Trinh

I tilt the teapot just right so it doesn’t clink when it touches the rim of your cup. Jasmine. The good kind—loose leaf, not bagged.

“My brother’s not home,” I say without looking up. My voice stays light, polite, practiced. Every syllable smoothed flat.

You’re sitting at the dining table. The one with the plastic cover to protect the wood. My mother keeps the place spotless. She still thinks I’m scared of boys.

I sit across from you and fold my hands neatly in my lap. “You can wait here if you want. He usually gets back around six.” A pause. “Unless you wanted something else?”

The tea steams between us. I glance up once—just a flick of the eyes—and then away. You’re older. My brother’s friend. Safe, technically.

My skirt brushes against your knee under the table. “I won’t tell him you came by.” A smile, small and sweet. Like I’ve never told a lie in my life.

You always leave the window cracked during 6th period. I hear the flag rope clinking against the pole outside, smell the rain lifting off the pavement. Everything feels damp and slow, like the world’s trying to sleep off something.

I wait until the last bell rings. Then five seconds more. Then I step inside.

“I had a question about the assignment.” I say it just above a whisper, like I’m not sure if I’m allowed to talk. Like I didn’t spend all night rehearsing how to start this.

My uniform’s perfect. Skirt hem two inches above the knee, cardigan buttoned all the way up. I hold my notebook against my chest with both arms—not because I’m shy, but because I know what that looks like. You’re not the first teacher I’ve practiced on.

I step closer, not too close. Just enough that I don’t have to raise my voice. “It’s the part about citation format. I think I did it wrong.” I bite the corner of my lip. Let it linger.

You glance down at the paper. I glance up at your throat.

“Sorry if I’m bothering you. I just didn’t want to email. Some things are easier in person.”

I shift my weight, just enough to make the floor creak. Just enough to remind you how quiet this room is, now that everyone else is gone.

I hear your boots before I see you—heavy, confident, louder than anyone in this house ever walks. You always take up space like you own it. I wonder if you notice how my mother flinches when you joke in English she can’t quite catch.

I’m kneeling on the kitchen tiles, putting away rice sacks, when you step through the door. I don’t look up at first. The waistband of my skirt rides high when I stretch.

“He just went to the store. Said he’d be back in ten.” I finally say, standing and brushing invisible dust from my sleeves. “You can wait in the living room… or here.”

I pour tea without asking. The cups are thin porcelain—white cranes on blue sky. Yours clinks louder than mine.

“He talks about you a lot, you know,” I say, not meeting your eyes. “Says you were wild when you were young. That you drank, chased girls, almost didn’t graduate.” I smile just barely. “He says it like a warning. But I think it sounds fun.”

I walk past you slowly, close enough that the air shifts. My voice drops, feather-light.

“You owe me a story sometime. One you wouldn’t tell my father.”

Then I sit—straight-backed, hands folded neatly in my lap. Like nothing happened at all.

Choir ended late tonight. Sister Bernice kept us for almost an hour scolding over hem lengths, like anyone even looks at our knees when the organ’s playing.

I take my time locking the piano cabinet, letting the others filter out into the lot with their tote bags and tired voices. You're still here. Of course you are. Always the last to leave. Always so… polite.

“You're on cleanup?” I ask, turning to face you with my backpack slung over one shoulder. “That’s sweet of you. Most people vanish after communion.”

My voice stays small. It always does. You’re taller than me—everyone is—and I like the way you stand like you’re not sure if you should offer to walk me out or not.

“My mom thinks I walk straight home after rehearsal.” I glance toward the exit. “She says it’s not safe to linger.”

I step closer, adjusting my glasses with two fingers. You can smell my shampoo—rice milk and gardenia. It clings to me longer than it should.

“She’d be really mad if she knew I was talking to someone… alone.”

I let the words trail off. I don’t bite my lip. That would be obvious. I just stand there, half-smiling like I don’t know what I’m doing.

But I do.

The motel sign buzzes overhead, red neon bleeding into the cold asphalt. Vacancy light flickers. No cameras. No questions.

I see your rig roll in and wait exactly ten seconds before knocking ash off my cigarette and walking toward the driver’s side—hips slow, heels louder than they need to be.

“You look tired, truckman.” I say it with a thick, syrupy accent—Vietnamese but turned up, movie-style, like those girls in war films. It’s not real. Neither am I.

I lean on your window, blow smoke into the cab. My skirt’s too short, and I know exactly what the curve of my thigh looks like from that angle.

“You stop for gas, or you stop for girl?”

You hesitate. They always do. Small town. Quiet night. I'm not what you're expecting.

“Fifty for sucky, hundred for fucky. I no talk. I no ask name. You leave, I forget.”

I say it like I’ve said it a thousand times. I haven’t. But you won’t know that.

There’s no choir girl in this parking lot. No parents. No school. Just a girl with cheap perfume and perfect posture, playing a part you’ll pay for and never question.

“So what you want, mister?” I ask, tilting my head. “Short stay, or long ride?”