I can’t calm her down,

  my parents can’t calm her down,

  and none of my aunties

  nor Grandma can either.

  The other families in the tent

  and my uncles especially

  are getting very annoyed.

  One night Uncle Pao took her outside

  and said she’d better stop crying

  or he’d leave her all alone in a dark field.

  She stopped for about two minutes,

  then became a howling hyena again.

  The thing is she doesn’t cry at all

  during the day when she doesn’t even

  get a bottle. She’s well-behaved.

  That’s how she got her nickname.

  We even forget about her howling—

  until it’s nighttime again.

  Then we don’t know what to do.

  Big Mouth

  Today Dad decides to bring Good Xai

  to the camp hospital and takes me along.

  When we get there,

  a long line trails out the door.

  Dad lifts Good Xai from my back

  and she leans against his shoulder,

  worn out from all the howling.

  I rub sweat from my nose

  and see a group of pink-faced kids

  with bottom lips sticking out

  and small bandages on their arms.

  Dad, what happened to them?

  Looks like the Red Cross is here

  giving out shots.

  They’re probably starting

  with the tents at front first.

  Our tent is at the back,

  so we didn’t know they were here.

  What’s the Red Cross?

  A group of people who come to help refugees.

  They gave those kids vaccines,

  shots that will protect from serious illnesses.

  Does it hurt?

  A little, but it’s better to get the shot

  than to get sick from the illness.

  I want to ask more about the shots

  but the woman in front of me

  leans so close,

  I can see tiny frayed threads

  from her green scarf

  flying in the breeze.

  I freeze like a deer

  hiding in the trees.

  You talk too much,

  says Green Scarf Woman.

  Auntie, my daughter is a quiet girl,

  Dad says to her.

  Quiet? You mean she’s slow in the head?

  She stares as if something’s wrong with me

  and I start to wonder, Is there?

  Dad’s about to reply,

  but a soldier stops to talk to him

  and Good Xai begins to whine.

  Green Scarf Woman shakes a finger at me.

  A good daughter shouldn’t have

  such a big mouth.

  She walks through the hospital doors,

  and my face stings like the burn

  of hot chili peppers on your lips.

  Do I really have a big mouth?

  The soldier leaves and Good Xai stops fussing,

  but now I’m the one who feels like crying.

  Dad sees me blinking away tears,

  and he pats my back.

  Naib, don’t listen to that lady.

  You ask questions because

  you’re curious and want to learn.

  You have a mind and a brain.

  I stop sniffling.

  Dad thinks I’m curious

  and want to learn things?

  He’s never told me that before.

  She’s jealous she doesn’t have either!

  Dad chuckles and I let out a laugh

  noisier than the call

  of a red-wattled lapwing.

  I slap a hand over my mouth

  because those birds sing loud!

  Condensed Milk

  When it’s our turn,

  the nurse says Good Xai

  is having stomachaches

  from drinking condensed milk.

  She can tell because many babies

  in the camp are sick from this too.

  How did she get condensed milk?

  Dad frowns and tilts his head.

  Then I remember!

  A few nights ago, May Ia asked

  to help make Good Xai’s bottle.

  I’ve let her do it since

  while I made my cousins’ bottles.

  Liquid and condensed

  milk cans look the same.

  She’s been putting in the wrong milk?

  The nurse gives Good Xai medicine

  and tells us to stop the condensed milk.

  As we leave the hospital,

  Green Scarf Woman passes by us.

  I duck behind Dad, try to forget her words,

  which make me so mad and sad

  I want to wail like Good Xai.

  But then I remember Dad’s words

  and I feel so happy I almost cackle

  like a rackety red-wattled lapwing again!

  Beaming

  (October 17)

  Dad is friends

  with many people at the camp:

  other refugee families,

  the big-haired camp director,

  the soldiers working here,

  and even the talkative, friendly garbageman.

  Every Friday,

  the garbageman picks up garbage

  to take away on a small truck.

  One day, he asks Dad

  to drive with him to

  neighboring towns

  because it’s too boring

  to drive alone.

  Refugees aren’t supposed

  to leave the gates,

  but the camp director lets Dad go.

  We stand at the entrance,

  waving as Dad leaves,

  imagining what it would be like

  to travel outside

  the barbed wire fence.

  When Dad returns that afternoon,

  the kids in the camp

  surround him like a cloud of bees,

  buzzing and cheering

  as if he is famous.

  Dad laughs,

  carrying so many bags.

  I stopped by a market

  and picked up a few things!

  He empties the bags

  and we see

  rice flour

  tapioca starch

  cans of coconut milk

  palm sugar

  a bottle of fish sauce

  bundles of longans

  spiky rambutans

  ripe papayas

  sweet mangoes

  banana bunches

  fresh baby coconuts

  and so many packets of hard candy.

  Everyone beams

  like the sun at noon,

  especially Mom.

  Rice Cakes

  Mom cannot stop admiring

  everything Dad bought.

  After sorting through the bags,

  she makes an announcement.

  I will make rice cakes!

  In a large bowl,

  she mixes rice flour

  and tapioca starch with water,

  smushes it until

  it squishes out from

  between her fingers

  like rich, gooey glue.

  She adds sugar

  and coconut milk.

  The clean smell

  of the creamy milk

  drifts into our nostrils.

  After she stirs it all together,

  she pours the white mixture

  into small bowls in a big steamer

  on top of the fire.

  Yia, May Ia, Good Xai,

  Round Moon, and I

  can’t stop sniffing

  the delicious air.

  We hop up and down,

  excited for these cakes

  we used to eat every week

  and now can only dream of

  biting into.

  When Mom finally

  takes the lid off the steamer,

  the cakes have grown

  and expanded

  bigger than our fists.

  Steam floats up

  as I pull a cake apart,

  blow on it,

  and take a bite.

  The soft dessert

  melts on my tongue.

  Like the cake, my heart expands.

  I didn’t know how much

  I missed eating these precious

  sweet treats.

  We pass them out to our cousins

  and eat more

  but still have plenty left.

  Mom exclaims,

  I made too many!

  Share them with other kids

  in the camp!

  Brightness Returning

  For the next few days,

  Mom continues

  to make rice cakes.

  I can see she’s enjoying

  mixing and steaming.

  Like light flashing

  into a quiet,

  shadow-filled room,

  a brightness is returning

  to Mom’s eyes.

  I know why.

  The cakes remind her

  of home.

  Dream

  That night

  I dream about peaches.

  In the morning fog,

  I walk up our hill

  to Dad’s favorite peach tree

  and wrap my arms around

  the twisty trunk for a hug.

  Then I sit under the shade

  of its flat green leaves

  and pluck one yellow-red peach

  from a dangling branch.

  I take a bite and wipe away

  the sugary juice

  dripping down my chin.

  I wake up smiling so hard

  my cheeks ache.

  A hundred memories of home

  fill my mind like golden stars

  scattered in the mountain skies.

  I can still feel the fuzzy skin

  of the fruit in my hands,

  still taste the sweetness

  of the soft peach

  on my tongue.

  Idea

  I have a plan.

  I will sell Mom’s rice cakes

  in the camp.

  Dad says I have a mind and a brain.

  That means I can come up

  with my own ideas!

  The rice cakes will give families here

  something to look forward to.

  Their faces glowed like sunshine when Yia and

  I gave out the extra cakes.

  They smiled so wide,

  their cheeks stretched past their ears.

  Even people who didn’t get any

  looked excited!

  Maybe because they hadn’t seen

  rice cakes in so long,

  or they needed something

  to take their minds off

  the gloominess of being refugees.

  Maybe the cakes gave them hope.

  When we first came to Nam Phong,

  I promised I’d do something

  to take the sadness

  away from my parents’ eyes.

  I know this will do that.

  Nervous Frogs

  I want to sell rice cakes!

  I declare at dinnertime.

  We’re outside our tent

  eating near the fire.

  Little sparks fly from the flames

  like fire-hopping bugs.

  My knees shake

  like an earthquake has struck,

  and nervous frogs bounce

  inside my stomach.

  As soon as I say it,

  I worry Mom will tell me

  I shouldn’t be selling

  something in a refugee camp

  where people don’t have much money.

  But as my mother feeds rice

  to Round Moon, she nods

  like she’s waiting

  for me to continue.

  I speak louder.

  I can get up extra early

  to help Mom make them

  and walk around to sell them

  before school even starts.

  Yia bites into his chicken.

  I’ll help you sell!

  I smile at him, thankful.

  Not me, whispers May Ia.

  She’s even shyer than I was

  at her age,

  so I understand.

  Dad grins as he helps Good Xai

  sip water from a cup.

  It’s true that people would want

  to buy from you two to be nice,

  since kids are cuter than adults.

  My relatives nod in agreement.

  That’s for sure!

  No doubt about it!

  I know I would!

  I bite down on my tongue

  to hide the crescent moon smile

  curving across my lips.

  So can I do it? I ask.

  My parents don’t say a word.

  They watch me with quiet eyes,

  and I see this was a mistake.

  My cheeks turn redder

  than the hot flames of our fire.

  I stare at each white

  rice grain in my bowl,

  wishing I’d never shared

  my silly idea.

  Rice cakes are not peaches.

  Just because memories of peaches

  make me happy,

  why would I think rice cakes

  would do the same for others?

  Then Mom laughs

  and I look up in surprise.

  Should we start tomorrow?

  Mix

  Before dawn,

  I’m up,

  ready to start.

  Mom and I work outside,

  using bowls, pots,

  baskets, and other supplies

  the kitchen workers gave away

  when the camp cafeteria closed.

  Mom lights the fire.

  I mix

  the ingredients.

  Delight

  Cloudy puffs

  of flour.

  Powder.

  Sugar.

  Pour.

  Mix.

  Stir.

  White

  wisps

  floating.

  Feathery

  clouds

  flying.

  Milky.

  Creamy.

  Mushy.

  Dreamy

  gooey

  sweet

  goodness.

  Bubbles.

  Steamy.

  Delight.

  A Piece of Home

  In one hour,

  we make enough rice cakes

  to fill three baskets.

  Yia and May Ia,

  yawning but awake,

  help me place the soft cakes

  into the baskets.

  As the sun climbs up the horizon,

  Yia and I begin our walk

  around the camp.

  In a booming voice,

  Yia calls out,

  Rice cakes! Fresh rice cakes!

  Only one baht per cake!

  Buy three for two baht!

  We’ll take kip if you have it!

  I’ve never been more grateful

  for my little brother—

  and his loud voice.

  Curious eyes peek out

  of their tents at us,

  wondering what two kids

  are doing at this early hour.

  When they see

  we’re selling rice cakes,

  parents send sleepy kids outside

  with coins in their hands.

  Soon, people of all ages

  chase after us like stray kittens,

  afraid we might run out.

  I collect the money

  and hand out cakes

  while Yia shouts

  for more customers.

  When we’ve sold the last cake,

  we come home with money

  for Dad to buy more ingredients

  the following week.

  On our way to school,

  I hear people say,

  What a wonderful idea to sell rice cakes!

  Little daughter, what is your mother’s recipe?

  How nice to see you darling kids

  selling something so tasty!

  and my favorite of all,

  Thank you for giving us

  a small piece of home!

  Did You Know

  That night after dinner,

  we are stuffing ourselves

  with more rice cakes

  when Dad says to me,

  You’re eleven now.

  I nod.

  His eyes light up and he smiles.

  Did you know when I was eleven,

  I sold pear blossom branches

  to travelers passing through town?

  I made enough money

  to feed my family for a month.

  When the pears grew, I sold them too.

  Now I’m the one smiling.

  I didn’t know Dad

  took care of his family

  at eleven years old!

  Mom laughs.

  Did you know when I was eleven,

  I fed my family by opening

  my own shop at the town market?

  I sold hot coffee and cold Coca-Cola.

  I was the youngest vendor,

  but had more customers

  than any other shop!

  I didn’t know that

  about Mom either!

  My insides are full,

  brimming with rice cakes and love.

  I could sit here forever and listen