Chapter 15 — Late Table Lady

Khang knew An's real name from an old newspaper in the shop. The newspaper was used to wrap spare parts, and on the economic page there was a photo of Le Khai standing in front of the new hotel. Next to him was a ten-year-old girl wearing a white dress, her hair tied in a bow, her face so similar to An that there was no need to read the caption.

Khang looked at the photo, then looked at An holding the pliers next to him. He didn't speak that day.

At night, when the group cleaned up their tools, he gave her the newspaper.

“Did you know?” An asked.

"I knew what you said before. I just haven't seen the picture yet."

“I hate that photo.”

“Because you wear a white dress?”

“Because everyone sees me as a name that accompanies someone else.”

Khang folded the newspaper. “I don't think you're the name that comes with father.”

“What do you think?”

“You're the one who swept leaves in my face, spilled paint, miscalculated vegetable bills, and wrote a budget so long it could have been used as a pillow.”

An burst out laughing. “That doesn't sound very romantic.”

“I'm trying to be honest.”

The moment between them was quieter than every afternoon. Outside the alley, the sound of a motorbike passing by, and the sound of my grandmother calling Khang to put her things away. An wanted to ask him if he saw her differently, but the question sounded too much in need of reassurance.

“Are you disappointed?” she asked instead.

“Because you are rich?”

“Because I hid it.”

“I'm disappointed that you thought you had to hide to sit next to us.”

An looked at him. "I studied in a place where people knew the price of everything before knowing each other's names. I don't want to be like that here."

"Here people also know the price. It's just that sometimes there is no choice."

“I know.”

“You are studying.”

“You always talk like a teacher.”

“Teacher Hoang pays me with bonus points.”

An smiled, but his eyes were hot. Khang gave her a bottle of water. He didn't comfort her, didn't say "don't cry", just gave her time to calm down.

The next day, the relationship between the two was a bit different. Khang still assigned tasks, but did not tease her too much. An found that silence more uncomfortable than dry words. She tried to start a conversation about the project, he answered briefly. Mai looked back and forth, asking Huy if they argued.

“No,” An and Khang said together.

Huy pointed. “Synchronous answers are a red flag.”

During rainy garden time, Khang dropped the screw connecting the pipe. An bent down to look, her fingers touching his hand. Both retreated at the same time.

“Have you found it yet?” An asked.

"Already."

“I haven't seen it yet.”

“I was talking about another one.”

Huy turned to Mai. “I suggest putting two people on the list of flammable materials.”

Mai threw a rag at him.

At noon, Quynh Nhu invited An to the rooftop. Nhu gave her a carton of milk and said: "I know Khang is keeping his distance."

“I know too.”

“She is afraid that you will help her in a way that will make her the one saved.”

“I asked first.”

"Then keep asking. Don't guess yourself."

An looked at the school yard. “You think you like Khang?”

Like almost choking on milk. “I didn't say that.”

“But you think.”

"I think you value her opinion. Two different things."

An turned away. She knew she valued her, but when did she begin to recognize Khang's footsteps in the hallway? Since when does a text message ask "are you home yet?" made her read it three times?

In the afternoon, father sent notice that the council would meet on the parking lot plan at the weekend. An could attend as a family representative, but she wanted to bring the whole group as students. Teacher Hoang agreed to let them present the data to the school board and the university business representative.

Khang objected to An's use of connections to open the meeting.

“If it weren't for you, would we have been invited?”

"Don't know."

“So you can't say this opportunity is completely fair.”

An tightened the book. "I can't control the door that opens for my family. I can only decide who to walk in with and what to say."

Khang was silent. Like standing next to him, said: "The opportunity is not fair from the beginning. But the presentation can be fair if all the data is heard equally."

Khang looked at An, then nodded. “Okay. But don't use your name to put pressure.”

“I agree.”

The group began to prepare. Mai chooses photos of people using the yard, not taking their faces without permission. Huy recorded the stories, changing his voice to protect his identity. Like making a table. Khang plans an alternative entrance. An is in charge of linking the data to costs, but every number is cross-checked.

One night, An and Khang stayed in class to complete their presentation. The electricity turned off suddenly. Huy shouted from the hallway because he thought there was a ghost. Khang turned on the old car light, the light shone on the end table.

“Are you still afraid of the dark?” An asked.

"No. I'm afraid Huy will sing when the power goes out."

Huy immediately sang a long note. An laughed until his stomach hurt.

In the small light, Khang pointed at the map. "If we move the entrance to the east, the school can keep the yard and my shop will not be blocked, but the hotel will have to build an additional road."

"Expense?"

“About eight percent of the category budget.”

“Not too big.”

"For us, it's not a big deal. For the council, it's a reason to consider."

An looked at the line. "So we're not talking low cost. We're talking cost to preserve value."

Khang looked at her, for the first time that day without avoiding eye contact. “That's okay.”

An held a pen and wrote on the slide. When she finished writing, Khang reached for the pen. Two fingers touch each other. No one withdrew immediately.

“What are you going to write?” An asked.

“Write the name of the person who made the sign.”

“Whose name?”

“Khanh An.”

An looked at him. “Isn't that Le Khanh An?”

“In the project, you are Khanh An.”

“What about outside the project?”

Khang put down his pen. “Outside of the project, you make your own decisions.”

An didn't answer, just smiled. The old newspaper was still in Khang's pocket, but she no longer felt trapped by it. Her real name was known, and there was still room for her at the last table.

Before leaving the store, An asked Khang if he wanted her to return the newspaper. Khang said there was no need, because it was just spare parts wrapping paper. An asked to keep a copy of the photo, but Khang tore the part with her face off the page.

"Why?" An asked.

“You don't like being looked at as the name that goes by.”

An holds a piece of paper. “I also don't want to erase myself from the past.”

Khang paused, then handed the photo back. "Then keep both. You get to choose."

An pasted the photo in the book, next to the photo of the backyard. She wrote the date, but did not write that she was the little girl in the photo. There are memories that just need to exist, without explanation.

The next day, the group tried presenting to another class. An spoke the introduction, Khang spoke techniques, Nhu moderated the questions. One person asked if the project would be successful if rich people weren't involved. An let Khang answer.

Khang said: "Maybe. But when there is an advantage, the person with the advantage must speak clearly and not let it decide silently. The issue is not who has the money, but who has the power without others knowing."

An looked at him, seeing that the answer was no longer a way to protect her. It is a way to protect the principle itself of the group.

After the test, Khang asked An if he felt uncomfortable when he spoke frankly. An shook his head. “I want you to speak frankly before I guess.”

Khang gave her a cup of iced tea. “I'm practicing.”

"Me too."

The two sat on the wind chair, not speaking for a while. A 10th grade student came to ask if he could borrow a comic book. Khang said yes, An showed him how to keep books. The boy asked if they were the yard managers.

An replied: "No. We are just learning how to keep it."

The boy nodded, then ran away. Khang looked at An and said: "This is okay."

“You can sell copyright.”

“I will use the money to buy snails.”

An smiled. She realized that their sentences had a rhythm of their own, no need to explain to outsiders.

That night, An sent his father a report that contained a section about a user who did not want to be named. Father replied that he would read, but did not ask her to tell more. She saw that as his new way of respect.

The next morning, father sent back the report with a single note: “The maintenance costs need more people to be responsible for.” An did not see him change the style or change the conclusion. She sent it to the group, asking who wanted to receive that part. Like suggesting to form a small group instead of assigning it to one person.

Khang said the shop can instruct on repairing tools but cannot manage them completely. Mai gets the job of checking the photo board, Huy gets the radio schedule. An is in charge of updating, but every month someone else has to proofread it. They write role names, not fixed individual names.

“Because if one person leaves, the yard still has to live,” An said.

Khang looked at her. “You thought too far.”

“I just don't want everything to depend on one person.”

“Even you?”

“Including me.”

The answer made Khang quiet. An understood he might like her, but didn't want to be needed in a way that would cause the project to collapse when she left. She found it to be the most mature type of concern she had ever known.

Khang gave An a pen and told her to continue writing the handover part. An writes slowly, does not use his name in the first line. She names the group first, then names each role. Khang read and nodded. A good future does not need a single hero.