“You’re getting mouthy,” he says. “See what the sleepovers are doing to your attitude?” I like that “mouthy” is used the same way in English and in Vietnamese. Finding these connections helps me feel better.

I’ve started writing. Mostly it’s nonsense. I use the things littered on Phoebe’s living room floor as paper. I write on grocery bags and pizza boxes, candy wrappers and cigarette packs. I make lists. Stone, beat, dark.

The only present Stan ever gave me was a journal. It had a red leather cover with thick crisp paper inside. “Copy this down for me will ya?” He gave me a pizza box I’d written a poem on. He said he might make it into a song.

I came home and asked my parents, “Why don’t we talk more?”

My father said, “We talk plenty.” He switched back to the TV.

One day I said, “We watch too much TV.”

My father said, “But we watch TV to improve our English. You said you wanted us to talk more.”

My parents understand practical functional English. They have learned the English of ESL, the language of getting from A to B, questions, commands, directions, a job in a new country. They speak in the language of survival. We are boat people, refugees. Sometimes when we talk it’s as if we’re drifting apart at sea.

My father’s diplomas from Vietnam are water stained. There is a PhD in philosophy and a law degree too. They’re yellowing and hanging on the wall above the TV. In contrast, beside them are the new bright white diplomas from America. He went to night school and earned a computer-programming certificate. After that, he got a BS in Accounting too. My father believes education is the ticket out. He says you can choose to be a doctor. They help others and are respected in society. He says you can choose to be an engineer. Decent paycheck and math comes easy to you. He says be a professor, excellent benefits and the students will keep you young.

Phoebe’s dad says, “Follow your passion.”

Out toward the East, Stan points to the hydraulic boatlifts and says, “George Lucas was sitting right here looking out at ‘em when he got the idea for the ATs-ATs in The Empire Strikes Back.” The boatlifts look mystical and foreboding, rising out from the sea like post-industrial dragons. Although I’ve heard some people call them dinosaurs and others call them Dobermans, I know them as guardians. They stand at attention on the edge of the coast. They’re perched and ready, here to protect the inhabitants of the Bay. If my parents knew this maybe they wouldn’t stay tucked inside their apartment all the time, hidden behind two deadbolts and a squeaky screen door.

Stan once played a gig at the Lucas Ranch estates. He was instructed to wear a tux and bring a blindfold. Kristen didn’t like the idea of him going alone. She said that if Stan loved her he would sneak her in. She could pretend to be a backup dancer. “It could be my big break,” she said. When Stan said it was out of his hands, Kristen said, “Everything slips through your hands.” She squeezed hers into tight fists. The biceps she’d gained from teaching her Taut-N-Tone classes bulged.