doughnut is like a brick in my stomach.
“Hey, Simone. Want to go get some lunch?” It’s Minh.
I don’t feel like eating anything ever again and I really want to just go curl up in my bed in my stuffy attic and shut out the world, but I realize Minh is the perfect person to talk to about that telephone number, the one with the Cape Cod prefix.
We go to this new place in town called Panini. It serves—you guessed it—panini, which I believe is the plural of panino and is also just a fancy way of saying sandwich. He orders while I take a seat with a large glass of ice water.
I got to know Minh last year in chemistry when we were lab partners. We’ve been going to the same school for years, and I knew that he was adopted because I had seen him at different school events with his very white parents. But I never said something like “Hey, I’m adopted too. We must have a lot in common!” What kind of kid says something like that? But the truth is I made an effort to keep my distance from Minh. I didn’t want to identify with him. I didn’t want to talk to Minh because even though I was curious about his story I didn’t want to have to tell my own. That book was closed to me. But I don’t know if you’ve ever taken chemistry. If you have, then you will understand that during our year as lab partners Minh and I did eventually get to talking about the fact that we’re both adopted because you’ll end up talking about anything just so you don’t have to talk about chemistry.
Minh sits down with his panino and a bottle of some kind of fancy soda that is a shocking shade of blue.
I cut to the chase. I tell him about the Rivka Situation.
Minh pushes his long hair out of his eyes and looks at me carefully. “Simone. That’s so amazing. Oh my God.”
“Amazing?”
“Yeah. You’re so lucky. What’s she like? Does she look like you? Does she have any other kids?”
I interrupt him. I have a feeling there’s no end to this list of questions. The more questions he asks, the harder I have to work to prevent myself from imagining the answers.
“I have no idea. I haven’t called her. I’ve had her phone number for a while now, and I’m not sure what to do with it.”
“Are you crazy?” He looks completely baffled. “You pick up the phone and you call her. What an incredible opportunity. I would kill for a chance like this. Damn. Give me her number. I’ll call her!”
Look at us sitting here. Two students at Twelve Oaks. An avid skateboarder and a newly minted member of the school newspaper. One Vietnamese boy and one olive-skinned girl. One in a green shirt and one in cherry red. If you just walked in and saw the two of us sitting here, you would have no idea that we share a past. Or what I guess I mean to say is, like atheists who share an absence of belief, we share an absence of a past. Our lives are defined by the same mystery.
“I’ve tried everything,” he says. “The orphanage I lived in burned down years ago. My parents were never told how I got there; they only knew that I lived there since I was born. They also tell me that I seemed well fed and that I barely ever cried. I’m no real detective, but that doesn’t give me much to go on.”
And again, in a space of less than twenty-four hours, I feel pretty embarrassed. I’ve been slamming doors and crying in the dark over the chance to know something, or someone, Minh will never know. Minh can’t solve his mystery, but I can begin to solve mine. Some of the answers are right in my own house, and if I want to go back farther, deeper, those answers are only ten digits away.
“Hey, Minh, I’m sorry,” I start.
“Don’t worry about it. Just do it. Just call her. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
When I return to school Tuesday I quickly become nostalgic for the days when I was known as the girl who’s full of herself. It seems so quaint compared to the girl who was fooling around with Tim Whelan and then puked. You know
“Hey, Simone. Want to go get some lunch?” It’s Minh.
I don’t feel like eating anything ever again and I really want to just go curl up in my bed in my stuffy attic and shut out the world, but I realize Minh is the perfect person to talk to about that telephone number, the one with the Cape Cod prefix.
We go to this new place in town called Panini. It serves—you guessed it—panini, which I believe is the plural of panino and is also just a fancy way of saying sandwich. He orders while I take a seat with a large glass of ice water.
I got to know Minh last year in chemistry when we were lab partners. We’ve been going to the same school for years, and I knew that he was adopted because I had seen him at different school events with his very white parents. But I never said something like “Hey, I’m adopted too. We must have a lot in common!” What kind of kid says something like that? But the truth is I made an effort to keep my distance from Minh. I didn’t want to identify with him. I didn’t want to talk to Minh because even though I was curious about his story I didn’t want to have to tell my own. That book was closed to me. But I don’t know if you’ve ever taken chemistry. If you have, then you will understand that during our year as lab partners Minh and I did eventually get to talking about the fact that we’re both adopted because you’ll end up talking about anything just so you don’t have to talk about chemistry.
Minh sits down with his panino and a bottle of some kind of fancy soda that is a shocking shade of blue.
I cut to the chase. I tell him about the Rivka Situation.
Minh pushes his long hair out of his eyes and looks at me carefully. “Simone. That’s so amazing. Oh my God.”
“Amazing?”
“Yeah. You’re so lucky. What’s she like? Does she look like you? Does she have any other kids?”
I interrupt him. I have a feeling there’s no end to this list of questions. The more questions he asks, the harder I have to work to prevent myself from imagining the answers.
“I have no idea. I haven’t called her. I’ve had her phone number for a while now, and I’m not sure what to do with it.”
“Are you crazy?” He looks completely baffled. “You pick up the phone and you call her. What an incredible opportunity. I would kill for a chance like this. Damn. Give me her number. I’ll call her!”
Look at us sitting here. Two students at Twelve Oaks. An avid skateboarder and a newly minted member of the school newspaper. One Vietnamese boy and one olive-skinned girl. One in a green shirt and one in cherry red. If you just walked in and saw the two of us sitting here, you would have no idea that we share a past. Or what I guess I mean to say is, like atheists who share an absence of belief, we share an absence of a past. Our lives are defined by the same mystery.
“I’ve tried everything,” he says. “The orphanage I lived in burned down years ago. My parents were never told how I got there; they only knew that I lived there since I was born. They also tell me that I seemed well fed and that I barely ever cried. I’m no real detective, but that doesn’t give me much to go on.”
And again, in a space of less than twenty-four hours, I feel pretty embarrassed. I’ve been slamming doors and crying in the dark over the chance to know something, or someone, Minh will never know. Minh can’t solve his mystery, but I can begin to solve mine. Some of the answers are right in my own house, and if I want to go back farther, deeper, those answers are only ten digits away.
“Hey, Minh, I’m sorry,” I start.
“Don’t worry about it. Just do it. Just call her. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
When I return to school Tuesday I quickly become nostalgic for the days when I was known as the girl who’s full of herself. It seems so quaint compared to the girl who was fooling around with Tim Whelan and then puked. You know
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