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Weekly therapy during the school year and a regular prescription aren't enough to fix me, but they keep me steady.
Julie pulls me out of my thoughts with a soft kick to my shin.
Slowly, my surroundings come into focus. My food is barely touched. Dad is in the kitchen, pouring another drink. Mom is staring at me.
"You said you love the micro-economics class," Julie says. "So I figured you're acing it. She's such a show-off when it comes to math, isn't she?"
"I'm doing well so far." Are we talking about grades? That's an easy enough topic. No subjectivity. Either I have an A or I don't. "The summer session moves quickly."
"It would be fun to do something together," Julie says. "In the two-week break between summer session and fall, right?"
Right. She asked and I… did something.
"Mom still doesn't see the appeal of San Diego," Julie says.
"It's only an hour drive. Why stay?" Mom asks.
"It's beautiful," Julie says.
Really? Mom wants to travel to somewhere besides Julie's softball games? That doesn't sound like her.
"Or Cabo San Lucas," Julie says.
"Expensive." Mom shakes her head.
"TJ would be cheaper," I say.
Julie laughs. "Right? And all the guys go for the strip clubs."
"What guys?" Mom asks.
"The seniors at school," Julie says. "They talk about the easy women."
"Boys at your school hire prostitutes?"
"Mom! They're dancers, not prostitutes. And the term is sex worker," Julie says.
Mom mutters something in Vietnamese. That's a bad sign. Around middle school, she decided we needed to integrate, to become "normal" and she stopped speaking to us in Vietnamese.
She still cooks traditional food, but she and Dad watch American movies, listen to American (and British) music, and try to love American pastimes.
Thus all the baseball and Julie's love of softball
And I guess swimming is normal enough for the area.
"We're not in Vietnam," Julie says. "Things are different."
"Things for women are the same everywhere," Mom says. "Don't talk to those boys."
"They're posturing," Julie says.
Mom shakes her head. "They mean it. They don't know."
"Okay. No dancers," Julie says. "Only authentic tacos and cheap Valium."
Mom's eyes darken.
My throat tightens.
