nwasianweekly.com
Sept. 2, 2006

The author Kaitlin Banfill

By Kaitlin Banfill
For the Northwest Asian Weekly

“Hey you Mexican, get over here,” Hoi Leung called to the boy. The one who lived next door.

“I’m not a Mexican,” the little boy replied innocently.

“Yes you are. You know you’re a Mexican,” Hoi retorted.

“I am not!”

“Mexican, Mexican, Mexican!”

“Shut up Hoi,” Quy Nguyen butted into the argument, “He’s from Puerto Rico.”

“Shut up Cambodian.”

“I’m Vietnamese, stupid!”

“Sure you are, you idion!”

“Idion? Ha-ha, Hoi can’t say idiot right. That’s why he’s in the ESL class.”

Hoi lunged at Quy. A fight ensued. Screaming, punching, kicking. That night both Quy and Hoi walked home with bloody noses.

Dinnertime. “Aiya!” Hoi’s ma exclaimed when she saw him. Grandma was cooking; she looked at him with sad eyes.

“What have you done now, boy?” his ma asked. His ma had a bad temper. But this time she didn’t yell. This time she put on the Anita Mui tape and stared tiredly into space. Sultry Cantopop. Hoi remembered the days in Macau. They left when he was 6. Now he was 10.

It was fish head and tofu soup for dinner. Fong came home then. Fong, who was gone all day. Fong, his sister. Fong, with the bleached blond hair and bruises from where Ma had hit her. Where did Fong go all day? She wasn’t there like she used to be. Not there to save him from the neighborhood kids’ bullying. A year ago she had rescued him from Bobby Pyayomyong’s wrath. That was before all the fighting. Before Ma sent Fong to the center for juvenile delinquents. Before they had to go to court. Before Fong started disappearing. Before Ba died.

Ma asked Fong where she had been. Fong did not reply. Ma slapped her. Fong told her to f--- off. Ma knew what that meant even though she only spoke Cantonese. Someone threw a hairbrush. Someone threw a knife. Hoi ran to the corner and began to cry. Grandma was silent. The Anita Mui tape was still playing. This is how it was every night.

Morning. The top bunk where Fong slept was empty. She was gone.

“Where is Fong? Where is Fong?” he asked Ma in the kitchen.

“Fong at her daddy’s house,” Ma said in broken English. That was impossible. Their dad died of lung cancer that summer. Their dad who divorced their ma. Their dad, who used to take them to eat sushi on Fridays.

Hoi walked out into the hot summer day. Everything felt hopeless. The Mexican glared at him from next door. He did not care. One thing was on his mind. Saving his broken family. He would find Fong.

There was a number 50 bus schedule in the room he and Fong shared. The number 50 went downtown. Downtown. He knew Fong often went there with her friends.

He caught the city bus by the Chinese grocery. He and Fong bought candied ginger there once. The bus drove down Beacon Hill and into downtown. He got off at the Westlake Mall station.

Wandering around downtown. Among the pigeons, among the beggars. He thought of when he and Fong got lost in Hong Kong.

Afternoon. Hoi’s feet hurt and his stomach growled. He still had not found Fong. Dejectedly, he sat down on a bench. Then he heard it. That familiar voice cutting through all the noise of downtown. There was Fong, standing on the corner. Berlin stood next to her. Berlin, the girl with the dead eyes and pale skin. Laughing, cigarettes dangling from their lips. Hoi ran to them.
“Fong! Fong!” he called.

“What the …?” Fong said upon seeing him.

“Fong … come home,” Hoi pleaded in Cantonese.

“Shut up. My name is Carina,” Fong said in English.

“Carina, Carina, come home!” he begged.

“No way! I’m not going home to that b----.”

“Fong…”

“Go away little boy! Go home,” she shoved him away. He fell to the pavement. He began to cry, to scream. A crowd gathered. But Fong and Berlin had already left.

On the bus ride home Hoi thought of many things. He thought of the bags of dried green leaves he’d found in Fong’s backpack. He thought of the time she made him steal a shirt for her at the mall. He thought of the time she told him she was in a gang. He didn’t know if that was true. One day he would save her. When he grew older. When he was as tall as Yao Ming. But for the time being, he cried.

“What’s the matter kid?” a homeless man who was riding the bus asked.
“Ba used to buy us sushi on Fridays” was all he could say.

“When I was in the first grade, I won the school spelling bee,” the homeless man said.

The two looked at each other. They understood. There they both sat. With broken dreams.

Kaitlin Banfill can be reached at info@nwasianweekly.com.

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