“Ha, if something happens close by, I bet you’ll be so scared, you’ll pee in your pants, chị Hai.” Quỳnh finished the water and picked up her hoe. She called Trang “sister number two,” even though Trang was the eldest sibling. People in their region believed that evil spirits often went after the eldest children, hence the traditions of calling the first child “second.”

  Trang didn’t know how she’d react if troops stormed their field. She’d managed to survive her encounters with helicopters. Some of them had flown so low that the wind they generated threatened to fling her through the air like a leaf. But she didn’t dare duck. She’d stood there, surrounded by swirling dust, her eyes tightly closed, her prayers silenced by her sealed lips. Her parents had taught her many survival lessons, one of which had to do with helicopters: they shot and killed anyone that ran.

  “Buddha will watch over us. Live or die, Heaven will decide,” Trang told Quỳnh, then stepped up onto the field’s bank. Grass tickled her feet, chasing away the worries that had clouded her mind. A grasshopper sprang up, disappearing into a clump of touch-me-not plants. The plants’ leaves curled up in an instant, leaving their purple flowers open like delicate cotton balls. She wondered if it was a farmer who’d first given the plant its name: cây mắc cỡ—the sensitive plant.

  Quỳnh wiped her feet against the grass. Her cheeks were pink. Strands of hair that had freed themselves from her ponytail framed her oval face. Trang felt a pang of jealousy. How did Quỳnh always manage to look so pretty? She had so many admirers.

  “Má really needs to cook more rice. I can’t work hungry like this.” Quỳnh slipped on her plastic sandal.

  Trang’s stomach rumbled. The night before, her mother had eaten less than half her usual amount, saying that she was full. Quỳnh scraped and scraped the rice pot with a spoon, but there were no grains left. Later on, as Trang went out to the water well to wash the dishes, she saw her mother standing in their front yard, completely still as if Heaven had planted her into the earth, staring across the yard at their former brick home. The home they’d lost.

  Trang and Quỳnh left the field. Along the village road, thatched houses stood silent under tree shadows. Several farmers were carrying baskets, their footsteps quickening under the noon heat. A group of soldiers from the Army of the Republic of Việt Nam, the ARVN, passed them, and Trang was thankful for the sight of their rifles. Less than twenty kilometers away, the VC guerrillas had gained partial control of some villages.

  At school, she’d been taught that the aggression of Hồ Chí Minh and the Communists had caused the war. But she knew the seeds of the conflict had been sown many years prior, when France occupied Việt Nam. It was Hồ Chí Minh who defeated the French and now his government was controlling the North.

  In the South where she lived, the Việt Nam Cộng Hòa government and its army, the ARVN, were in charge, and American troops were also supposed to help protect them. But the VC—Northern Communists who had infiltrated the South and Southerners who supported Hồ Chí Minh—were lurking everywhere. They might be men in black clothing carrying guns, or innocent-looking girls with hand grenades under their shirts.

  She didn’t understand why people had to fight but the war seemed to be getting worse. The Americans, who supported the Southern government, had been bombing the North. Revenge would surely follow. The thought made the hoe feel heavier on her shoulder.

  She followed Quỳnh, her eyes fixed on her sister’s long hair, the same hair she’d woven into thick ropes as they sat in the shade of their banana plants, waiting for their father’s return.

  Four years earlier, when he was drafted into the ARVN, their father brought home two baby banana plants to grow in the garden.

  “I’ll be back the day they bear fruit.” He scooped water with a coconut bowl, pouring it onto the soil.

  Trang clung to her father’s strong, muscled arm. “Please . . . don’t go, Ba.”

  “You know he has to.” Quỳnh pushed Trang away. “Don’t you dare cry. Your tears will bring him bad luck.”

  Their father dropped the bowl and pulled his girls into his arms. “I’ll be fighting alongside the most well-trained soldiers in the world. They’ve been sent here all the way from America, imagine that! They have advanced weapons, and they’ll keep me safe. Don’t you worry.”

  During the following months, Trang begged the banana plants to grow fast. She fed them the buffalo-dung compost their mother had prepared for the rice plants. She and Quỳnh jumped up and down, clapping their hands when the first plant flowered. The second plant followed soon after. The flowers grew huge and hung like the red lanterns that filled their village during the Mid-Autumn Festival. Layers of the lanterns opened and fell away, revealing rows of bananas. Every day after school, Trang and Quỳnh would sit under the bananas, looking out at the gate. To pass the time, they wove each other’s hair.

  New banana plants grew, replacing the old ones. One rainy day, Trang came home and saw her mother sitting next to a strange-looking man. His face was haggard, half-covered by a rough beard, his eyes tired and distant. When the man whispered her name, Trang dropped her bamboo basket, scattering the white so đũa—vegetable hummingbird flowers she’d picked for their sour soup.

  Trang’s father was physically whole, but he no longer laughed. He didn’t want to talk about what he’d seen or done. Later, she would find out that he’d been released from the army because of his mental issues.

  “Do you think it’ll rain soon? It’s so hot,” Trang asked Quỳnh, who walked ahead of her. Quỳnh shifted her hoe onto the opposite shoulder and looked up. “Oh, is that Hân?”

  Trang squinted. From the opposite direction, a cyclist was leaning forward, pedaling hard, pulling a cart on which Hân and her mother sat. Hân used to be Trang’s best friend. A year before, she’d left their village for Sài Gòn, for a job her uncle had helped her find with an American company. She sent so much money home, her mother had built a brick house.

  “Hide.” Trang tugged her sister’s arm, looking around for a bush. Hân was a rich girl now, she shouldn’t see them in ragged peasant clothes carrying mud-caked hoes on their shoulders.

  Quỳnh broke free. “Chị Hân, chị Hân,” she called toward the bicycle rickshaw. “When did you get back?”

  The rickshaw screeched to a stop. Hân looked glamorous in a flowered shirt and silky black pants. “Oh, hello . . . Did you two just come back from work?”

  Trang nodded, wishing she could disappear into the crack of earth next to her feet.

  “Chào cô,” Quỳnh greeted Hân’s mother, who smiled at them.

  “Má, you go on home.” Hân jumped down from the rickshaw.

  “Don’t forget your grandma is coming for lunch,” called Hân’s mother as the rickshaw drove away.

  “You look good, Sister . . . much chubbier.” Quỳnh eyed Hân up and down.

  “Oh, not good to be chubby.” Hân patted her stomach.

  “How come?” Quỳnh asked.

  “In Sài Gòn it’s trendy to be skinny.” Hân laughed.

  Trang shook her head. How could it be? Being chubby meant being rich. Only poor people were skinny.

  Quỳnh, Hân, and Trang made their way toward a trứng cá—a Panama berry tree—which stood tall on the village road, its branches reaching out like a mother hen spreading her wings to protect her chicks. From the green canopy dangled hundreds of tiny fruit, some of them red, ripe like tiny stars. Each was packed with perfumed sweetness, Trang knew. She wanted to roll up her pants, swing herself onto a branch, and keep climbing until she could reach them.

  Hân tiptoed, then jumped, but could only grab a pink fruit, half-ripe. She popped it into her mouth. “So . . . how are things with you?”

  Quỳnh and Trang dropped their hoes. Quỳnh hopped onto a low branch, her feet dangling.

  “So-so . . .” Trang took off her nón lá, fanning herself and her friend. The conical hat, woven from palm leaves and bamboo sticks, was a gift from her mother. Trang had stitched her name in red thread onto the inside of the hat, together with the opening verse of Nguyễn Du’s The Tale of Kiều: “A hundred years—in this life span on earth/ talent and destiny are apt to feud.”

  “I met a couple of our friends this morning . . . They told me some people were at your home yesterday, shouting?” Hân asked.

  Trang bit her lip. Why were her friends gossiping like this?

  “Our lenders,” said Quỳnh, “they can go to hell.”

  “Yeah, they can fucking go to hell!” Trang spat out her words. It actually felt good to swear. The lenders had started coming to their home last year, when her parents’ childhood friend ran away with the money they’d lent him. The man disappeared with not just her parents’ life savings but an amount equal to hundreds of gold taels that they’d borrowed and loaned out to earn a difference in interest rates. The lenders had been polite at first, but over time they’d lost their patience. Couldn’t they see that her parents were victims and had no means of repaying them?

  Hân sighed. “My mother told me about the con man who cheated your family. Apparently he convinced many people about a so-called lucrative partnership with a bank. I hope the police will catch him.”

  “He’s been gone for more than a year now, I’m not sure the police are still looking. And the lenders, they’re threatening to take away our field and our home, not that it’s worth much.” Quỳnh picked a fruit and threw it so hard it bounced across the road.

  Trang thought about the long trips her mother had made with the other victims to search for the con man. The last time her mother returned, she’d banged her head against the rock-hard clay jar that stored their water and said that she wanted to kill herself for her mistake.

  “I know how hard you two have tried to find a job,” Hân lowered her voice, “but have you looked beyond our province?” She waited for some villagers to pass before continuing, “I’m telling you this because you’re my friends. . . . You two could make money in Sài Gòn.”

  “But you have your uncle there, we know no one.” Trang gazed at Hân’s hair. Why did she have it cut so short? And her skin, she’d done something with it, it was so fair it glowed.

  “You don’t need to know anyone.” Hân smiled. “You just need to look . . . you know . . . pretty. Both of you are beautiful. I’m sure you’ll do very well.”

  “But do what exactly?” Quỳnh asked.

  “Drink Sài Gòn Tea.” Hân laughed.

  “Tea?” Quỳnh jumped down from the branch.

  “Yeah . . . Sit in a bar, drink Sài Gòn Tea and earn good money.”

  “Bar? What’s that?” Trang asked.

  “Oh, a place where they sell liquor to American soldiers. We call them GIs.”

  Trang shuddered. How could Hân suggest that they drink with those foreign men? Some of them had blood on their hands. Blood that often haunted Trang in her dreams.

  Hân scanned their surroundings. The village road was empty, yet she still whispered. “You swear not to tell anyone? Not even a ghost?”

  Quỳnh and Trang nodded.

  “My job . . . it’s not with an American company. I work in a bar. I go there, drink Sài Gòn Tea and earn money.”

  Trang brought her palm to her mouth. “But I thought your uncle—”

  “He found me a good job, right? Wrong! I gave him some gifts so he would keep my secret. A distant cousin had done the same and told me.” Hân winked.

  “The rest of your family, they know?” Quỳnh asked.

  “Certainly not. You’re the only ones I’ve told.”

  Trang stared at Hân. If people in the village found out, they’d surely call her “me Mỹ,” a prostitute for Americans. Here, women were never allowed to drink with men, even at parties.

  And what would Hiếu think if Trang drank with American men? The night before, in the moonlight, Hiếu had reached for her hand. The warmth of his touch had sent her fleeing from him.

  “Look, it’s not as bad as it sounds,” said Hân. “I don’t have to work under the hot sun, and I earn about fifteen thousand đồng per week.”

  “Get out of here! Sister Trang and I only made twice that much from the entire planting season last year,” Quỳnh gasped.

  “I know.” Hân nodded. “You’re prettier than me, so I’m sure you’ll make more.”

  “We’re not prettier than you. And I don’t think we can do it, you know . . . work at the liquor place.” Trang shook her head. Her mother had taught her and Quỳnh the four virtues of a good Vietnamese woman: hard work, beauty, refined speech, and excellent conduct. For sure she wouldn’t allow them to drink with men.

  “Didn’t you hear her?” Quỳnh turned to Trang. “Your friend is making fifteen thousand đồng per week. Imagine if we earn half of that. We could help Ba and Má repay their debts.”

  Hân nodded. “With the money I’m sending home, my Má can take care of herself and my siblings better.”

  Trang recalled how Hân’s mother had fainted during her husband’s funeral. He’d gone away a soldier and come back a corpse. But she looked so well now. Trang wished she could do the same thing for her mother. And for Quỳnh.

  “See? It’s only Sài Gòn Tea.” Quỳnh pulled Trang’s arm then turned to Hân. “It’s tea that you drink, right?”

  “It’s mostly tea . . . Trust me, you’ll do fine.”

  “What do you mean ‘it’s mostly tea’?” Trang asked.

  “I mean it’s only tea.” Hân waved her hand. “Listen . . . if you want to help your parents, think about what I’ve said. The bar where I work, they’re looking for new girls.”

  Quỳnh pinched Trang. “This opportunity is gold, chị Hai.”

  Trang shook her head. “Our parents, they wouldn’t let us work there.”

  “You think my mother would?” Hân smirked. “She’ll never find out, that’s for sure. But with this damned war getting worse and worse, we need to save some money . . . for the future, you know.” She lifted her wrist. Her golden watch dazzled Trang. “I need to go. Grandma must be waiting.”

  “Xe lôi, xe lôi,” Hân shouted toward an approaching rickshaw and turned back, whispering: “If you want to know more, come to my house tonight. And remember: not a word to anyone.”

  “Sure. See you tonight,” Quỳnh said, as if she was the older sister who could make decisions for the two of them.

  Hân climbed onto the rickshaw. The driver jingled the bell and started pedaling, pulling her away. Trang stood under the tree’s shadow, watching the flowers on Hân’s shirt blaze like flames on the village road. She’d dreamt about Sài Gòn, the big city with prestigious universities and office jobs. But this was different. She couldn’t imagine bars and American “GIs.”

  “She looks happy and she’s rich. We can be like her.” Quỳnh stared at the cracks on her feet and at her toenails, yellowish due to their long and frequent contact with muddy soil. She reached for the hoe and resumed their long walk home.

  “Về rồi đó hả? Nước chanh đó, uống đi con!” Their mother called, telling them to drink the fresh lemonade she’d made, as soon as Trang and Quỳnh stepped inside. They’d washed themselves at the well in the garden, and water droplets still lingered on Trang’s face, arms, and legs. She savored their cool kisses.

  She squinted her eyes to find her mother squatting in the corner of their hut, cooking.

  “What’s for lunch, Má?” Quỳnh downed a full glass of lemonade.

  “You asked for this last night.” Their mother held up a piece of golden rice crust.

  Quỳnh took it, crunched it between her teeth. “Delicious!”

  Trang’s mouth watered at the sound of chewing. She loved how her mother could command the flames of her stove and her clay pot to turn her rice into different textures: crusty rice to be enjoyed with fried shallots; tender rice to be eaten with dry fish; soft, melt-in-your-mouth rice to be devoured with tiny shrimps caught in streams and ponds and cooked with fish sauce and pepper.

  “Trang, I can’t stop looking at this. You’re so talented.” From his bamboo bed, her father held up a notebook, a broad smile lighting up his gaunt face.

  “Where did you find that, Ba?” Trang reached for her drawings of the human body. Biology was her favorite subject. She’d always wanted to be a doctor.

  “Your mother was looking for scrap paper to sell . . .”

  “When your father saw your notebook, he insisted on making frames for your drawings and hanging them up.” Trang’s mother put steaming bowls of rice and spinach onto a bamboo tray.

  Trang looked around at the dried coconut leaves that made up the walls of her home. If her drawings were to be hung, they’d look much better in the brick house her parents had been forced to sell to pay off some of their debts.

  “Mr. Ánh visited today. These are from him.” Her father gave Trang a stack of paper. Exercises for tú tài exams. Trang nodded and felt grateful toward her former teacher. Like her parents, he believed Trang and her sister were still capable of passing the exams and continuing on to college.

  “We’ll practice tonight, Ba.” Trang flipped through the exercises. Most students had private tutors. She and Quỳnh had to try extra hard but their bodies were always drained of energy by the time they lit their coconut oil lamps and sat down at their bed to study.

  She checked the bandages on her father’s legs. The war was so cruel: it had spared him during his years as a soldier but found him later in the town market when he was buying seedlings for the new planting season. Mortars exploded near him, killing dozens of people. Pieces of shrapnel were still buried deep in his legs and he’d need more operations. Medical treatments were free for veterans, but with Ba bedridden, a few months of salary payment provided by the ARVN upon his release from the army was a grain of salt in the ocean of their debts. He had no pension at all.

  Back at their field, Quỳnh launched her hoe into the earth. “I want to go to Sài Gòn. I want to be like Hân.”