When I was fourteen and first exploring love, I convinced a half Irish, half Vietamese boy to be my boyfriend.
We had a lot in common: we liked Nirvana, and we had Algebra together, too.
He was extremely tall, had a beautiful face and dark hair. He thought he looked a lot like Kurt Cobain, especially after he bleached his hair. He didn't, but whatever.
He lived in Atwater. His name was Scott.
Scott's mom was a teeny, tiny Vietnamese woman. Scott's dad was a huge man that worked on cars.
Scott was a perfect genetic blend and we would sit in his bedroom, make up song lyrics and smoke a lot.
Anyway, the first time I met Scott's mom, she took us out to dinner to the only Vietnamese restaurant in Merced County. I remember looking at the menu and freaking out because I had no idea what to order and I wanted to seem like a nice, smart girl in Scott's mom's presence.
Scott laughed at me. He ordered Pho. His mom ordered Pho.
I tried to pronounce it. He kept laughing as I kept managing a "Fuh," or a "Fah." Once I made a sound like "Foa," and I was in.
The Pho came and it was steamy and delicious. I ate every ounce.
Scott was my first kiss and my first Pho. What are the chances?!