5

Her ba, father, had dinner nearly ready by the time she emerged from a trance of non-Euclidean geometry. It was one of his special dishes, fish with pink peppercorns, ginger, and coriander. When he cooked this dish, he always said the same thing, “Some people pay for this pepper in the fancy shops. But not us.”

“Not us,” Vân Ước repeated.

“No, we go to the riverbank,” he said. “Because we know—”

“We know where the peppercorns grow.” She smiled, wondering how many times they’d had this exchange since she was little.

Her father’s grandparents had been market gardeners, and of her parents he was the one who preferred cooking. On any of their walks, he always had his eye out for food that could be foraged: onion weed, milk thistle, amaranth, and wild rocket along the railway line; lemons and plums hanging over alleyway fences; the peppercorn tree on the river bend five minutes’ walk from where they lived. He had planted rau răm, Vietnamese mint, near the peppercorn tree, and that now grew there in plentiful supply. They nursed along the more temperamental coriander in pots on the kitchen windowsill.

By eleven thirty, her parents had been asleep for nearly two hours, she’d snuck quietly into the kitchen to make a late-night icy Milo (an addiction she’d brought home from Mount Fairweather), and all her homework was finished, except for a polish on the creative writing piece.

She stirred her drink, smelling the cold malty goodness, letting the ice cubes clink into the side of the glass, staring into the fractured reflection in the window over her desk.

Because all her common sense told her that Billy Gardiner was likely—veering to certainly—going to act according to the character she had observed for the last two years and that it was likely-veering-to-certain that he had something mean planned for her, it hit her like a heart attack when she remembered the wish. The ridiculous, frivolous, throwaway wish…

Because… because his strange behavior since that class yesterday—that she had interpreted—was interpreting—as preparatory to some sort of mean joke—could also be interpreted as (gulp) Billy liking her because she had wished that he would. She breathed in some Milo instead of swallowing and almost choked. What words had she used as she made the wish? That he would prefer her to all other girls, find her fascinating? No. No way. It was embarrassing to even let herself entertain the idea for one second. And yet, how else to explain his apparent vehemence on her behalf as he said, she’s Australian…? Annoying, of course, because was it such an automatic virtue to be “Australian”—though his intention was to elevate her from “refugee,” another annoyance, because of the automatic low-status assumption that always came with that label—but that aside…

She didn’t believe in fairies, zombies, vampires, Father Christmas—or magic wishes. That stuff was for kids. She drank some more Milo, spooning up the cold crunchy bits from the top. She looked inside her pencil case for the umpteenth time. Surely the little glass vial couldn’t have just disappeared. She ran a finger around the inside seam, under the zipper, and tipped everything out onto her desk. Still not there.

Wishes were not a thing.

They were not.

Correction.

Wishes were a thing.

Wishes that came true were sometimes a thing.

Wishes that came true because of magic were not a thing.

To pull her mind back into shape, she decided to give herself some free writing; after the refugee conversation today, a little vent on what not to say to Asian kids… and some retorts she wished she could occasionally deliver, rather than just think.

Where are you from?

Australia, fool, same as you.

Where are you really from?

Are you still here? My parents were both born in Vietnam, but they are also Australian citizens.

Wow, that food looks so interesting and unusual; you’re so lucky.

It’s just what we eat at my place. Try to peep over that giant Western outlook. A sandwich is not the default lunch for the entire world.

You’re a “hot Asian.” You’re an “Asian nerd.”

You do realize those are dehumanizing racist stereotypes, not compliments? No? Well, now you know.

Do you have a Tiger Mother?

Sometimes my mother is a tiger; sometimes she’s a moth, fragile and vulnerable.

Do you get into trouble if you don’t get straight As?

It’s never happened, but if it did, I could lose my scholarship. I don’t have a safety net like you do.

Do you get sunburned?

Yes, and I also bleed. I even go to the bathroom. Just like a real human. Who knew!

How much for the Asian schoolgirl double act?

Do you realize we are actual schoolgirls, old-loser-guys-calling-out-from-cars? Probably pretty much the same age as your own daughters. We are not on an excursion from a brothel.

Are you going to do law, or medicine?

Neither. (But don’t tell my parents.)

Do your parents own a restaurant?

My mother does piecework from home, and my dad works in a food-processing factory cutting up chickens into portions.

You look like Lucy Liu.

An actor who is old enough to be my mother? Because we both have long black hair? Or because all Asians look alike? (I don’t.) (And we don’t.)

Select All. Delete.

Swallowing a laugh, she imagined printing it out and distributing it.

It felt brilliant to bash things out in black and white.

Thank you, Ms. Bartloch.