Lucky Child (13 page)

But as October approaches its end, the temperature drops; the mountain colors burn bright and then quickly turn brown. The cold wind blows and strips the trees of all its leaves. Once on the ground, the leaves no longer dance but lie dead and decompose back into the earth. From afar, I stare somberly at the naked trees before returning my mind to the joys of Halloween.

When the big night finally arrives, I slip on my Tom the Cat costume that Meng has bought for $2.99 at the A&P. I’d rather be the hardworking princess Cinderella but she costs $9.99, so Meng made me be a cat instead. But I don’t complain because if I make him mad tonight, he might not let me go with Ahn. Meng and Eang do not understand Halloween and think it is bad etiquette for children to go begging for treats. But Mrs. McNulty explained to them that on Halloween night, it’s not begging or rude for children to ask for candies. Although Meng nodded at her words, I don’t think he understood.

“Okay, Mr. McNulty is downstairs. I’m going now!” I yell, and run out of the house.

“Remember, no begging. We are from a good family!” Eang calls after me.

“Don’t cause our family to lose face!” Meng’s voice follows hers as I roll my eyes in disgust and shut the door behind me.

At the McNultys’ house, Ahn greets me wearing a long black cape and pointy hat.

“I’m a witch! Heeeeeheeehhhhh!” Ahn screeches.

“Yes, you are a witch,” Mrs. McNulty chuckles and hugs her.

“Have fun, you two!” Mr. and Mrs. McNulty tell us as we trot off together.

When we come to our first house, I lower my plastic cat mask over my face and take a moment to admire the fat stuffed scarecrow sitting under a tree on the front lawn. Peering through the two eyeholes, I make my way up the steps and knock on the door.

“Trick or treat!” I scream when a woman carrying a big bowl of candy bars opens the door. “Trick or treat, give me something sweet to eat!” I repeat as my hot breath blasts back into my face.

“My, aren’t you girls cute!” the woman exclaims, and drops a candy bar into my bag before moving over to Ahn.

“Thank you!” I yell and bounce off to the next house.

“Wait!” Ahn calls out, laughing.

When she catches me, she slaps me on the arm. Ahn does that a lot. She’s a slapper when she laughs. If anyone else did that, I’d twist their arms behind their backs like chicken wings. But Ahn calls me sis and is very nice and buys me candies and books. Besides, I don’t know if I can take her down. Because she was adopted from a Korean orphanage and all, Ahn is as tough as I am. And she’s strong, too. But mostly, I don’t want to twist her arms because I like her.

At the next house, another woman opens the door.

“Trick or treat!” I holler, and again I get candies. I cannot believe it. I remember years of begging Ma for candies. Here they give it away for free! I love America!

Two hours later, the night has grown cold, the candles in the jack-o’-lanterns have melted, and my sticky fingers have touched every decoration adorning the neighborhood homes, from eyeballs to intestines to worms. At Ahn’s house, Mrs. McNulty checks all our candies to make sure they’re safe for us to eat before sending Mr. McNulty to drive me home. In the
car, Ahn tells me that the eyeballs were peeled grapes and the intestines were cold noodles; Mr. McNulty chuckles at my contorted face. I rather wish they were real eyeballs and intestines.

After Mr. McNulty drops me off, I stand in front of my door and make myself hard again. Sometimes, after I’ve spent too much time laughing with Ahn, I return home feeling all soft and light. Then when I see Meng’s heavy eyes and long face, I feel guilty for having laughed so much in one day when my brother has not laughed once in a week. So standing in front of our door, I quickly still my face, pull down my smile, and walk up the stairs to find Meng and Eang waiting up for me in the living room.

“Let’s see, let’s see,” Eang waves to me.

“Have you eaten anything?” Meng asks, taking the heavy bag from me.

“Yes, but Mrs. McNulty checked the candies already.”

“Let’s check it again.” Meng dumps the candies on the floor. “I heard that sometimes crazy people put drugs, pins, and needles into the candies.” I sigh and slide on the floor as he inspects every individual piece and bag. Eang, who is seven months pregnant, watches from her seat on the couch. We both know that where our safety is concerned, Meng cannot be talked out of his actions. “This one, the edges look like it might be a rip or tear.”

“It’s crumpled,” I reply.

“No, it could be a rip. Someone could have inserted a needle through this hole,” Meng says of the nonexistent hole and tosses it into the bad pile. “This apple is no good. I read that some crazies inject poisons into fruits to hurt people.”

“I got that from Mrs. McNulty’s house.”

“No good,” he says and tosses it away.

As the pile of bad candies grows bigger, I wrap my arms over my chest tighter to keep from screaming out my annoyance. After what seems like many hours, Meng is finally done.

“Good job,” he says with a satisfied smile. Then he tosses the bad candies into a bag. “These we will throw away.”

As he and Eang head off to bed, I snuggle under my blankets and try to go to sleep. In their room, Eang and Meng are already snoring when I move back to the living room to watch TV. To my horror, all three channels are showing ghost movies! In the dark, I sit on the couch with my legs
pressed tight against my chest and the blanket pulled over my shoulders. Outside the window, the moon peeks in and out from behind the clouds and slowly climbs over my roof and out of sight. Around us, the wind laughs and the trees shake their branches like a parent’s warning fingers. But it does not matter. On TV, as the fake blood splashes across the screen, I sit transfixed and watch all the killings until, in the end, humans finally triumph over the ghosts and monsters.

As October turns to November, the sky grows dark earlier and earlier in the day and the sun travels shorter and shorter paths across the horizon. Soon the crisp air turns cold and blows with force across the barren land, but no leaves are left to protest its stinging wind. In Essex Junction, with fall newly departed, winter moves in speedily until we all wake up one morning to find white stuff on the ground.

“Snow! Snow!” I scream excitedly, my palms pressed against the cold window. “Snow!”

“Stop screaming. I know already.” Eang is now eight months pregnant and no longer working, so she is home with me.

As my breath steams up the windowpane, images resurface of snow-cone vendors grinding up their ice blocks. In my mind, shaved ice falls from the sky for me to gather into balls and pour orange syrup on! “I’ll sell snow cones to make money to send to Cambodia!” I think to myself. Then I remember that Mrs. McNulty said we often don’t go to school when it snows here.

“No school today!” I run into the kitchen to tell Eang.

“Yes, school today,” Eang replies, waddling her way to the living room with my snow clothes.

“You never believe me,” I complain.

“No arguing. Mrs. McNulty will call if there’s no school.”

“Hhhhh!” I stomp back into the bathroom, my arms and legs swinging like elephant trunks. As I go about my toiletry, Eang tosses an armload of winter gear on my bed. What follows is a lengthy bundling procedure where I get pushed, pulled, and stuffed into various outfits and items. When I finally toddle out the door, I’m wearing shiny blue snow pants over my long johns and jeans, two pairs of socks, my red winter jacket, orange hat, black mittens, and scarlet moon boots. I immediately dump my school bag on the front steps and flatten my body on the ground.

“Snow! Snow!” I scream, pressing my stomach on the frozen grass. With difficulty, I roll over on my back and stare at the white, empty sky as my nostrils blow out cold smoke like a dragon. Underneath me, the snow crunches like little crystals under my weight.

“Snow! Snow!” I yell with elation, my arms flapping to make my very first snow angel.

“No. Frost, frost,” a neighbor girl replies, wearing only a light coat, scarf, and sneakers.

The frost soon melts but before long we have snow drifts, hail, and ice balls. While the world freezes and the sky stays gray, our family snuggles longer and longer in bed. If Eang and Meng let me, I would spend all day asleep. For when I leave the warmth of my blankets, my mood becomes dark and foul. On those occasions when we have to leave the house, we do so quickly and return to thaw our bodies under the electric blankets. Still, no matter the frigid weather, Meng and Eang continue to make sure I get to school, even if I have to trudge through unplowed sidewalks in knee-deep snow. Even beneath the many layers of clothes, hats, and scarves, my body craves for the hot sun and humid weather of Cambodia. And with each snow step I take, I dream of walking on beaches and warming my toes in sunbaked sand. But no matter how vivid my fantasies, my face still freezes and each stinging gust of wind feels like a hard slap on my cold cheeks. When I return from school, Eang wraps heavy blankets around me and tries to thaw my body with a bowl of her homemade hot and sour soup.

As the weather grows colder and colder, our hearts are warmed by visits from our friends and sponsors as they crowd our house with gifts wrapped in pretty boxes and papers. Usually after they leave, Eang waddles to the kitchen to make our meal while Meng works on his English homework in the living room. From my closet, I hear him read and reread his work, his thumb flipping through his Chinese/English dictionary.

Before the war, Meng was a top student in his class, a distinction that made Pa and Ma so proud they rewarded him with a car. And now even without their approval to encourage him, Meng continues to study all the time. For two months, Meng has taken the public bus to Massachusetts every Saturday to attend a university in Boston to study social work. In
Lowell, he stayed with another Cambodian family and studied all day. After a weekend of rigorous class work, he would return home on Sunday night to start work on Monday. But because of Eang’s pregnancy, Meng had to quit school to work two jobs to support our family. And yet he still comes home every day and studies his English lessons. Sometimes I wonder if he studies so hard for himself or if he’s still doing it all for Pa and Ma.

While Meng supports our family, my only job is to be a good student. Meng once told me that the reason he chose me to take to America instead of Chou or Kim was because I was the youngest and therefore would be able to get a better education. He said it was Pa’s dream that we would all be educated. Like Pa, Meng believes that a good education is our only way into a better life. In their worlds, having an educated Ung brings honor, prestige, pride, and dignity to the whole family. The weight of this responsibility hangs heavily and noisily around my neck like a huge clunky cowbell. Sometimes it feels like it’s going to close around my throat when I try to talk.

At times, it all still seems so strange. One year ago, I was afraid of being killed by soldiers, and now my big fear is that the teacher will call on me to answer a question. When I
do
get called on, my mind swirls and jumbles up all the grammar rules in my head. Then slowly I have to work my thoughts into a sentence and force my tongue and mouth to speak it. In Khmer and Chinese, there seem to be no pronouns, plurals, or tenses. In English, there are all these grammar rules and then there are the exceptions for all the rules, and the exceptions for all the exceptions. It takes so much energy, work, and effort to listen, understand, talk, study, learn, and remember everything in class that I often go off by myself during recess to be quiet.

While the other students play together in the snow, with my bag of chips I shuffle over to the monkey bars with Tommy’s shadow by my side. Where Tommy stood a few months ago, three girls now stand. When they see me approaching, they lean their heads in and whisper with their hands over their mouths.

“It’s fun to live in trees,” I say, still hoping to make new friends.

“What?” a brown-haired, freckle-faced girl replies.

“Fun to live in trees, and swing around on ropes.” I have been reading many books about the monkey Curious George.

“What a pain in the neck,” the freckled girl says under her breath.

“What mean ‘pain in neck’?” I ask, my voice steady as I move toward her. The freckled girl shrugs her shoulders and turns her back to me.

“What mean ‘pain in neck’?” I demand, but she refuses to acknowledge me. “You are making me lose face!” I scream in Khmer. “I am sick of trying to understand! I’m tired of you making fun of me in your foreign language! I hate that you think you’re smarter than me!” In my native tongue, the words spew out of me easily and rapidly.

The girls continue to lean into one another. Suddenly, I feel the heat from my head rush down my face to my neck before surging to my arms. Then, fast as a frog, my arm springs up and punches the girl in the back of her neck.

“This mean ‘pain in neck’?” I taunt her, ready to deliver another punch. The girl screams and I grab her, pulling both of us down on the ground. As we wrestle, her two friends try to break us up but I knock off their hands like moths.

“Stop, stop it now!” I freeze, hearing an adult’s voice. I dare not turn around and look at her face. “All of you, go inside!”

Meekly, I climb off the girl and head back to class. When the bell rings at 3:15 P.M., the principal sends me home with a note to Meng.

“Loung.” Meng’s voice is calm and hard even after I tell him what happened. “We cannot lose face in America.”

I stay quiet. Meng does not understand that I was trying save face with the girls. He only thinks about us losing face as Cambodian refugees living in America. But what about my face at school?

“Loung.” Meng looks me in the eyes. His anger is visible in his dark pupils and still face. “We are guests in this country. No matter how long we live here, we will always be guests. And a guest must never steal, fight, or harm the host. You bring much shame to the family by fighting. The next time you act badly, America might send you back to Cambodia.”

Meng does not have to raise his voice; his gentle threat is enough to stop me from behaving badly. I do not want to go back to Cambodia; I do not want to return to the war. In America, I have grown so weak and soft that I don’t know if I could survive the war again. I hate myself for this. Because I know that somewhere in Cambodia, Chou is waiting for me, but I do not want to join her.