Lucky Child (11 page)

After she is done with my head, Eang wraps a big white towel around me and sits me down at the kitchen table. Her face softens when she looks at me wince as I drag a comb through my knotted hair. Then she opens the refrigerator door, pulls out the container of Bryer’s ice cream, puts three scoops into a bowl, and hands it to me.

“Thank you,” I tell her.

Without a word, she takes the comb from my hand and untangles my hair while I eat.

The next morning I set off to school by myself. This time I walk with a little less bounce and a lot more heaviness in my steps. Once in the class,
I sit in my desk with eyes downcast while Mrs. Donaldson returns the vanilla journals back to the students. Right away, the students open their journals to read Mrs. Donaldson’s comments on their work. I don’t receive mine, but I wouldn’t be able to read her comments anyway.

“Class, please open your book and read the first story.” My classmates put away their journals and open their story books.

“Loo-ung,” Mrs. Donaldson calls me. This time I raise my arm like a vine instead of a palm tree. “Please come here.” I walk up to her desk, my arms close to my side. She holds up the yellow book I wrote in yesterday. “This is what you did this summer?”

“Yes, Mrs. Donaldson.” I flash my teeth and nod my head to show her I understand her words.

“Hmm. Let’s read it together. ‘What I did this summer,’” she begins. I stare at the words and mouth the sounds she makes.

“‘I visited my grandmother and grandfather. It was fun. I love seeing them. We got a dog. I played with it a lot.’” She looks up at me. “Is that so?”

“Yes, Mrs. Donaldson.” My teeth feel less bright now but I do not want to disagree with the teacher. And I do not want to lose face in front of the other students.

“Do you understand the assignment?”

“Yes, Mrs. Donaldson.” My cheeks are pink.

“Do you know how to write?”

“Yes, teacher.” My face is now red.

“Can you write something for me?”

“Yes, Mrs. Donaldson.”

In the journal, I write A, B, C, D, E, F …

“That’s good, thank you.” At last she understands and asks me to gather my pencil and journal. “Class, please continue to read quietly. I’ll be right back.” From their seats, the other students lift their heads out of their books and watch me gather my belongings. Then I follow Mrs. Donaldson out of the class; my legs feel closer to the ground than ever.

The next thing I know, I am sitting in a private room learning English words with another teacher through flash cards and games such as Go Fish, just like Sarah would play with us in our apartment this summer. When I am not in my special lesson, I am being tutored by Mrs. McNulty in her
class. I like being with Mrs. McNulty because I already know her and she is very nice. But sometimes I’m embarrassed to be there because at ten years old, I am two years older than all the other students.

I have been going to school for two weeks now but I have not made any American friends. In Cambodia, before the Khmer Rouge takeover, I had many friends and the kids thought I talked a lot and was very funny. But I don’t know how to be funny in America or in English. So when the other students gather at one another’s desks before class, I keep to myself and read my school books. When the bells ring for recess, I walk around the jungle gym by myself. Around me, other kids play and scream and run and swing. I find a bench to sit on while I eat Cheetos, my favorite junk food, which is as crunchy as fried crickets. The orange processed cheese that stains my hands reminds me of the monks’ orange robes in Cambodia. When I look up from my bag, I see the boy called Tommy watching me. The other kids think we look alike because we’re both Asians. Once a student asked if Tommy and I are brother and sister. She frowned when I told her Tommy is Vietnamese and I’m Cambodian. As I crunch on my Cheetos, Tommy stares at me hungrily, his tongue flickering in and out of his mouth.

For a brief moment, my heart aches for him but I turn my head and walk away. When I look back, I see Tommy picking up a Cheeto that I had dropped on the ground. Tommy purses his lips, blows on the chip a few times, and plops it in his mouth. My stomach growls at the memory of being so hungry that I would eat pieces of charcoal just to have something inside me. Looking at Tommy, I feel a wave of sadness crash over me, yet instead of sharing the remainder of my bag, I hoard it even more. Minutes later, all the Cheetos lie heavy in my stomach like a ball of bright orange shame.

A month into school, Tommy falls and hits his head while sliding down the school’s banister.

“He hurt his brain so much he’ll never be normal again!” the students whisper anxiously in the hall.

“I heard he split his head open and there was blood everywhere,” a girl tells a friend in a voice full of fear.

“I heard some students saw him fall!” another gasps, horrified.

“I heard he’s a retard now! Poor Tommy!”

As the days pass, more rumors circulate that Tommy will never walk, play ball, climb the monkey bars, read books, or have girlfriends. Like pecking chickens, the kids keep at the Tommy rumors and he never shows up to prove them wrong. By the end of the week, the word spreads that Tommy’s parents have moved him to a special school.

The stories about Tommy hit me hard right in my stomach. Even though Tommy and I rarely spoke, I felt tied to him in our Asian-ness. When everyone else would play together during recess, I could always count on him to stay near me. At first, Tommy and his stupid banister act made me angry. Then sadness settled like a coat of gray paint on my skin. Soon I saw Tommy’s sweet funny face. When I remembered his smile, my anger transformed into guilt, with its arrow piercing my skin and digging deep into my soul. It took me back to the times I stole rice from the mouths of my family members and, once, from a dying old woman. If only I could go back in time and share my Cheetos with Tommy.

With Tommy gone, I feel lost and alone in a field of pale skin and white faces. But after school, I escape to more familiar places and people when I meet up with Li and Ahn. Even though Li goes to another school, she still lives nearby. And while Ahn goes to a school for older kids, her house is only a thirty-minute walk from mine.

This Friday I rush home, drop off my books, and walk the mile to Li’s house. Li and her family live in a big house where I often stay for the entire weekend. After they get out of work, Meng and Eang frequently join me at the Chos’ house, and together we cook big Cambodian-Chinese dinners and listen to Cambodian music the Chos brought with them from Thailand. In one another’s company, the adults speak easily in Khmer, shed their shy and unsure refugee skins, and change into funny, confident, and vibrant individuals. While the adults stay indoors, Li and I head outside to play kickball in her big front yard with her nephews Van and Chen. When we want to escape the boys, Li pedals me on the back of her small banana bike and together we race down the hills. Today, I’m on the back of her bike hoping to replace Tommy’s split head with the wind blowing in my hair as we speed down the hill.

“Come on, Lee. Let me pedal.” I pat her back at the bottom of the hill.

“No, you’re reckless so I’m not letting you pedal.” For a little person, Li possesses an iron will when her safety is in question.

Until last month, Li had allowed me to pedal while she sat in the back. Then one day I discovered speed. As Li sat with her arms wrapped around my waist, yelling for me to slow down, I pedaled faster and faster. When the road ended abruptly, I had to squeeze the break tight, sending the bike, Li, and myself tumbling to the ground. Now whenever we ride, Li always does the pedaling. Usually this is fine with me, but today Li’s skinny legs are taking us around much too slowly. Behind her, I begin to twitch and itch with boredom.

“I promise I won’t crash the bike again. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”

“Your knee is still scabbing from your last fall. And it will scar ugly.”

“So?” I challenge, quite proud of all my scars. Li shakes her head softly.

If Ahn McNulty is my big sister, Li is my good twin. In Ahn, I see my strength and toughness. In Li, I see Chou with all her sweetness, friendliness, and generosity. Like Chou, Li is slender and petite in contrast to my sturdy and compact build. Next to Li’s prettiness and neatly brushed clean hair, I am unkempt and loud. Compared to Li, I have that orphaned-child look, the one featured in the commercials for the Christian Children’s Fund. Sometimes I wish I could be more like Li and Chou because everyone likes them.

“Stop picking your scabs. That’s gross!” Li admonishes me as she huffs and puffs.

“If you let me pedal, I’ll be too busy to pick at my scabs.” Li will not hear of it and continues to pedal.

When we finally get home, I jump off while Li carefully parks her bike. For the next few hours, Li and I play kickball, chase each other in a game of hide-and-seek, and roll around on the grass trying to perfect our round-offs and cartwheels. When we enter her house, we are wet with sweat and covered with mud and grass stains.

“Shoes off at the door!” Li’s sister orders us. “Then into the shower!”

“Okay, okay!” Li answers as we run into her bathroom. Behind the closed door, we strip off our clothes to our underwear and get into the tub. With the warm water raining on our bodies, we take turns scrubbing
the dirt and grime off each other’s backs, making farting noises with our soapy armpits and blowing bubbles into each other’s faces.

“Let’s play soap skating!” My eyes widen at my bright idea.

“How do we play?” Li asks.

“Here’s how we do it. I’ll go first.” I sit on the edge of the tub and lather up my feet with soap. With Li’s hands gripping my elbow, I unsteadily get up and push myself forward, my feet gliding over the ceramic tub.

“Wheeee! This is fun! Now push me!” Li does as she is told and sends me flying to the other side of the tub. Laughing, I extend my hand to stop myself against the wall. “Now it’s your turn.”

“Well, I don’t know.” Li hesitates, her brows knit with uncertainty.

“Come on, it’s fun!”

Tentatively, Li sits as I make her feet extra sudsy. Using her hands like spread-out wings, Li slowly skates her way across the tub. Suddenly, I reach out, flatten my palms on her back, and off she goes with a big push from me! Li’s arms flail like a baby bird learning to fly as she glides all the way to the other side of the tub, then comes crashing down, hitting her chin on the edge.

“Li, you okay? I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” The water is red with Li’s blood flowing out of her mouth.

“Li, are you okay?” I turn off the water. My hands are ice cold.

“Cut my lip,” she replies and glares, her eyes flashing with anger. She gets out of the tub to check her lips, with me dripping behind her. “It’s a small cut,” she says when she notices my anxiety. “I’ll be okay.”

But
I’m
not okay. “I’m bad, I’m bad, I’m bad!” The thought repeats in my head. Guilt and shame weigh heavy in my stomach, making me weak. I want to reach out and strike someone, to kick, to scream, and to hate so much that it will overpower the pain.

When I return home, I run to sit alone in my closet. Minutes later, Meng stands at my door and peers his head in.

“You have to stop playing so rough,” he says. His voice contains no anger, just traces of disappointment and sadness.

“It was an accident,” I reply quietly.

“You are not a boy,” he continues. “We are not living in a war any-more.
You do not have to fight so much now.” His words fill my closet and I begin to feel suffocated. He stands there as if waiting for me to say something but I do not. Silently, he turns and leaves me alone. As the curtain rustles and closes me in, I press my lips harder together. In my mind the war rages on, even though I know I live in a peaceful land. There’s no way I can explain that to Meng.

8 restless spirit

October 1980

“I joined the army,” Khouy announces to the family at dinner. Chou and Kim freeze midbite and turn to each other in horror and confusion.

“Khouy, the country is still at war. This is too dangerous.” Uncle Leang begins and stops to take a deep breath. “Khouy, when did this happen?”

“Today I went to see the village chief in Ou-dong about becoming a policeman,” Khouy responds matter-of-factly.

“That explains your absence from the fields,” Uncle Leang replies.

Chou watches Khouy’s jaw set at Uncle’s quiet reprimand. She knows that Uncle Leang is angry that Khouy has no interest in farming and often disappears for long stretches of time while the family toils away in the fields.

“There are no police jobs in the villages, only in the army,” Khouy continues. “All the police jobs are done by the army.”

“Ai, Khouy,” Aunt Keang says softly, “why did you do such a thing? The army is very dangerous.”

“Khouy, think about what you’re doing,” Amah implores. “If something happens to you, what will happen to your brother and sister? Think about them.”

“The army is useless. They do nothing but travel from one fight to another,” Uncle Leang accuses. “And if you get captured, the Khmer Rouge will kill you.”

“Khouy, joining the army means you’ll have to leave the village. You’ll
have to live near the army base. Think about your family. We need you here,” Aunt Keang pleads. Chou peers at Khouy through the corners of her eyes and sees his face becoming hard. Slowly, she picks her plate up off the table and goes to the kitchen.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Khouy yells suddenly, pounding on the table. In the kitchen, Chou cringes as the family becomes silent. “I
am
thinking about my sister and brother. I always think about my family!”

“Khouy, my nephew. No reason to get mad.” Aunt Keang tries to soothe him.

“Uncle Leang,” Khouy begins again in a soft restrained voice. Chou returns to the room but stands hidden behind the wooden door. From her safe place, she watches Khouy stiffen his shoulders and stick out his chin, making him look like a dog on attack. “The whole country is dangerous. Khmer Rouge soldiers are all around us and every day they attack villages and towns, kidnap women and cows. Sooner or later, we all have to fight them. At least in the army, I will be paid to fight them.”