The year Tuấn turned eleven two things happened: he had to repeat sixthgrade and his mother told him his father was dead.It was late summer when she did, the last weekend before schoolstarted again. She borrowed Bà Giang’s sedan and the three of them headedto Grand Isle Beach for the day. They woke up early. Bình was asleep whenthey left the city, and Tuấn stayed up front with the map in his lap.“It’s been a long time since we’ve been to the beach,” she said as they goton the highway, and she nodded at him as if this was their secret.Halfway into the two-hour drive, she stopped at a Gulf station for gas andsnacks. She got him a Popsicle, though it wasn’t even nine yet. Is it for me? heasked. Of course it is, she answered, who else would it be for? He unwrappedit and ate it happily.When they got back on the road, she said she wanted to tell himsomething, something important.He was still thinking of school. He didn’t want to take the same classesagain, especially Mr. Landowski’s English class. Mr. Landowski was a toughgrader, and the only reason Tuấn was repeating sixth grade was becauseMr. Landowski—whose real name was Toby—didn’t think he knew English,which was wrong because Tuấn did know English; it was what he heard everyday, everywhere. He’d stopped thinking entirely in Vietnamese nowadays—his thoughts were half in English, half in Vietnamese. The other day he forgotthe word for “orange”; he kept trying to think of it but all that came up was“orange.” He wondered if his mom knew that, that he was held back notthrough any fault of his own, but because Mr. Landowski was a terribleteacher. It made Tuấn think of his own father, who was also a teacher. And whereas his father was kind and gentle and patient—all qualities of a goodteacher—Mr. Landowski had a temper and was easily flustered and gave badgrades that no one deserved.“Your father,” she said after a brief pause. His ears perked up. He stoppedthinking about Mr. Landowski. He stopped thinking about oranges. Hisfather! Perhaps he was coming after all these years. Perhaps they were drivingto him now. Cha, he thought, was the word for “father.” Finally! They wouldhave so much to catch up on. And maybe, he thought for a brief instant, hisdad could have a stern talking-to with Mr. Landowski, teacher to teacher, andtell him how wrong he was for holding Tuấn back for a year.“Your father,” she said finally, “your father is dead.” She let out a sigh andadded, “He died a while ago, but I think you’re a big boy now and you shouldknow the truth.”“How?” was what he managed to say. “Why? What do you mean?”Tuấn bit his lip and looked out the window and at the passing cypresstrees, which became blurry, and he didn’t know why until he realized he hadtears in his eyes. His mother said something then about Communists andpunishment and attempted escape and this was why we left and understand thathe loved you, loved you dearly…that he did what was best…for you…for us…died a hero…“Why?” he asked again.“Things like this happen,” his mother said. She said some more things, buthe covered his ears because he didn’t want to hear any of it. When his mothertried to touch him, to comfort him, he pulled away.The rest of the day was a blur. As Bình played in the water, Tuấn realizedit was true—it had been a while since they’d been to the beach. He hadforgotten beaches existed and oceans, too, and how the water was so violent—how could he forget that? The entire day he was thirsty from looking at thewater and tasting the salt air.His father was not coming, he realized with a sudden, heavy finality. Hisfather was no longer in this world—not here in Louisiana, not there inVietnam, just nowhere.Once, in Saigon, they were playing hide-and-seek, the three of them. Hewas the seeker and he counted all the way to thirty (the biggest number heknew back then). He found his mother easily; she was hiding in her wardrobe.But his father was nowhere to be found. Tuấn was sure he’d be in his library.When he got there, though, it was empty. He searched the kitchen after that,then the backyard. Surely, he thought, he must be in the backyard. It was thelast place he could have run off to. But no one was there. He looked up theirtree, stared up at its branches for a few seconds. Nothing. He began to headback toward the house. Sadness was not the feeling that came over him. Itwas something else entirely, something heavier, darker. He felt as if he hadlost something and that he would never get it back, when suddenly his fatherran through the gate, singing, “You haven’t found me, you haven’t found me!”and Tuấn ran to him and was happy again. But that feeling—that heavy, darkfeeling of having lost something—he would always remember.That feeling came back when they’d left on the boat. It came in the middleof the night when they were camped out on the island with all those strangers.And it came back now. It gave him shivers down his spine, made his handsshake and sweat. Then it made his head ache until it throbbed and he had toclose his eyes really tight. As he lay on the beach, he became angry—angry atthe beach for reminding him of Vietnam, angry at his mother for bringinghim out here to tell him the horrible news, angry at his brother for being sohappy through it all—Had she even told him? Tuấn wondered, which madehim angry at his mother all over again. He clenched his fists and banged themagainst the sand. He screamed, and his mother told him to sit in the car. Hestopped what he was doing and looked her straight in the eyes. Into thesilence, he pounded his fists on the sand again and screamed even louder. Hismother rushed to him, grabbed him by the arm, and carried him to the car ashe cried Help, help, this is not my mother, this is not my mother, this is not mymother! She slammed the car door and stomped away. She left the AC andthe radio on.Through the windshield, he watched as his mother and brother collectedseashells. The last time he went to the beach was back in Vietnam after they’dleft the city for the countryside. His dad had been worried about something atthe time, and his mom thought it was a good idea to take a break fromfarming. She said they were thirty minutes from a beach; perhaps they couldmake a day trip out to it. At first his dad said he didn’t want to go, that hedidn’t even really like the beach. But then, one Sunday, the three of themtook the bus to the shore. Though there were plenty of other people, theyfound a clear, quiet spot on the sand. Tuấn remembered how—after monthsof frowning—his dad was finally smiling and laughing as they builtsandcastles. He hadn’t smiled like that since Saigon, and Tuấn was glad he gothis old dad back again. They even had a sandcastle-building contest, andthough his parents’ sandcastles were obviously better, they told Tuấn his wasthe best.As he watched his mother and brother now—a brother Tuấn’s father didn’teven know about—Tuấn felt somehow let down. Dad wasn’t here to enjoy anyof this. Dad would never be here to enjoy anything ever again. Who werethey, any of them, he thought, to have fun? He let out a scream, the loudest hecould, pushing all the air he could out of his lungs until he felt his chest andthroat hurt, until he felt like they were on fire and his eyes were watering. Butno one heard him.When it was time to head back to New Orleans, Tuấn stayed in thebackseat. His brother sat back there, too. “Why didn’t you play with us?”Bình kept asking. “Look! Shells!” A towel full of seashells lay between them.Bình picked one up and another, showing them to Tuấn.“You’re not paying attention!” Bình cried and threw a shell at his brother.The shell pricked his arm. Something in him snapped just then, a rubber bandin the back of his head releasing a stone from a slingshot. In the next instant,he grabbed the towel of shells and threw it out the window. The shells spreadout like wings before falling and scattering on the empty highway. And thetowel, a faded blue, floated and followed them for a few seconds before givingup and falling, too.The car stopped. Tuấn met his mother’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Theydidn’t look mad; they looked sorry. She opened the car door and walkedtoward where the shells and towel had dropped. Tuấn looked out and saw herscurrying down the highway, picking up the shells and the towel. A car cameup from behind, slowed down, and drove around her and their car. When shewas making her way back, Tuấn sat back down.“Why’d you do that?” Bình asked. “What was that all about?”“Dad died. That’s what it’s all about.”Bình looked at him a long time without saying anything. Then, “Died.What does that mean?”The car door slammed shut. Their mother set the shells and the towel onthe front seat. They drove in silence all the way home.—When school started back up again, his dreams returned him to Vietnam,their old house in the city, and his father dressed not in the ragged T-shirt andshorts of the day they left, but in his school clothes, a clean and stiff whitebutton-up with black slacks, a brown briefcase by his side. The sound of thecity—mopeds, bicycle bells, and the occasional car—drifted in from outside.Tuấn would stand on their front balcony eating a frozen banana and see hisfather coming home from around the corner, calling his name. Tuấn…Tuấn…One night in the fall, he heard his name inside their apartment. Over andover again, his father was calling him the way he did when he had a surprise,a toy or a piece of candy. For one second, he wondered if it would be thosesoft, chewy durian candies, and his mouth watered. He hadn’t had durian inforever. Could durians grow here? he wondered. He opened one eye andthought about asking his father, who would surely be in the kitchen right then.His father was a smart man and could answer that question: Did durians growin New Orleans? But then he opened his other eye and realized the sound wasnothing like his name at all. It was a dog, a dog barking in the distance. Howcould he be so stupid? And to dream of durians in a country where no oneknew about durians!He couldn’t go back to sleep then. The dog just kept on going. Head tiltedto one side, ear in the air, Tuấn listened until the bark became a yelp.Quietly, because Bình was asleep on the other side of the room, Tuấngrabbed his pillow and left. In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator anddrank orange juice straight from the carton, something his mother wouldnever let him do. A Payless shoebox sat on the table and an ancient taperecorder with the stickers for the buttons missing. He took a seat and openedthe box to find cassette tapes and a whole bunch of papers. He fell asleepbefore he could make anything out of it. By morning, he found himself stillsitting at the table, head on wood, drool puddling near his mouth, pillow at hisfeet. The orange juice carton was gone. So were the shoebox and taperecorder.His mother nudged him awake. “You’ve been chasing ghosts again?” shesaid. The water from the teakettle boiled and whistled into the air. Sheyawned.“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Tuấn said. “Ghosts don’t exist.”Steam from her mug rose to her face. “It’s just a saying. There are noghosts. We know that.” She looked around as if pointing out the evidence. Noghosts, not here.She blinked her eyes and rubbed them. Her painted fingernails lit up themorning darkness. It was her new job in the Quarter: she painted nails. Toshow customers what the colors would look like, she used herself as a modeland always forgot to clean off the paint. The rainbow of reds and blues andpurples made Tuấn think about the women who stopped by her salon. Whocould have worn such loud colors?In the bathroom, Tuấn washed the gunk out of his eyes, brushed his teeth,and took a hard look at his hair. He hated his hair. There was too much of it,and he couldn’t spike it up like the other boys in school. He splashed wateronto his hands and combed his fingers through his hair. It didn’t help.“The bus!” his mother yelled from the kitchen. He ran out and she stood atthe counter. “Mau! Lẹ đi!” She opened the door. Sunlight flooded in, and theshadows of the outside railing made prison bars on the floor. “And don’tforget your lunch.” She stuffed a container into his backpack, zipped it up,and pushed him along.In the distance, a large vehicle squeaked to a halt. Before Tuấn ran downthe steps, his mother pulled him back. “Forgetting something,” she said. Shehanded him the house key tied around a shoelace into a necklace. Sincestarting her new job, she had given him that responsibility. “Your brother’stoo young to carry around a key,” she had said. “Be home quick after schoolto let him in. Do this for mẹ. Please.” He was her big boy, the man of thehouse, the keeper of the house key.“Yeah,” Tuấn replied. He took the key and ran toward the bus stop. Heheld it tight in his fist, the teeth of the metal pushing against his palm, theshoelace swinging in the air.—“Is that dog meat?” Donald asked, and his friends snickered. Lunch hadbarely started and already they were surrounding Tuấn’s table.Donald Richard lived outside the gates of Versailles at the corner, in ahouse that looked too old still to be standing, in the shadows of theapartments. Next to the large gates, Donald’s house looked small and lonely,though Tuấn could never have pictured Donald being small or lonely. With fatarms, a potbelly, and a snout of a nose to match it all, Donald reminded Tuấnof an oversized pig.Donald and his friends poked at the thịt nướng. “Ja-uan,” Donald calledhim. Donald and his friends called him that—Juan or Ja-uan—though he hadno idea how they came up with that. Juan was a Mexican name, and he wasfrom Vietnam. “Which isn’t even near Mexico,” a teacher had pointed out.Still, the name stuck. He was Juan.The kids at school were stupid like that. That was why he was there, hewas sure.