids in the foot races on our street?”
“Those haven’t happened in forever.”
“Still, it’s part of you. What’s joining this team gonna take?”
Before Lan could answer, her father entered the room, towel in hand, and stepped into the frame. He gestured animatedly at the nem cooking in the oven. Her mother laughed. Lan slid behind him and took a sip of water, but the morose feeling in her throat refused to leave her.
She found herself longing for her old ocean-themed bedroom, their chaotic family reunions, and of course all the food, fresh from the market and seaside! What she would do for a fresh pomegranate from her grandparents’ garden! Tropical fruits were so much tastier. Lan could not remember ever feeling hungry before this year, but then everything she knew had vanished. Her parents had barely given her two weeks’ warning! They had said some nebulous thing about better choices and bluer skies, but not for the first time, Lan wondered why it had been so important to leave.
With a reminder to eat their greens, Lan’s mother excused herself to run to work. Her father grabbed two pairs of chopsticks, tossed leftover rice in the microwave, and pulled the spring rolls out of the oven. They were still soggy, but Lan’s stomach rumbled. They sat down to eat.
“Nem thế nào?” he asked.
Lan dipped her roll into the cheap too-salty fish sauce and took a bite. It lacked the crispness that she loved. Still, the flavors surprisingly held true.
“Not bad,” she answered, taking another roll.
Her father beamed and leaned back in his chair, his eyes already droopy.
“No rude customers today,” he told her, nodding. “Thế là được rồi . A good day.”
They ate in a tired silence, broken up by the odd comment about food or groceries. Her dad had driven Lan to school every day on his motorbike in the before times (as she’d taken to calling them). They’d had time to talk, take detours to narrow alleyways to peruse hidden knockoff jewelry stores, even make an impulse buy once in a while. Now Bình looked so worn that Lan hardly shared much about her day, not that anything exciting ever happened.
“What’s this about a track team?” her father asked unexpectedly. Lan looked up in surprise. “You telling your mom but not me?”
