Daughters of the New Year by E.M. Tran

Author:E.M. Tran
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hanover Square Press
Published: 2022-08-15T15:39:12+00:00

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The car did not cool down in the time it took for them to drive to the mall. It was still August, after all. It seemed the school year began earlier and earlier in the month. Trieu heard on the nightly news (which her mother had on at high volume while she cooked dinner every evening) that they did this in anticipation of hurricane days the school district projected they would need.

At Teakwood Mall, heat shimmered over the black tar parking lot, its surface as still and smooth as dark water, white and yellow paint lines bright and stark. The blast of air-conditioning inside made Trieu’s eyes water, and as they walked through the food court and among shops on the east side of the mall, they got drier in the cold, recycled air. They passed a candy cart and a Great American Cookie stand, and Trieu looked longingly at all the junk food she knew her mother would never let her have. It would all be worth it, Trieu thought, if she left today with a new pair of shoes.

At the store, Trieu led her mother to the wall where the sneakers sat on a plastic floating ledge among dozens of other display shoes. Xuan picked up the white Nike, her dusty-rose-painted nails grazing spongy-soft leather, baby blue metal swoosh, unblemished white laces. She placed it back on its ledge and began to peruse the others.

“What about this one?” Xuan said. She picked up a shell-toe Adidas. “Or this one?” In her other hand, a sportier, more practical, and cheaper Nike.

“No, it has to be the one I showed you,” said Trieu.

“It overprice. Why so expensive?” Esspensive.

“I don’t know. I have to have it for school.” The lie tasted a little more acrid in her mouth each time she told it.

“It look cheap, but it so expensive,” said Xuan. “Look at this other shoe, made of nice material.” She handed Trieu a suede Skecher. The sneaker was black, a blocky leather S that, for some reason, infuriated her. She hated the Skecher. But it wasn’t just that. It was shoe after shoe her mother picked up, cheaper or different or just not exactly what Trieu had asked for. A blistering rage overtook her. It was her mother’s grating accent, the missing verbs and wrong tenses, the fragments and the sloppy pronunciation. She had told her what she wanted, handed her the exact thing. Trieu shoved the Skecher into her mother’s arms and rushed out of the shoe store. She ran through the mall, back to the food court, and sat at one of the metal tables in front of the Popeye’s. She stared at the people waiting for their orders, the salt and deep fryer air wafting her way. Another reminder of something she wouldn’t get even if she asked for it.

Her mother walked up to the table and handed her a plastic bag. In it, an orange Nike shoebox peered up between the handles. Trieu could hardly believe it.

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