The Queen of Patpong

Chapter 8

Afternoon sunlight sparkles off the stones on her fingers and at her wrists.

Kwan watches as the young woman leads a small parade of children, the bolder ones pushing forward for a closer look as though she's fallen to the dust from outer space, as though some of them hadn't known her when she was as brown and filthy as they are. The children wear patched shorts and dirt-brown T-shirts, liberally ventilated with holes. Their feet are bare or slap along on rubber flip-flops. Scabs define their knees, and their legs are lumped and mottled from insect bites. One of them, not one of the bolder ones, is Kwan's next-youngest sister, Mai. At thirteen, Mai is one of the tallest children in the queue, but that's because she's older than most of them. She hasn't yet had the growth spurt her mother dreads, the spurt that says that Mai may yet become as freakishly tall as Kwan.

As tall as the Stork.

The boy bringing up the end of the line proudly tows a small bright pink suitcase. It has wheels, and they get snagged in the holes that pit the road every few feet, so the boy doing the honors has to yank the wheels free every time and then catch up with the parade. In the background, at the village's edge, the dented orange taxi that first drew the children's attention finishes a jerky turnaround-back and forth, back and forth, trying not to bump two rickety houses it could bulldoze flat without denting its fenders-and bounces over the rutted track leading back toward the railroad station, kicking up a plume of reddish dust that drifts across the village in a dry parody of fog.

The woman the children follow shimmers like an exotic tropical bird that's landed among the rice sparrows. She wears a loose blouse the color of sunset-silk, from the way the air drapes and redrapes it-and a short, tight, glittery black skirt. Shiny high heels in a leopard-skin pattern puncture the dust of the road between the houses. The woman's skin, paler than Kwan remembers it, looks polished, as though it's been slowly rubbed smooth. The highlights in her shaped and tapered hair, bright enough to have been shellacked, are almost blinding in the slanting sun. She pays no attention to the kids, but as she passes Kwan's house, she looks up and smiles.

Kwan feels like she's been caught spying. She pulls back, ducking behind the damp clothes that hang on the line strung above the deck around her sagging wooden house. The deck and the house are raised about a meter above the dirt to keep the floors dry in the rainy season. Kwan reads the name of the rice company printed on the inside of one of her mother's dresses before she realizes how rude she's being, and she pushes aside the stiffening and now-dusty clothes and does her best to return Moo's smile.

"We should talk while I'm here," Moo says, looking up at Kwan Then, as though she's remembering something, she says, more politely, "Are you well? Have you had rice yet?"

"I'm fine, thank you," Kwan says. She knows she's blushing. Moo has never once spoken to her in the four summers since she went down to Bangkok, never even seemed to notice her. Now that they're speaking, Kwan has no idea what to say.

"Straighten up," Moo says severely. "You're tall. You can't fool anybody by bending over like that. You just look crippled. Stand up and be proud of it. Some men will like it."

Now Kwan's face is aflame. This is her least favorite topic. "Nobody likes it," she says. "I look like a giraffe."

Moo nods, but she's not listening. The nod is polite dismissal. "Maybe tonight," she says. "We'll talk." She starts to move away but stops, and some of the kids who were already in motion behind her bump into each other. She reaches up to her left ear and fiddles with something for a moment. Then she mimes a little underhand throwing motion, and Kwan brings her hands up, and on the second pass Moo actually does throw something, something that flashes blue in the air as it flies and then lands, small, hard, and sharp, between Kwan's panicky, hurriedly clasped hands. An earring.

A sapphire earring.

The stone is the size of a small raisin, dark blue as the new-moon sky, mounted on a straight gold post. A little tangle of gold wire that looks like one of the symbols in written music that Kwan has seen in school-a clef, the bass clef, for low music, Teacher Suttikul calls it-is stuck on the post, where it secures the earring to the lobe and holds it in place. The earring probably cost more money than her father earns in two years.

Kwan says, "Oh, Moo. I can't-"

"Not Moo," the woman says, and her smile goes muscular, just something her face is doing, with nothing behind it. "Not Moo anymore. My name is Nana."

"Nana," Kwan corrects herself. She knows that. Moo has called herself Nana for years now, ever since the first time she came back. Kwan wants to kick herself. She never gets anything right. Tall, awkward, tall, stupid, tall.

"Put it on," Nana says. "After we talk, I'll give you the other one."

"No, no. You don't need to give me anything just to talk to me. I'm happy to-"

"When somebody gives you something, you take it," Nana says, without smiling. "They don't teach you that in school, so I've made this whole long trip here to say it to you. And this way we'll be sure to talk." She makes a little side-to-side bye-bye wave, more brisk than friendly, checks the location of the child hauling her suitcase, and resumes her procession down the red ribbon of dust that separates the run-down houses on Kwan's side of the village from the run-down houses on the other side. The children are towed into motion behind her, like ducklings.

Kwan tears her eyes from the blue stone in her hand to Moo's leopard-spotted shoes. Yellow and black, impossibly pointed in the toe, they send thin yellow straps spiraling almost all the way up to the knee. They seem to have been made by someone who has never seen a foot. How does Moo-Nana-how does Nana walk in them? The heels must be five inches high. The village road is uneven, with holes everywhere, hidden beneath the dust. How does she keep from breaking her ankles?

Something warm seems to flood through Kwan's veins. Unconsciously, she slides her foot out of her rubber flip-flop, a man's size medium, worn cardboard-thin beneath the ball of her foot, and points her toes straight down. How would it feel to wear shoes like that?

Tall is how it would feel. Even taller than she is now. Tall enough to talk to birds. Tall enough to see the sun rise half an hour before anybody else, to eat the tender top leaves of trees. Tall enough to have men tilt their heads way back to look up at her and then grab their necks in pretended pain. And then laugh.

Of course, they already do that.

The parade is long gone, and the street is settling into the slow cooling that ushers in the evening. The warped, mismatched wood of Kwan's house, and of the houses on both sides of the street, begins to rehearse its little orchestra of groans and creaks, just a tune-up for the ensemble piece of contracting and settling to come, when the sun is down. Her house makes so much noise that it seems to Kwan it must shrink two or three inches every evening. She wishes it were that easy for people.

Longer shadows, stiller air. The late sun scatters reddish light across the tops of the trees. Some people are finishing the sleep in which they hid from the day's hottest time, and a few voices, pitched low in conversation, create a sort of ribbon of sound, a little like the murmur of the stream behind the houses during the months it flows-here now, gone a moment later, then back again. No words, just voices, tones, laughter, lazy emotion. Across the street, above a sprawled dog, a sparse column of flies spirals slowly, its members probably half asleep on the wing. A sudden sharp smell of garlic tossed into hot oil.

The weathered wood of the railing beneath her elbows is warm and smooth, but her back hurts. The railing, comfortable for everyone else to lean on, is too low for her. The tops of the village's doors, some of them, are too low for her. When the young people gather in the evening to watch the village's one television, Kwan is pushed to the rear so people don't grumble. And she can barely see the screen from back there. She has a suspicion, growing stronger over the past few years, that she needs glasses. Glasses. They might as well be diamonds for all the likelihood she'll ever get them.

If it weren't for Teacher Suttikul seating her in front of the class and to the side, she wouldn't be able to read the blackboard either. The other kids call her desk "the Stork's nest."

School. The thought cuts through her like a red-hot knife.

The blue earring that Moo-Nana-threw to her is punching a hole in her palm, and she relaxes her fist. She doesn't dare put it in her ear. Her father would probably rip it out to sell it.

Kwan knows that the town is pitifully small and poor, not from having been anywhere else but from the few times she's been able to get near enough to the television to turn the shifting, blurred patterns into identifiable shapes. She's seen the bustling sidewalks and spiky skyline of Bangkok, watched the gleaming cars glide through the streets, seen rich, beautiful, unhappy people double-cross each other in palatial bedrooms and candlelit restaurants where she doesn't even recognize the food. She's seen other, even richer and more beautiful but equally unhappy people double-cross each other in a paradise that's apparently called Korea, where all the women are ravishing and wear astonishing clothes, nicer even than Nana's, and all the men are impossibly princely, and some of them even seem to be tall. Some of them-not the women, but the men-seem as tall as Kwan.

How could people who have everything be unhappy? Kwan wants to know, but there's no one she can ask, since no one she knows has anything.

Except Nana, and she hardly knows Nana anymore.

She has no idea how long she's been standing there, but the stiffness in her back says it's been an hour or more. So she's not completely surprised when she hears the low voices from the other side of the house and then the feet on the steps leading up to the door.

Her mother's voice, raised in greeting, is unfamiliar in its bright friendliness. She's using the voice that's her version of dressing up for company. She never unpacks it for use with her family.

They're here.

Kwan's stomach knots as though she has to go to the outhouse, and her T-shirt is suddenly wet beneath the arms. Moving as silently as a breeze, she rearranges the hanging wash behind her so it completely covers the window, making her invisible from inside the house. She hopes nobody saw the motion. She wishes she were small enough to creep into one of the pockets of her mother's dress, hanging a few inches away.

When her teacher told her that she wanted to have this meeting, Kwan's heart had leaped in hope. Now that the moment has come, though, the hope seems transparently thin, too thin even to hold a patch. If anything, the meeting will make matters worse, not better. It will put an end to the hope.

She smells the whiskey on her father's breath before she hears him behind her.

"Stork," he says. "Your teacher. And some farang man."

She doesn't turn. She tries to stay away from him when he's been drinking. For the past two years, that means all the time. "I don't care," she says.

"Don't talk to me like that. You're big, but you're not too big to hit." He leans toward her, the smell growing stronger, and lowers his voice. "They want to talk about you, and they want you in there."

"There's no point."

"They don't know that," her father says. "They need to hear you say it."

"Maybe I won't say it."

"Maybe you won't eat dinner tonight. Maybe you won't eat breakfast tomorrow. It costs a lot to feed you."

Kwan's clenched fist again drives the post of the earring into her hand. She squeezes harder, inviting the pain in, and then she wheels around and sidesteps, grabbing the clothesline and feeling her father's hand slide over her back and down toward her rear. As it reaches the sensitive skin at the small of her back, she lets go of the rope and hears it snap against his chest.

"Sorry," she says without turning around.

Rounding the corner of the small house, she smells smoke. Someone down the street is burning trash. She thinks hopelessly of the rooms she has seen on the television screen, the careless litter of nameless possessions owned by people who have forgotten they have them, and she wonders what could be useless enough, in this village where there's a third and fourth use for everything, to feed to the flames.

There's a knot of brothers and sisters around the front door. Kwan pushes through them and enters the darkness of the single room they all share.

Teacher Suttikul is short and wide. She's not fat, just broad in the shoulders and hips, and she wears clothes that make her look even wider. Today's outfit is a loose blouse with black horizontal stripes above a straight white skirt. Without ever having owned nice clothes herself, Kwan has known from the first time she saw her teacher that the woman dresses all wrong. Somehow it's endearing that a woman who knows so much about so many things has no idea what clothes she should wear.

"Here she is," Teacher Suttikul says brightly as Kwan comes through the door. "Isn't she pretty?" she asks the man who's with her.

One of Kwan's brothers on the deck snickers.

"This is Mr. Pattison," Teacher Suttikul says, using the English honorific. "Mr. Pattison is from the Children's Scholarship Fund."

Kwan, acutely conscious that her jeans end high above her ankles, conscious of her thin arms and sharp elbows, gives Mr. Pattison a respectful wai, palm to palm as though in prayer, at the level of her forehead. Mr. Pattison smiles. He is taller than she and frayed in the way some older people are, with peeling, papery skin, thinning hair, and eyes of a faded ghost-blue.

"Very pretty," he says in thickly accented Thai, followed by a pale blue glance that silences the laughing boy. "And she looks smart, too."

The room-the only room in which Kwan has ever lived-contains two large pieces of furniture: the bed on which her mother and father and the three youngest children sleep, and a table surrounded by mismatched molded plastic chairs in dark, scuffed primary colors. On top of the table is a scattering of chipped and faded dishes and bowls and a stack of spoons. Above the crockery hang two shelves lined with jars of spices, sugar, and oil, tightly closed against ants. A length of faded cloth dangles diagonally across the far right corner to create a cramped space for people to undress and dress in before and after a bath and, at night, a place for Kwan to sleep. The cloth has been pulled partway aside, and the thin, soiled mat of rags that make up Kwan's bed is in plain sight. The sight stops her in the doorway. Why didn't they just hang her dirty underwear in the middle of the room?

Kwan's mother has pulled the two best chairs away from the table for the teacher and the farang to sit on and has claimed the edge of the bed for herself. She looks up at Kwan and, with her eyes, indicates the high metal stool that's been positioned in the middle of the room. Kwan goes and sits on it as Mr. Pattison and Teacher Suttikul take their seats. Perched there, halfway between them and her mother, she feels like the pile of small money that her father and his drunken friends play cards for, sitting all day on the raised wooden platform outside, next to the street. She catches a glimpse of herself in the cracked mirror hanging beside the door, averts her eyes from the geometrical schoolgirl chop that cuts her straight hair off just below her ears, making her neck look even longer than it is, and ducks her head apologetically, with no clear idea of what she's apologizing for.

"Thank you for letting us come," Teacher Suttikul says.

"Don't thank her." Kwan's father comes into the room, rubbing his chest as though it stings. "If you've got to thank somebody, thank me." He takes a small, inadvertent jog to the right but stops himself before it turns into a lurch, raking the visitors with his eyes to see whether they noticed it. Both of them are looking at Kwan, whose gaze is fixed on her lap, her spine as curved as a cello. Her father goes to the bed, waves his wife to move down although there's plenty of room, and sits heavily.

Teacher Suttikul smiles so appreciatively he might have spouted poetry. "We want to talk about Kwan," she says. "You know, you have a very smart daughter."

"So what?" her father says. He's at the near edge of very drunk, and his consonants are approximate. "She's a girl."

"There are lots of good jobs for girls these days. She'll earn plenty of money if she stays in school."

"What good does that do anybody? If she makes money, it'll go to her husband's parents, not us." He lifts his chin toward Kwan, not even bothering to look at her. "If she can ever find anybody to marry her."

Teacher Suttikul keeps the smile in place, although her eyes have gotten smaller, an expression that has chilled many classrooms full of children. "She'll always take care of you. And I know she can get a good job. Someday she'll-"

"Someday," her father says heavily, as though the words are in a foreign language. "Someday. My children need food now. The roof needs to be fixed before the rain comes. We need money now."

The words ricochet back and forth, past Kwan, who ducks her head and tries to sink farther into the stool, which is high enough to make her almost as tall as she is standing up. Nana's earring feels so hot in her hand that she wouldn't be surprised if its glow were visible through her skin.

"Now," her father repeats, as though the word were an unfamiliar one.

"We're talking about now," Teacher Suttikul says. She has locked eyes with Kwan's father, and she holds his gaze for a moment before politely dropping her own. "Mr. Pattison can tell you what he wants to do." She adds, as an afterthought, "For you, I mean. What he can do for you."

"The money in the scholarship fund comes from people all over the world," Mr. Pattison says, very much with the air of a person who is beginning something that could go on for a while. His Thai is slow and badly pronounced but correct, and he speaks like someone who is unused to being interrupted. "They give us money so we can help promising students stay in school-"

"While their families starve," her father says.

Mr. Pattison puts up a hand, and the gesture startles Kwan's father so much that he stops talking. "We understand that families need money," Mr. Pattison says with weighty geniality. "We know they want their children to begin to work as soon as possible." A slow blink. "So they can help the family."

"It's their duty," Kwan's father says, jumping into the pause and holding tight to the edge of the bed as though he's expecting to launch himself into an argument. "We've taken care of her her whole life."

Pattison nods. "Of course you have. But we also know that in the long run it's better for children to be educated, so they can make even more money."

"That's for sons," Kwan's father says. "Weren't you listening? Daughters leave. They take care of their husband's-"

"If you'll let me," Mr. Pattison says without raising his voice, "I'll tell you how Kwan can start bringing money into the house right now."

Kwan's father rubs the bristles on his chin with the backs of his fingers, then nods to Mr. Pattison to continue.

"What we do," he says, "is give small amounts of money to the families while the children are still in school, in exchange for them letting them continue-"

"Stork? Money for Stork?"

"For Kwan," Teacher Suttikul says in a voice that could snip tin.

Kwan's father purses his mouth. "Small amounts. How small?"

Mr. Pattison licks his lips and looks at Teacher Suttikul. Teacher Suttikul says, "Kwan is seventeen. She needs to go to school for one and a half years more-"

"And then what?" her father says.

"Then she can go to college," Teacher Suttikul says, and despite the sheer impossibility of it, Kwan's heart leaps at the word "college." She holds herself absolutely still, trying not to betray her reaction.

"And I can die of old age," her father says.

Before she can stop herself, Kwan says, "It won't be old age."

"You see," her father says to the teacher. He looks almost pleased. "She's probably good when she's at school, probably got a sweet mouth, but here she's just another sharp edge. Just looking for a slap."

"Thirty-six thousand baht a year," Teacher Suttikul says. She glances at Mr. Pattison and says, "About nine hundred dollars U.S."

Kwan's father sits back. Her mother stares at the teacher as though gold dust has just poured from her mouth. Out on the deck, there's a little ripple of words from the brothers and sisters. This is more than the whole family earns in a year.

"Okay," her father says. He licks his lips. "Give it to me." He actually stretches out his hand, but he leans too far forward and his wife has to grasp his shoulders to keep him from falling off the bed. He shrugs her off indignantly. "Now."

"It doesn't work like that," Mr. Pattison says. He smiles, but not broadly. "We have to make a piece of paper that says you promise that Kwan will stay in school, and then we give some of the money every month to Teacher Suttikul, and she gives it to you if Kwan's been in class. By the end of the year, you'll have the whole nine hundred."

Her father has screwed up his face, trying to see the numbers. "So in a month…"

"About three thousand baht."

"Three thousand baht? Are you joking?" Kwan's father lifts both hands and slaps them down on his thighs. "No more talking." He leans forward as if to rise, and his wife reaches for him, just in case.

But before he can push himself up, Teacher Suttikul says, "That's more money than she could earn in most jobs."

"Tomorrow," her father says. "Tomorrow I can get-" He stops talking, although his lips move for a moment. Then he shakes his head and tries to get up.

"How much?" the teacher asks. Her mouth is all muscle. "Thirty thousand baht? Forty? And for what?"

"Sixty," her father says, with the satisfaction of someone playing a trump. "For working in Bangkok. And then she'll be sending more money home right away. Sixty is just to start. A lot better than a few thousand a month, and nothing more coming in, while she learns things girls don't need to know."

"And what job would that be?" the teacher asks.

Kwan's father shows her the back of his hand, flapping it in her direction in a way that's nothing short of scornful, certainly nothing like the respect Kwan believes a teacher is owed. Her spine folded forward, her chin practically touching her chest, Kwan has reached her limit. She can't endure another moment of humiliation-her teacher, whom she has worked so hard to impress, being insulted like this. She raises her head, glares at her father, and puts a foot down to stand.

Teacher Suttikul's voice almost takes the skin off her back. "Kwan. You stay right there."

Kwan turns to her and is startled by the fury in her teacher's face. She sinks down on the stool again, and for the first time she feels a lifting in the center of her chest. Something good may happen here after all.

"I asked what job you were thinking of," Teacher Suttikul says. Her tone is sinuous as a snake. "Sixty thousand baht is a lot of money. For what? Waitressing? Down in Bangkok, you said?"

Her father swallows, clears his throat, and pats his shirt pocket for a cigarette. "Something like that."

"Sixty thousand baht." The teacher settles back in her chair. "For a waitress."

"It's a good restaurant." He's already arguing.

"For a village girl, still dusty, just down from the paddies. Someone who's never even eaten in a good restaurant."

"So what? You think waitresses eat in nice places? With gold plates and, and ice cream, and lace on the table? They eat noodles in the street, like everyone else."

"What I think is that waitresses in good restaurants come from city families. I think they get the job because somebody knows somebody who knows somebody-"

"That's me," Kwan's father says. He stops and makes her wait as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes, extracts one between his index and middle fingers, tweezers style, and lights up. "I know somebody."

"Who?"

He regards her, blinking through a cloud of smoke. "What?"

"Who do you know?"

"What does that-" Kwan's father's face is suddenly deep red. "What does that have to do with you? Who do you think you are, coming in here and asking questions like this?"

"I think I'm Kwan's teacher. That means I'm in charge of her welfare."

"You just stop there." Kwan's father is standing, wobbling a little, but standing. "Stork is my daughter, not yours. She'll plow fields if I want her to, she'll wash floors, she'll shovel buffalo shit. She'll go where I want and do what I want. Did you bring her into the world? Have you worked all your life to feed her, even though she eats like an ox? Have you given her a roof and a place to sleep? Here's what you can do, you and your farang boyfriend. You can get out of my house, that's what you can do. And you can keep going. Kwan's out of school right now. You won't see her again. I don't want to see you again." He stamps toward the door, trailing smoke like a locomotive. At the door he wheels and says, "You have to get up before you leave. Come on, up, up, up."

"You can leave if you want," Teacher Suttikul says, waving him out. "We'll keep talking."

"You should stay," Mr. Pattison says.

Kwan's father grabs the doorjamb on both sides. "This is my house-"

"My job," Teacher Suttikul says, and her words cut through his. Although she has not raised her voice, there is a glittering edge to it. "My job says that I have to tell the police when a girl is taken out of school before she's eighteen. If she's not in school and I report it, they have to go looking for her. This is the first place they'll come. If they don't find her, there can be trouble."

Kwan's father says, "Police?" and fails to hear Kwan ask the same question at the same time.

"Some people," Kwan's teacher says, eyes wide, "actually sell their daughters. Into prostitution, I mean. They can get quite a lot of money, I'm told."

Kwan's father starts to say something, darts his tongue into the corner of his mouth, and says, "You don't-"

"Of course not," Teacher Suttikul says. "It's hard to believe, isn't it? But it happens. And there are laws against it now. It's not like it used to be. I've known families, close to here, who sold their daughters and got caught, and the police took all the money away-fifty, sixty thousand baht-put the father in jail, and then sent the girl home. Good for nothing by then, of course, not even a dowry. Ruined. Nobody would marry her. And then the father had to buy his way out of jail and pay the gangsters back. Took them years."

Kwan's mother lets out a quiet moan. Kwan feels like she's been nailed to the stool. Sold? There's a thin, high mosquito whine in her ears, and the room seems to tilt a little. Ruined?

It's growing dark outside.

"May I light a lamp?" Teacher Suttikul asks, indicating the kerosene lantern on the table. "We can all see each other better."

Kwan's father shakes his head, then nods. To the kids clustered around him, he says, "What's wrong with all of you? Go somewhere. Do something. Clean under the house." He flaps his hands at them. "Go on, go on." They back up a couple of feet.

"Thank you," Teacher Suttikul says. She reaches into her old straw purse and brings out a disposable lighter, removes the lamp's chimney, and lights the wick. It catches and sends up a thin, dark thread of smoke. "Needs trimming," Teacher Suttikul says, replacing the chimney. The light, shining directly beneath her chin, emphasizes her broad, strong cheekbones but leaves her eyes in shadow. "There," she says, resuming her seat as though nothing has happened. "Isn't that better?"

Nobody says anything. "What I think," she continues, "is that you should forget about Bangkok. It's probably not a real offer. They'll find a way to cheat you, and then they'll make her"-her eyes flick to Kwan-"wait on people for free. What could she do? Alone, miles from home. What could you do? The people who run… mmm, restaurants can be very rough. Instead, permit us to give you money to let Kwan stay in school." She glances questioningly at Mr. Pattison, who nods about a quarter of an inch. "You've got a lot of children to feed," she says. "We'll offer you something special. Forty thousand baht, and since you need money now, we'll pay you the extra four thousand when you sign. So that'll be seven thousand baht, and then three thousand a month for eleven more months."

"Ten thousand," her father says.

Teacher Suttikul shakes her head. "If we give you ten when you sign, you won't get anything for the last month."

Kwan realizes she is holding her breath. She lets it out in a rush that draws Mr. Pattison's faded blue eyes.

"That's a year from now." Her father comes back into the room and reseats himself on the bed. He scratches at the side of his nose. "I don't need to think about that yet." He puts his cigarette butt between thumb and forefinger and snaps it through the open door. Children scatter out of the way. "Ten thousand."

"Just so you understand…"

"I'm not stupid. When do we make the paper?"

"We can do it tomorrow," Mr. Pattison says.

"And you'll give me the money tomorrow?"

"Will you be able to read it?" Mr. Pattison asks, not unkindly. "We need to know that you understand what-"

"She can read it," Kwan's father says, glancing at Kwan. "If she's so smart, she can read it."

"Then I don't see any problem," Mr. Pattison says. "We'll come tomorrow evening, about this time."

"With the money."

"With the money."

"Cash," Kwan's father says.

Mr. Pattison's face doesn't change, but he glances away, out through the door. It looks to Kwan like he is eager to be out of the room. "Of course."

Teacher Suttikul stands up. "I'm so glad we could talk," she says. "I know how much you love Kwan, and this is the best thing for her. You should be proud that you've reached this decision."

Kwan's father nods brusquely, but his wife gets up. She's beaming. "Thank you," she says. "Thank you so much. Kwan is-" She looks at her daughter. "Kwan is my first baby. Even though she's bigger than I am, she's my first baby."

Everyone laughs except Kwan and her father.

Teacher Suttikul holds out an arm, and Kwan gets up and goes to her. It seems to take five minutes for her to cross the room, and she can feel her father's eyes on her every step of the way. When she's finally side by side with Teacher Suttikul, the teacher barely comes up to Kwan's shoulder, and Kwan is amazed all over again that such a small, unassuming person has such strength. The teacher puts an arm around Kwan's waist and gives her a squeeze.

"That's finished, then," she says.

Kwan can't say anything. She feels as though her throat has been tied in a knot.

Her teacher pulls a little flashlight from her purse. "Come on," she says. "You can walk us past the dogs."

The children scatter in front of them as they come through the door. Only one of them, Mai, is slow to move, and that's because she's staring up at the teacher. Teacher Suttikul slows and touches Mai's shoulder. "Your name?"

Mai glances at Kwan for reassurance. "Mai."

"Good, good. How old?"

"Thirteen."

Teacher Suttikul beams at her. "Then I'll see you next year." She turns back to the room and calls out, "I'll look forward to seeing Mai next year."

Mai bobs her head and backs away. With Mr. Pattison in the lead, Kwan and her teacher go down the four steps and turn right, around the house, to get to the dirt street. Once they're out there, the stars running like a spangled river between the dark trees, Kwan whispers, "Please turn off the light."

Teacher Suttikul snaps off the flashlight, and Kwan throws her arms around the woman. Hugging her teacher with all her strength, and with her own heart pounding in her ears, Kwan still hears Mr. Pattison stop to wait for them, standing alone in the dark.