RUNNER-UP, FICTION
The Rubber Band Test JOHN NGUYEN
A
t the seafood section of Buddha Amazing Market, the reek of death was especially prominent. The lobster tanks spellbound Trời and Lá. In one glass prison, the creatures, with rubber bands restricting their red pincers, climbed onto each other, as though trying to escape. The pile resembled a hunched back. One crustacean nearly made it out — but Chuông poked it with a chopstick. The clawed optimist fell slowly to the bottom. “Ha! Sneaky guy.” “Hey, why’d you do that?” asked Lá. Grabbing a silver knife, Chuông prepared to cut up a salmon. “What? You want freedom for animals?” He chuckled. “Stupid!” “Sorry, Chuông,” said Hồng, catching up to her teenagers, struggling to push a wonky-wheeled cart. “Hồng! No problem. What would you like?” “Salmon. Three pounds. And five blue crabs. Maybe toss a couple lobsters in there.” “Full house tonight?” “No no no.” She shook her hands and head. “Can never be too prepared about food!” “Ah, okay.” Chuông put the raw fish into a plastic bag. “Here.” She examined its contents. “Sorry,
could you get new crabs and lobsters? Live ones! I’ll boil them extra fresh!” “‘Course.” He gave her a new batch. Hồng moved the cabbages and scallions to one side of the cart, the seafood occupying the other. “Thanks, Chuông.” “Any time.” “Let’s go.” She motioned to the twins, swiping a pack of oxtail from the meat shelves. Beginning to tail Hồng, Lá stuck his tongue out at Chuông, and Trời followed behind his brother. The family headed to the cashier. “Byebye, stupid!” Chuông said to Lá. The salmon deboning continued. The Tran twins grew up in Saint Paul, Minnesota. They lived on The Very Old People’s Street — also known as Minnehaha. Nearly all the residents surpassed 70; Trời felt they paraded their age too much. Only when surrounded by family, or by Vietnamese people, did they utter their real identities. At school, Trời was Oliver and Lá was Frederick — names they had seen on T.V. But luck showered over Hồng, since hers boasted a pleasant English translation: Rose. (Also pink, which isn’t as lyrical).
The name of almost every Vietnamese they knew carried poetry: Lotus, Apricot Blossom, Ocean. As with their mother, colors imbued the boys’ names: Xanh Da Trời (blue, like the “skin” of the sky) and Xanh Lá Cây (green, like a tree leaf). Economical with her syllables, Hồng called them Trời and Lá. But even so, Trời’s confusion about colors never vanished. Everything in nature cycles through hues, doesn’t it? he wondered. The sky — it’s also magenta and murky and golden. The neighborhood treasured the boys’ vitality, with which they became jewels of the street. Hồng could call any of the old couples to look after her children when she had to work an extra shift at the bakery. At three in the afternoon, the school bus halted beside the street sign and opened its doors. The two 14-year-olds ran out. They said hello to Bertha, the classically trained pianist next door, who was swaying on her hammock as usual. The twins marched into the house, their Superman and Captain America backpacks heavy with dreams. Each removed his shoes. Passing the kitchen —“Hey, con!” Hồng said — they scurried to their bedroom. Steam from the minty pho broth humidi-
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