Our house was white with black trim. We had some flowers out in our front yard by the side of our garage. My sister and I planted those flowers with our mom to see if they would grow and bloom. That day, in the early evening of a warm afternoon in California, that was when he saw me from across the street. I did not see him.

In the house across the street lived a Spanish speaking family. Next to their house, to the right from our view, lived the Vang family. That was where he was.

I am not sure of what I was wearing. Maybe I was wearing some black leggings and a t-shirt. I also cannot remember what kind of flowers they were that we planted. They might have been the beginning season, for years to come, of some of Mom’s herbal flowers. I also cannot be sure of whether the boy was inside the Vang residence or if he was sitting on their porch (if that was a porch) but he called some time after, the next day or something. He called and he said he had gotten my phone number from his cousin who lived in that Vang residence. He said he thought I was pretty and wanted to have a chance to talk to me.

At 11 years old, the only experience I really knew about boys was in my imagination. I had seen some of them come to our house to chat with my parents in order to see my older sister and to get to know her, but I had only seen and heard them from a distance and from the comfort of our bedroom doorway which was down the hall and rather far from the living room. My older sister, who was 14 at the time, had the curves, a sweet smile and a sweet voice. I had long skinny arms and skinny legs with bony elbows and bony knees and a lower more masculine voice.

I had nothing to say to the boy on the phone. I did not know what to say. I only breathed. It was a good thing that my father hated us (my sister and I) on the phone. He would scold us right away to get off as if he was expecting an important call. My father’s lectures were not always appropriate but always the final word. My father rarely bathed or brushed his teeth, even on hot summer days and no matter what he ate. Like many Hmong families I knew at the time, our family was also living off of the state’s welfare program. There were five of us siblings living with my parents and if I remember correctly, my father made us alternate the days we bathed. My sister and I were always reminded, too, to not use too much shampoo (conditioners did not exist), and all of us children were reminded to not waste the body soap or toothpaste.

Our next phone conversation was much more memorable. My family’s phone cord was short, it was one of those phones where you couldn’t walk away because the talking and listening piece was attached to a cord which was attached to a base which did not have the ability to charge. The phone rang. The operator on the phone asked for a person whose name was the same as mine. I was put on the phone. I listened and heard the operator prompt if I would accept a Collect Call. I had no idea what a Collect Call was but I said okay. The operator put the boy through to speak to me. The boy said that he was sorry and that he did not have much time but that if he could have my house number he would write to me.

School started. It was my first year as a junior high student at Rio Tierra Fundamental middle school. In 7th grade there were actually white students and other students of color that were not from our ghetto neighborhood, white and colored students from the other side of the levee also attended. There were white students and black students and then there were students that you wouldn’t know which ethnicity they were unless you heard them speak or were able to make an assumption depending on which crowd you or they hung in. Or, if they were in your class and you were able to figure out their ethnicity by knowing their last name, you might be able to figure it out. It was not a large school but it was kind of scary and strange because of the student demographics, the six period classes, and having to use a locker. PE class was huge.

I don’t remember if the bill came before or after school had started but we received a bill for $5.00, probably from the county, for the Collect Call. I never saw the bill. I had okayed the Collect Call without permission from my father and because of that he almost disowned me. Father said that $5.00 was a lot of money and if a boy was calling me from jail then I shouldn’t be talking to him in the first place, at all. How could I be in communication with such people in my no good life? What kind of stupid child was I? Was I human or was I an animal?

Gas prices in those days were still under a dollar per gallon, probably eighty-nine cents per gallon at most. Years later in high school, gas prices were still under a dollar per gallon. So, $5.00, five whole dollars, that was a lot.

For every week that passed that year in middle school, I received at least one or two letters from that boy. The letters came with the smell of Old Spice. The letters came with words from the boy who remembered how I looked from seeing me just that one time from across the street. Somehow, I was giving him hope. In his letters he not only remembered how I looked but he made sure to tell me that he longed to see me again. In his letters, there were poems where roses were red and violets were blue. In his letters, he asked about how I was doing and told me about how his broken leg was healing. He said that the pain was getting better. He would write about how lonely he was and he wondered if I would write back, if I could write back. He wrote about how he wished he could see me and talk to me in person. He wrote about how it sounded crazy but that he missed me. In his letters his handwriting was quite nice. His handwriting was very nice and more practiced than mine. His letters connected as if he and I were connected because he wrote in cursive, something I had not practice. In doing time, I could tell he took his time because I did not notice errors in his fine cursive.

That year, it seemed this song was on the air every morning my sister and I got up to get ready for school. Sometimes it would play right as the alarm went off and I would stay in bed not wanting to get out of bed, as if I could somehow avoid reality. I would try to pause. I would keep my eyes closed and try to see what the boy looked like. I imagined him to no real detail but with my eyes closed, in my mind and heart, his handwriting resonated and his words echoed. I tried to pause a lot. I tried to pause so well that this story comes back to me whenever I hear this song.

I wanted to write back. I wanted to write back but I could not because I had no clue where to get a stamp of my own. My father kept his stamps visible but they were always accounted for. My father knew how many pennies, nickels and dimes were in his wallet. The same went for his stamps.

I started to practice my handwriting. I practiced each letter one stroke at a time. I had some time, too. I wrote words that became sentences. Sentences that could tell him about how I cared even though I had never seen him. I did care. I cared that he thought about me, that I meant something to him. I wrote about how nice it was to get his letters and how it made me think about life in ways I had not thought about before. I often got sad in reading his letters. I knew that even with all my intentions in writing and in practicing my penmanship, none of my letters or words would ever reach him. Perhaps I was just a stupid child. A dreamy child. I kept writing and practicing my handwriting anyway. I wanted him to know that I appreciated his letters, his words and his handwriting. I kept writing like he would somehow dream of me and see me doing it. Maybe he did dream of me writing him a letter but none of my letters ever made it to him.

The following summer, he was released from where he was detained. He had written that it was a goal to see me and to talk to me in person again. He was determined. By the time he was released, we had moved to a new house closer to my middle school. It was a house that I had suggested because I saw the For Rent sign while we passed by one day when my father picked me up from school. We were out of “the projects” area and the only way we were able to afford that house was through Section 8 housing. Our phone number changed, too but he was able to get it, probably from the same source as before. People actually knew phone numbers back in those days, sometimes by heart.

I couldn’t believe that I was going to get to see this boy. He was 16 now (if I remember correctly). I was still going on 13 (I have a fall birthday). I was afraid of what my father would say if he found out about this boy coming over so I devised a plan. I discussed it with the boy and had him use an alias. It was the name of my favorite New Kids on the Block band member.

When Donnie came over, I did not know what to expect. I also did not know how to prepare for seeing him. What was I to wear? How was my hair to be? Should I wear make-up? My skin did not do well with make-up.

I’m sure I blushed and I probably did not even know how to stand but standing at our doorway was the boy who had written me for many many months. He was standing there and looking at me. I could smell the familiar scent of Old Spice. He might have worn a cap and took it off when I opened the door but he for sure wore a top which revealed his nicely built arms, not very common in Hmong boys those days. He was cute with a kind of bad boy appearance. I don’t think he was much taller than me. He came in and he met my parents and whoever was there, maybe a brother and my older sister. I don’t remember him staying very long but I remember walking him back to the door and opening the door. It was evening and the sun was setting. The pink in the sky was starting to glow, it blended with the lighter and darker blues. Before he left, he somehow held my face cupped in his hands. In one swift move, he pressed his lips to mine. If he had closed his eyes, I did not notice. If he had said something as he walked away, I did not hear the words. I only remembered his lips and how they pressed mine. I had never felt that kind of sensation before, not in any kind of reverie. His lips were full, soft and warm. His breath was sweet. His hands were strong, gentle, careful.

I never saw or heard from him again. He got to see me and to talk to me in person. He sought for what he wanted and I, I could not deliver.

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