Margaret tells you she wants to know what Asia tastes like.

You do a dance in your head, ecstatic by the prospect of making a new friend in this foreign land. She walks up to you in her checkered mini skirt and tightly-crocheted top, and for once she does not stare at your calf-length pleated skirt and plain button-up shirt.

Your Ma brought this outfit out this morning—neatly folded—from a ragged suitcase, and said to you in the roughness of her broken English: "I wear this when I in high school, na. I bring with me from Bangkok. Make you look rich. Only rich people here wear school uniform.” But this only makes you the black sheep in the crowd of colorful blondes and brunettes.

Margaret opens her mouth, ready to speak. She flashes her million-dollar smile and fans you with her mascara-drenched eyelashes.

You stare back at her, mouth still half-full with the stale sticky rice packed into a Hello Kitty lunchbox. It takes you a moment before you swallow and croak out a reply, “Would you like a bite of my lunch?”

Margaret laughs, a heavenly harmony of notes. A liberated American laugh: white flashing molars, perfectly-lined lipstick and an accelerating vibrato. “Of course not, silly,” she says, still unable to control the music stemming out of her lips, “I’d like something fresh, colorful, exotic. Like sushi.”

“But I’m not Japanese,” you say as quietly as possible, so she doesn’t hear your accent—newly shaped, hot from the oven, still malleable. And in a split-second, you see her smile vanish, melting into a dismal scowl. But back again flashes her smile, two pearly-white rows of teeth. You shove another portion of sticky rice into your mouth to prevent yourself from blurting out something dumb.

“That doesn’t matter,” says Margaret with a carefree flick of her wrist, “I just want to tell others that I’ve experienced the taste of Asia.” She says it with a breathy falsetto and waves her hand up in the air as if she were conjuring a plate of Pad Thai, mango sticky rice, a bowl of jaew sauce. 

You hesitate, though you know this is the kindest anyone has ever been to you in this school.

“Come on,” Margaret sits on the bench beside you and wraps her arm around your shoulders, “My treat.”

*****

On a tranquil Saturday, you take her to Auntie O's, a renowned noodle shop in Thai Town. You appear dressed in the clothes Margaret lended you that morning—a bright pink tank top and white shorts—face drenched in flaky makeup: bright red lipstick, mascara and ‘creamy beige’-colored concealer. You avoid lifting your arm up too high even though you shaved your armpits last night. Though you don't have that peachy, early-summer glow Margaret does, your skin feels less yellow than it has ever been.

The restaurant is an empty hole in a ragged building. A cart with different kinds of noodles and toppings sits in the corner, and the silver fluorescent lights cast an unflattering glare on you. You shy away from Margaret’s gaze.

The sweaty underside of your thighs glue to the sticky metal stool, squeaking after each movement like duct tape, so you avoid moving your legs. But Margaret squeaks around in her chair, unfazed and glowing in her summer aura, tucking loose strands of blond hair behind her ears every few moments.

Auntie O comes to our table, a short and stout woman with an apron tied around her nonexistent curves. “What you like?” She asks Margaret.

She bites her lip and traces her index finger over the menu. "I would like Nam Tok egg noodles, less spicy,” she answers after a full minute of thought.

Then, Auntie O speaks to you in Thai, a nasal set of sounds, prompting countless missiles of catapulting spit, while jotting down Margaret's order in scribbled writing—though you can make it out as you glance over her notepad.

"Same, please. Nam Tok egg noodles,” you answer in English, following Margaret’s pronunciation—as if you were foreign here.

"Thai spicy, regular spicy or less spicy or no spicy?"

"Less spicy," you add and examine Margaret's sun-kissed shoulders, her apricot-colored blush and her honey summer tan. You do not want to look like a spiced pufferfish next to her.

*****

Margaret says she wants something more exotic as you exit the restaurant. She tells you the noodles were nice, but too generic—the same way spaghetti can be found almost everywhere here.

Hence, you take her walking around Thai Town. People stare at her with their mouths wide open and gaze captured by her beauty. You allow your back to stretch up to its full height, and you feel much taller than before. Next to Margaret, your smile sparkles much more than it ever does. Passersby see you two as sisters, disregarding the difference in your features. The resemblance between you and an American girl has never been more uncanny. Margaret seems to sense this. Her arm slithers its way around your shoulders, and you feel a soft nudge between your shoulder blades. She’s teaching you to walk like her, to stand like her.

But then you come across a hair salon, and your hand shoots up to touch the sharp, blunt edges of my three-dollar bob haircut. 

“Why pay sixty when you can pay three?” Your Ma had always asked, “When you cut hair by a Thai lady, you pretty like a Thai lady.”

Without Margaret’s aura casting over you, you’ll never be an American beauty.

“Why are things so cheap here? You should have shown me this sooner.” Margaret exclaims as she approaches a shop selling Louis Vuitton handbags. They are obviously counterfeit: a glossy pink plastic crossbody bag with magenta PU leather logos carelessly embroidered over it. She grazes her hand over the product, her expensive pink gel manicure contrasting with fake wealth.

“Thirty dollar,” says the salesclerk, a ghastly man with graying hair and wrinkling brown skin.

You think of one of the gifts Ma got you when you turned twelve: a fluorescent pink drawstring bag, still sticky with glue from the factory and a Victoria’s Secret label sewn onto the top. You think of the times you proudly wore it—how naïve you were.

Margaret loses interest in the bag after she sees the salesclerk carving phlegm out of his throat with a cacophonous retch, so you back away from the shop.

*****

Margaret points at a shop called Fresh Durians, and your body goes cold. She says she wants to go in, says she has never tried durian before, says she wants to know what it tastes like. 

“I hear it smells like caramel and freshly-baked custard.”

You want to drag her away. You want to politely refuse. No, it doesn’t smell like caramel. You wouldn’t like it. But she has already made her way up to the open doors, pointed at the sign that says Open and marched into the store.

“Welcome! Welcome!” cries your Ma from the corner of the store as she hears the bell, “Durian chips, durian cake, durian jam. Fresh durian for sale.” She carves a durian open with her barren hands and a large chopping knife. 

You have rarely visited the store since it opened, and what was once your favorite fruit becomes a distant memory. You now indulge yourself in strawberries and peaches, nectarines and cranberries—the taste of North America’s climate. You no longer come to school with a stench so unbearable lingering in your mouth, seeing their scrunched up noses and furrowed eyebrows.

Margaret cannot know you live like this: in a shabby store in Thai town, selling disgusting fruit for a living, with a mother who can’t speak English the way other mothers do.

You slither in between the aisles, hiding your face, as Margaret walks towards Ma.  

“What does the durian smell like?” Margaret asks, pointing at one of the yellow pieces, resembling a creamy, bright yellow mango. 

Ma glances up to face Margaret, smile stretched taut on her jaw. You guess this is why they call Thailand ‘the land of smiles.’ She sets down her chopping knife and places her flat palms together. “It smell like nothing you can imagine,” Ma says with the same expression the local pastor has on his face each time he talks about God, “It smell like better version of all Thai fruit, floating market and sweet sunset on the beach.”

You can see the glow in Margaret’s interested eyes.

“But weak people hate durian smell,” Ma laughs, a rapid gunfire chuckle, and flicks her wrist as she leans in closer to Margaret. “Some American. They hate durian. Say it smell like trash. Are you one of them?”

A challenged smirk creeps up her jaw, “You’re being so cocky, Durian lady”

You melt in between shelves with jars of creamy durian jam, either from the heat of the blush coursing through your cheeks or the anger surging through you. You remember the people who scrunch up their noses when you walk past, reeking with the smell of durian: the smell of your bedsheets, the smell of your mother. You remember once, they came to Fresh Durians and bought precious cleaves just to spit them out on the sidewalk, yelling at you to take the stench back to your country. ‘Durian girls,’ they called you. 

Ma cried herself to sleep that night. 

You decide to stay hidden in between the aisles.

“I’ll take two cleaves,” says Margaret. She has this smile on her face as if she has something to prove. But she doesn’t ever need to prove anything about herself. 

"I see you come with my daughter. I so happy she have friend," says Ma, putting her hand over her heart. You tiptoe out from behind the shelves. She has known you’re here all along.

Your thoughts turn white, blank, like a word processor. In your head, blue squiggly lines crawl and slither under the fragments of her sentences. When Ma speaks Thai, she speaks in cursive calligraphy, but when she speaks English, she speaks like the scrawls of a kindergarten child. 

Margaret does not say anything. She keeps her eyes on Ma’s hands: cuts, scars and dark brown freckles littering her wrinkled skin. But Ma continues, “She so good in English now, na. Speak like American. I very proud.” Her voice falters a little, and she gets teary eyed by looking at you.

You stare back at Ma, careful not to reveal anything with your gaze. She grins, showing a set of yellowing teeth. Margaret turns to me with her drawn eyebrows raised. This is it, you think to yourself. I will forever be known as the durian girl. The girl who sells sewer-stenched fruit. 

"I give you two extra durian. I know you will like,” Ma says to Margaret with another bow of apology, putting two of the biggest slices into a translucent plastic bag, “It came all the way from North of Thailand. My daughter very like it, na. Her favorite fruit. You should taste.” As she hands the bag to us, your eyes connect with hers, and you try to block out all the sadness behind the glow of those two dark brown beads.  

You head out of the store as Ma yells ‘thank you’s behind us. Margaret skips on the sidewalk in her sparkly Jimmy Choos.

“Did you know the lady who sold us the durians? Is she your mother?” she asks. 

"She must have mistaken me for someone else,” you say, and along comes this stabbing feeling in the center of your chest. Ma’s tearful eyes stare back at you at the back of your mind. 

You come across an empty gap in the sidewalk, and you beckon Margaret to sit down as you unwrap the plastic covering the durian and hand one piece to Margaret. The precious, hefty yellow meat weighs in your hands like a newborn baby. Margaret extends the tips of her fingers to hold the slice, and your fingers graze over hers to prevent it from dropping. 

She waits for you to take a bite, and you reluctantly do so, careful not to be too eager to enjoy something the people here taunt you for. 

Your teeth sink into the creamy meat, and the familiar taste floods through you. You are no longer in Thai Town. You are in the real streets of Bangkok. You can taste Ma’s smile. You can taste the countless moments you spent walking through the night markets. You can taste the summers in your family’s durian orchard in the North.

Margaret’s intrigued. She smells the fruit, holding it with her thumb and middle finger as loosely as possible like she is afraid to touch it.

"It smells like dirty socks, like garbage," Margaret says, “And sewers.” She hands you the fruit, nearly dropping it before she whips out a perfume spray bottle to efface the stench embedded in her hands. “I can’t eat this,” she whines, scrunching up her nose, “If this is the taste of Asia, I don’t think I want to share this with anyone. Got to go, durian girl.”

That is when the beauty vanishes from her face.

She gets up, and the last fragment you see of her are her Jimmy Choos, slapping the sidewalk in arrhythmic beats. You don’t look up to watch the sway of her blonde locks. You don’t get up to follow her down the sidewalk, let her lead you to a true American street.

Durian girl. Durian lady. Fresh durians. These often stick together no matter what, damned into the shame of a sewer-stenched breath, damned into the narrow box of what Americans call ‘garbage’. 

But you did not stick with Ma today.

Margaret will never hold a durian in between her fingertips ever again. She’s going to tell all her friends how this fruit perfectly captures the stench of Bangkok’s sewers, and people will crowd Fresh Durians, ready to retch it all out. 

Tomorrow you’ll be known as ‘durian girl’, and your Ma ‘durian lady.’ But what’s the difference between being called that and being called an ‘American girl’? You ask yourself and look up to take in the tranquil streets of Thai town, Margaret already gone.

She’ll run home and scrub her tongue clean of this odor—the same way you did on your first night here.

But you don’t think you can do that again. 

So you sit there on the side of the pavement, taking a bite of home from that fat, creamy cleave of rich yellow meat you always longed for, while you breathe in America’s evening air.