We arrive in North Fresno, which is usually my favorite part of the city because there aren’t any surprises. It’s a series of strip malls with all the chain stores, the Cineplex, fast-food joints, and hella parking, so no need to parallel park or find change for the meter. Best of all, Blackstone Avenue doesn’t suddenly turn into a one-way street like it does downtown.
We are standing outside the darkened window of a locked storefront in the middle of a nondescript strip mall. There’s a fancy script-y font etched into the window, but it’s too dark to see what it says.
“Shall I find a brick to smash through the window?” I’m only half joking. Is this where my rash decisions take an illegal turn and I end up in jail?
“I would be very impressed if you were able to find a loose brick around here,” Mindii says. “And my parents might be a little pissed if you smashed our windows.” She takes out a key and opens the door to the place we’re casing.
Her store.
She turns on the lights and hits a few buttons to switch off the alarm. It smells of bread. It’s a beautifully decorated interior strung with fairy lights, chalkboard signs serving as the menu, and five small wrought-iron tables. But the centerpiece is a glass cabinet filled with brightly colored pastel pastries. There is a gigantic coffee machine behind the counter and a row of porcelain cups with gold handles.
“You’re the first boy I’ve brought here.”
I try to control myself to no avail. My face erupts in a large gleeful grin. I wonder what this face looks like with an enormous grin. It probably looks terrible, like a wrinkly foot in the bath, all my blemishes magnified. I blow air onto my blond streak to move it out of my eyes.
“You’re also the first boy I’ve ever known who doesn’t know what a macaron or a macaroon is,” she says.
I try to think of a rebuttal, but I’m distracted by all the vibrant colors in the glass cabinets.
“What do you want?” she says, sliding behind the counter, pulling a frilly apron over her brambleberry dress. She waves her arms over the cabinet like one of those spokesmodels from The Price Is Right, which Biji watches every day, even though she doesn’t really understand English. “I mean, what may I get you?”
“I’ll have one of those little b-burger-pastry things.”
Mindii lets out a mock sigh of exasperation.
“Is that a buffalo . . . m-macaron?” I say.
“A sky bison,” Mindii says.
“Of course. A-a-appa.”
“Yep, they’re macarons,” she says. I peer closer and recognize the blended Last Airbender animals. She stops and moves to a different part of the glass cabinet to take out a blob of a cookie topped with what looks like shredded coconut. “And this,” she says, enunciating dramatically, “is a macaroon.” Mindii places it on the counter and turns it so I can examine its golden brown crunchiness.
It doesn’t look dangerous. I take a bite. “This is very dense,” I say as I sink my teeth into a sweet crusted cluster of coconut, and place it back down into the tiny plate.
“It’s fine. Not my favorite either,” Mindii says.
She moves back to the burger pastries. “Macaroons don’t take as much effort as macarons. The usual ingredients: vanilla extract, salt, almond extract, one egg white, unsweetened coconut. Triangle, great big dollop, dip it in chocolate. Done. Whatever.”
She slides the cabinet door. “Macarons”—she gestures at the whole pastry case while looking straight at me—“much prettier and they need to be shaped and gotta be even. They’re basically meringue-style French cookies.” Mindii lays a pink catgator macaron onto a napkin on the counter. It looks like the frou-frou version of cream-filled sandwich cookies. She lays out a few more, shaped like animals from the TV series: a dragon-moose, aardvark-sloth, Flopsie the goat-gorilla.
The designs are so completely her. I can see Mindii’s personality coming alive through these hybrid animals from Last Airbender.
“These. Are. Fire,” I say, peering closely at the animal macarons.
Mindii grins wide. She grabs my hand and makes me run my fingers across the top and bottom of the pink catgator one. “So smooth,” I say.
“Goddamn right it is.” Mindii slowly lets go of my hand to gesture wildly with both of her hands. “Like the top of Aang’s head. See this?” She points at the ruffled edges just below the top. “They are called macaron feet. What flavor you want?”
I peer closely at the rainbow of choices she’s laid out. Nothing is labeled.
“What flavor is Appa?”
“He’s a complex sky bison. Rhubarb, banana, hint of matcha.
“Olive oil and lemon. Licorice. Yogurt and jasmine,” she says, following my face from the other side of the glass.
“Do you have any normal flavors. Like chocolate?”
“We don’t do that here.”
I’m a little overwhelmed. I go with my instincts and look at an octopus-like macaron.
“Purple looks . . .” Don’t say it. “C-cool.”
“Taro it is. You picked my favorite. The pentapus.”
“This is so artistic,” I say, genuinely impressed at the level of detail. It has five eyes and five tentacles that evenly match on the other side with a thick filling in between. I don’t know this creature, but it looks very . . . uh . . . pentapus-like.
“It’s filled with lavender-taro-bacon ganache.”
“Bacon? Nope.” I back away from the counter, like this macaron might bite me. Which is entirely possible. Bacon and eggs sounds logical. Bacon with sugar? “Give me a moment to mentally prepare,” I say, thoroughly flustered.
Mindii stands firm, holding out the tiny tentacled macaron, her tone strict but soothing, like she’s trying to convince a toddler to eat broccoli. “Listen to me, Shamsher ‘Sunny’ Gill. You are going to try this lavender-taro-bacon ganache macaron.”
I step back again. “I will not,” I say, like an indignant white lady. “Where’s the manager?”
“I am the manager, Karen.” Mindii peers at me from behind the counter. “Also, you’re not paying, so technically you’re not a customer. You are, however, a costumer.” She laughs at her incredibly terrible joke, and I start laughing too, involuntarily.
“Okay, let’s do this.” I run in place like I’m about to enter a grueling and much celebrated athletic competition involving a ball.
“The best macaron in the joint. See any cracks?” She smiles and plates it for me. “No! You motherfucking don’t, because this is perfection.”
She removes the apron and comes round to the same side I’m on. We both lean on the counter.
Mindii steps in close. She lifts the purple macaron to my mouth. I’m feeling a very peculiar kind of way about it. I’m being fed by a girl. Is this romantic? Ngozi wouldn’t do this. Not to me. Another girl? Maybe. I take an awkward bite, crack through the top of the shell and the chewy, intensely rich, soft sugary interior hits all the taste buds. I giggle for the second time tonight as she takes the second bite, our cheeks almost touching. If I abruptly turned my head our lips would graze each other. My head remains steadfastly focused on the wall.
“This is delicious,” I say, still staring at the wall.
“Doesn’t the pentapus live in the sewers?” I say.
She smiles. “The sewers of Omashu.”
I abruptly turn to look at her. Our lips don’t graze, but damn are they close to each other. I suck in a breath and pause to finish chewing a tentacle.
“So,” I say, my voice high-pitched. “What’s the deal with the French bakery?”
She laughs and wipes the crumbs off her face. “That’s the most creative way of asking where I’m from-from. My mom grew up in France, where she fell in love with baking. Mom’s a Green Hmong, Dad’s a White Hmong. Which makes me . . .”
“A light green Hmong?”
She laughs.
“I don’t see color,” I say. “Kinda racist you noticed your parents are white and green.”
She laughs again.
The macaron is all finished. I slowly shuffle my feet and we stand up straight. She throws the paper plate away.
“So,” I say. “What’s happening tomorrow?”
“There would have been a time for such a word,” Mindii says, a little ominously.
“What?” I say, more confused than usual.
“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.” Mindii’s voice trembles with each utterance of the word. She’s quoting something.
“Is that from Last Airbender?” I say.
“Macbeth, fool.”
She smiles, her eyes distant.
“Tomorrow, the stall dies,” she says matter-of-factly.
“The one you ran with your grandma?”
“Yeah. It’s for an exciting reason,” Mindii says, not sounding excited at all. “I’m leaving for ECB end of August.”
“Ah. UCB,” I say pretending to be whatevs about it. “Seems like everyone I know is going there.” By everyone I mean Ngozi. And now, Mindii. It’s not like I didn’t know Ngozi was applying. After tenth grade, we barely had any classes together because she was taking gifted classes and AP this and AP that, all kinds of extracurriculars, while I was taking basic-ass classes and getting basic-ass grades. But we’d still hang out during lunch, or endlessly text each other about our ideas for the next song, or fanfiction we were writing, and spend hours on social discussing any and all things about the Jamie Snollygoster series.
My parents were so busy trying to figure out what the fuck to do with Goldy and the video store that they didn’t have time to map out my life. Maybe they didn’t know how to map out my life. So yeah, no. I didn’t apply to any UC. Not even State. My only option is community college at this point and I haven’t even applied for that yet. Of course Mindii is leaving. Of. Friggin’. Course.
“Not UCB,” Mindii says. “ECB. Ecole de Boulangerie et de Patisserie de Paris.”
My eyes widen at the way the French is rolling off her tongue, like it’s been hiding there this whole time. I don’t even know what it means.
“It’s a baking and pastry school in Paris.” Her tone sounds more resigned than excited.
“That’s really . . . uh,” I say, trying to come up with a word that is the opposite of what I am feeling. “A . . . uh . . . a . . . dream,” I say like an amateur greeting card writer. “What happened to the bakery stall?”
“My siblings help out sometimes. And my parents got it on lock. But my niam tais’s stall, nobody’s got on lock. I’ve been running that for three years. And now it’s just . . .” She trails off.
I’m about to say something, when Mindii perks up. “New rule,” she says. “Let’s not talk about tomorrow. It’s so . . .”
“Boring?” I offer.
“Yeah. That,” she says.
I nod, thankful she isn’t going to make me talk about my stupid-ass plans to do nothing. ECB you say? Oh you mean Le ECB. I’m going to Le FCC. Oh you haven’t heard? Le Fresno City Community College, only the most exclusive place ever.
“Wanna see a real paj ntaub?” Mindii says, grabbing my hand, not waiting for a response. My stomach flips, this weird energy works its way up through my hands and fingers. Familiar. Strange. “Step this way,” she says, leading me toward a door on the other side of the counter. “For you and I must go on a journey if you wish to find out about this knowledge.”
“Alice in Wonderland?” I say.
“Dante,” she says.
“Wait. From the Inferno? As in a journey to hell? No thanks. I could just google paj ntaub,” I say.
“Too fucking late. You’ve already begun seeking.”
I raise an eyebrow. If she were a murderer, this would be a great place to dispose of a body. Her hand is still wrapped around mine.
We walk through the door that leads to another set of doors. “That’s the kitchen,” she says, pointing to an open room on the left with two enormous human-sized ovens. “Pantry,” she says as we walk past another door that’s locked. “This room,” Mindii says, “is where I do my homework and stuff.”
There is a brass knocker with a buzzer in the middle and the words press for giggles written on it. I press it and hear the muffled sounds of an old woman laughing.
“Love that sound,” Mindii says. “It’s Niam Tais from a recording I found of her during a family party.”
“Such a joyous laugh,” I say.
She presses it again. “The best.”
We step inside the room. It’s not as huge as the kitchen, but about the size of a small bedroom. It’s cozy, decorated with lights, flower petals, a tiny window, and a shelf with extra pantry supplies. My eyes widen in mock terror as I see her doll collection on a small plastic table. It’s a Hmong doll collection, but still. Yikes!
Mindii lifts up one of the dolls to show me.
“Did you make these?”
“I wish,” Mindii says. “Neither did my niam tais. I buy a couple every year at Hmong New Year. Aren’t they so cute?”
My eyes hover over the collection. Cute is not the word I would use. “This appliqué work on the placket is so detailed,” I say. The dolls are six inches tall, with individualized Hmong outfits for men and women, impressively embroidered, adorned with various accessories like sashes and jewelry, the men with vests. Mindii snorts at my appropriate use of the word placket.
“Placket,” she repeats.
“What’s the difference between Green and White Hmong?” I say, looking at the medley of colors.
“It’s complicated. Part of it is clothing. Green Hmong skirts are traditionally very colorful and White Hmong skirts are, well, white. But I don’t really know because I’ve grown up with both cultures,” Mindii says. “Some of it is also pronunciation. A lot of the clothing is provincial too.” She picks up a doll. “This White Hmong dress from Sayaboury Province in Laos is a little different from this one.” She picks up another doll. “This is also White Hmong, but from Xieng Khouang Province.”
“So this placket.” I pick up a doll with the placket on the upper left side. She snorts again. “What do you call it?” I say, irritated.
“Colorful flappy thing on left side of clothes.”
“That’s what you call it? Okay, so this flappy thing is on the side because of the region or Green Hmong or White Hmong?”
“Who knows? Maybe it’s a Striped Hmong thing,” she says. “Mostly we wear what looks good unless we’re performing for Hmong New Year or something. At the end of the day, we’re all Hmong.”
“So, like pronunciation is different too?” I say.
“A little. Like the White Hmong pronunciation of grandmother is Niam Tais, which is what I use, but the Green Hmong pronunciation is Nam Tais. Not a huge difference, but there are other words that are like totally different.”
“It sounds kinda like how some people pronounce sneeze ‘chik’ in one region of Punjab and ‘nich’ in another.”
“Hmm.” She considers. “We should do a TED Talk on linguistics.”
“It’d be great,” I say.
“My eyes hone in on a large tapestry on the wall, the reason we came to the back in the first place.
We put the dolls back and walk toward the story cloth.
“I was helping my niam tais to make this paj ntaub. It’s incomplete,” Mindii says. I get closer and see the beautiful colors of different embroidery thread to show landscape and people and a river I’m assuming is the Mekong. I could stand here for hours looking at all the details. “It shows her first husband and her in the fields planting, helping the Americans during the Secret War, then her husband’s death, fleeing to Thailand, getting remarried. That’s where it stops. I don’t know how to finish it,” Mindii says. “I don’t know the details to finish the rest of the story, or how to embroider the rest.”
“What is th-th-the Secret W-W-War? I’ve heard of it in passing from some Hmong friends, but . . . wait.” I pause as a thought comes to me. “So is this what you sell at the stall?”
“Are you out of your mind?” Mindii says.
“Didn’t you say Hmong started making these story cloths at the refugee camps?”
“Not these ones. Like shittier ones for white people to put up in their house and tell their dinner guests they got an authentic Hmong story cloth. Can you imagine some white missionary having such a private family history in their house?”
“Word,” I say, taking it in. “So what’s the Secret War?”
“I could talk your ear off for hours about this. You can google it.”
“Can you give me the quick version?”
Mindii looks at me. “Okay. Typical American CIA bullshit. They’re in the shit with the Vietnam War, so what do they do? They sneak around to Laos and use Hmong farmers and villagers with the help of General Vang Pao to fight for them against North Vietnam even though Laos is supposed to be neutral. There are still like eighty million unexploded mines in Laos thanks to America. They don’t tell nobody nothing, media doesn’t even know, it’s kept that quiet, so when the Vietnam War ends, the CIA and Americans get out and leave the Pathet Lao to massacre Hmong by the thousands. And they keep the war a secret, which means we get no aid, no media coverage, and are just sitting ducks. Most Americans don’t even know who the Hmong are let alone that we are part of American history. So eventually people like my niam tais risked everything to get to the refugee camps in Thailand, then risked everything again and started over in California and Minnesota. And like it’s an oral tradition, so our stories are literally art, and once somebody is gone, that part of our culture is . . .” Mindii stops talking. I reach out my hand. She squeezes it and we let go.
“I can’t imagine what it must be like for people to come from so far away, never being able to return home, and being like, this is it. This is where we’ll start again,” I say.
Our hands graze across the cloth. I’m in love with the intricate designs, the vibrant colors, the images of people making their way across a river. There’s a ragged edge on one side.
“I kind of like it being unfinished,” Mindii says.
I look at her intently.
I don’t say anything, my eyes taking in all the details of the story cloth Mindii is working on, trying to unravel it, to understand.
I watch her hands running along the tapestry again. “This is different from other patterns I’ve seen,” I say.
I can almost see Mindii and her grandma sitting in here together, weaving, sharing stories, laughing.
She takes out a mug from a small cabinet. It’s wrapped in yarn, a familiar wavy pink-and-green pattern. I freak. “THAT’S MY TEA COZY!”
She smiles. “I thought it was cute.”
“Okay. Cool. Cool. Cool.”
I take out my phone and quickly look through her Instagram feed again, then look at my Loom the Fandom Instagram messages. Nothing.
“I didn’t have a question. I just bought it directly on Etsy. I’m the VangsterWrapper. “
“You have an Etsy store?” I quickly scroll on down. And add her name to my favorites.
Her store has little poems.
“This is s-so cool. You sell poetry?”
“It was supposed to be me and Niam Tais. Some are her song poems. Some are on jewelry. I don’t even know why I haven’t closed it.”
I’m not sure how to process this and try to mentally connect all the dots.
“You know, I remember you from Comic-Con too,” I say. “I mean, I didn’t recognize you at the time as Mindii Vang, the g-girl from my school. But I remember your cosplay.”
“Yeah, my Sailor Moon cosplay took a while to make because of the bow,” she says.
“N-nice try. I remember the conversation we had. I thought you were cosplaying the Borg from Star Trek because of all the cracks on your face and you let me have it.”
Mindii chortles slightly. For the first time tonight, she is clearly taken aback.
“You don’t remember who I was cosplaying, do you?” Mindii says.
“Puppet Zelda,” I say triumphantly. “Your boyfriend was supposed to be Gandalf?”
“Ganondorf,” Mindii says quietly.
“I just r-remember you were having a bad cosplay day and feeling sad and snappy that your armor was falling apart. And all it would t-take for me to help you was a needle, thread, scissors, and some spirit gum. I had all of it in m-my cosplay doctor kit. Wasn’t even mad when you didn’t say thanks and just took off. I’m a professional. It was t-t-totally fine.”
“You weren’t even a little mad?”
“I was fucking pissed. Used my good thread too. And half my spirit gum fixing your poorly joined together armor. You know spirit gum is like gold to a cosplayer? I’ll send you an invoice.”
She laughs. “Forgot about the boyfriend. He was a jerk. Or maybe I was the jerk, I don’t know,” Mindii says.
She pauses and clears her throat.
“Oh,” I say. “Yeah, that motherfucker is the jerk.”
It feels strange hearing Mindii use the word boyfriend. Hearing myself use the word. Boyfriend. It doesn’t compute with the Mindii I’ve been getting to know.
“Everyone thought I was this terrible granddaughter, daughter, sister, auntie. Anything I was to anyone, they thought I was a terrible version of it. It was a couple days after Niam Tais had passed. I just didn’t want to be at home with everyone expecting me to perform. Like be sad. I just wanted to get away, out of my body, out of my head.”
I want to tell her I know what it’s like, but can’t find the words.
I nod my head.
“Can you say the line again?” she says. “The cosplay doctor one.”
“Don’t worry. I am a cosplay doctor.”
“I know what I’m doing,” she finishes.
I’m breathless.
I want to kiss her.
Just do it.
Do it.
Lean in.
I turn to face her.