Free The Reeducation of Cherry Truong by Aimee Phan Page A

daughter’s one blessed feature, the one prospect Cherry hadn’t destroyed, not yet : her memory.
    Even at the young, useless age of eight, Cherry could impress the adults with her memory. She could parrot television and radio commercials word for word, skim a brochure and recite its contents weeks later, remember directions to a restaurant or store they’d driven to only once before. Cherry’s father called her his little navigator. He claimed it was the Truong gene: Cherry’s grandfather in France also possessed a photographic memory, as did her Uncle Yen and cousin Xuan. But instead of being impressed by the practical benefits, Cherry’s mother declared them a waste. She preferred that Cherry focus her brainpower on more useful subjects, like her studies. The only thing worse than a dumb kid was a lazy kid. And Cherry’s mother was convinced her daughter’s laziness was ruining her potential.
    Outside the nail salon, Cherry jealously imagined Lum roaming the shopping plaza, buying candy, reading comic books, enjoying the precious after-school hours before dinner and bedtime. The neon signs along the three-story salmon-colored strip mall flickered and brightened, signaling five o’clock. Her play time ticked away with each wasted breath.
    â€œIt’s going to get dark soon,” Cherry said, digging her left heel across the rose-speckled linoleum squares. Lum had been released an hour ago, probably already through several dollars’ worth of tokens at the arcade. Around the corner, the other girls had likely finished chalking a labyrinth of hopscotch squares. They’d start the game without her, again. Even if she left now, she’d have to sit on the blacktop and wait until they allowed her in, which rarely happened. They knew better. They’d lost to Cherry too many times during the summer.
    â€œNext time get your work done earlier,” her mother said.
    â€œBut it’s done.”
    â€œYou have a social studies test tomorrow, remember?”
    Cherry exhaled sharply, trying not to look frustrated, because she knew her mother hated that. “I already read over the chapter.”
    â€œWhat did you and your father agree on? You need to read it over twice and then I quiz you.”
    â€œShe looks so sad,” said Auntie Hien, blinking her spiderweb eyelashes. She usually came in on Wednesdays, the slow day at the salon, to allow Cherry’s mother to practice on her nails. “Duyen will be here soon. She’ll keep you company.”
    â€œShe is doing poorly in her social studies class,” her mom muttered in Vietnamese. “Too much playing. We have to be more disciplined with her.”
    â€œI can understand you,” Cherry said. “Every word.”
    â€œGo reread your chapter,” her mother said, raising her chin, a level-one warning.
    Slumping in her seat, Cherry opened her textbook. She pressed her hand against the oily, fingerprinted pages, trying to refocus on the faded, uninspiring, unending blocks of print that lacked the clean precision of her math book’s equations and fractions. Inevitably, her eyes wandered above the book, to the rows and rows of red and purple nail polish bottles dotting the shelf. Fifty-six from her last count on Monday. Behind the colors, a dusty black cassette player crooned a Vietnamese pop version of the Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody.” She thought of the children in Saigon: hungry, dirty, and sleeping on the corrupt, lawless streets. That is suffering, her mother would remind her if Cherry ever dared complain about schoolwork. What you are doing is a gift.
    While most of their classmates went home and watched television or played video games after school, she and her brother had to come to the salon until their mother’s shift ended. When Lum turned twelve, he tried to convince their parents that they could stay at the house alone. Their father disagreed. Not until