The boy stood watching, his feet shaking slightly, but his eyes entranced by what lay before him. Sweat streamed down his face as another boy, equally wide-eyed and exhausted, peered back from the water’s reflection. The desert sun casted a murky shadow on the other boy’s face, but the first boy was undeterred. Straining his eyes, looking past the sun glitter and moving his face closer to the water’s edge, the boy was mouthing silently to himself. Between his heavy panting, he was trying desperately to form the shape of a word with his mouth. N-n-nu...
Usually, I went in when the sun was out. Usually, I left and the sun had left me too.
A brilliant flash suddenly overtook the boy’s vision. The boy blinked and unconsciously took a few steps forward. Squinting, he saw the glint of the sun’s rays reflecting off the OPEN sign outside the shop, filtering into the room unhindered by the large fiberglass windows. As his eyes adjusted and regained focus, the boy shifted his gaze downwards to see a middle-aged woman sprawled next to a white jug on the ground. He began to shuffle over to the motionless body, but he caught a faint whiff of the jug’s contents and gagged. Tongue in throat, the boy turned to dash towards the bathroom when a pair of gloved hands clamped a cap over the jug and screwed it shut. Another pair of hands tried to shake the woman awake to no avail. The gloved woman looked up and her eyes immediately narrowed as she made eye contact with the boy. She stood up abruptly, grasping at the boy’s arm, and marched him furiously towards the back of the shop. Đi vô phòng! Đừng đi ra! They rounded the corner of a short hallway and reached an imposing door with “Employees Only” plastered in the front. As they crossed inside, the boy tugged vigorously on his mother’s arm, urgently calling Con khát
nước! Con khát nước! The mother’s eyes softened and she quickly made her way to the small fridge, taking out a mini water bottle and unscrewing the lid for her thirsty son. Bình nhỏ cho bé nhỏ. Mẹ phải đi làm. Nghe lời mẹ—Ở lại đây, đừng đi ra, OK? The boy nodded vigorously. She patted the boy’s head a couple times and planted a big kiss on his forehead. Jai jai hou lek! A few minutes later, the boy slipped out of the room, rounded the corner to the main area of the shop, and then froze.
Blue and red lights flashed intensely, blaring incessantly, from the handicap parking spot just outside. Two stocky police officers were now in the shop surrounding the woman, one kneeling and rummaging through a bulky first-aid kit and the other locking his arms around the woman’s shoulders, keeping her upright. Both men had cumbersome objects matching their dark uniforms strapped to their waists, objects that more likely hindered their care than helped.
And as quickly as he had left the room, the boy ran back inside, tears forming as he scrambled for the chair and shut the door. He grabbed the water bottle and squeezed it tightly while closing his eyes. It was his prayer for silence, to escape the already-muted sound of the police siren. And as he raised the bottle to his lips, he could make out the blurs of a dull green mixed in with red and Orange. And as the cool water rushed down his dry, rough throat and mixed with the taste of his salty tears, the boy’s vision began to gradually darken until he could no longer see the spots and was left with only the sound of his hoarse coughs.
It was called Naillux, by the way, like Nail Luxury. I just kept thinking Nail Light. How I’d see the light of day hit the windows and then leave. Or the gel polish. Maybe a full set. Acrylic. Pedicures. Sorry, we no have specialise with eyebrow waxing. But you want airbrush nails. Dollars. Twenty-two. Twentee-too doulla. Tip? No, maybe next time. There wasn’t a next time.
I had seen 2.3 stars. Like magnetic attraction, I read the reviews and saw names that I knew. English names. English names so English-speaking people could write English reviews
about English-named manicurists and English reasons why their English-speaking selves won’t be coming back to this Vietnamese salon. I saw the phrase “a dime a dozen.” These shops are a dime a dozen; don’t go to this one. Is that what they are to you? They didn’t pamper you well enough. They wanted a tip too badly. They ruined you because your manicure was done too fast. You refused to even try listening because English isn’t their first language. You think they’re talking shit about you because you don’t understand Vietnamese. You didn’t like this one, but there’s another one, so you left this one and moved on. They were refugees. I guess that’s what my parents were. You picked up a war. You didn’t like it, but there’s another one. You left it, and moved on.
Stop looking at the color of my skin. Look at me.
About the author
Brendan is a senior from Arizona who likes to drink milk while listening to music. He is also extremely disheartened and frustrated by the decision to cancel the Vietnamese table at Oldenborg until further notice...
Description
As a second-generation Vietnamese American, I grew up in a nail salon. It's sometimes hard to describe to others what it feels like to spend most of your childhood either at school or in the back room of a salon, so I wrote a short story to try to capture some of that experience.
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