Page 11 of Strictly Against Policy

I had walked out of the counselor’s office, brimming with excitement and happiness. I was going to be class valedictorian. Pride pumped rapidly through me because I could finally say I did it. I was the daughter of Hmong parents—immigrants who came from a war-torn country, who could barely speak English, let alone read and write it—and I was the top student out of the 358 people in my graduating class.

Growing up, academics was the one thing I knew I would excel in. Sometimes, it was the only thing I excelled in. More than that, it was the only thing I could control. As a child, and later as a teen, studying and getting good grades were the few things in my life I had autonomy over.

So, when I saw Jonathan waiting outside, I stopped to let him know—to ease in the news that I had won the last academic duel I challenged him to. Ever since the freshmen honors courses we took together, he became my greatest academic rival. He made sparring for the best scores and the best grades fun. I just didn’t realize he always had this animosity toward me.

‘You should still be proud of yourself, Jonathan,’ I said gently, giving him an encouraging smile. ‘Second place is still quite an impressive feat. Congratulations.’

Jonathan paused for a long second, neither reacting nor even breathing. I almost thought time had frozen until his wide lips grinned tightly. He tilted his head in this sharp manner. A habit he always did, and still occasionally does now as an adult, when he talked to me.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Congrats to you, too, by the way. It must feel nice to know having good grades is the peak of your personality.’

I shrugged then, not realizing his words were meant to be a bitter jab. ‘What can I say? I love being the best. It’s as simple as that.’

His lips twisted tighter into what I realized now wasn’t a good-natured smile, but a sneer. It became clear to me that what I once perceived as playful banter and coy antics from Jonathan Lo throughout our four years of high school was thinly veiled dislike. He wasn’t being dishonest when he said he never liked me. I just never realized that was the case until I looked back at everything in hindsight.

I immediately pulled myself out of my memories and returned to my responsibilities. The sigh I let out was too obvious, and Sheryl turned to me from her spot at the filling station. I stretched a wobbly smile across my teeth.

“Sorry,” I apologized. “Long day.”

“No need to apologize. He hasn’t been the nicest to you,” said Sheryl.

Sweat beaded lightly across my forehead. Well, that was also true. It hadn’t been easy working with a boss who didn’t like you.

On the tenth day, I was just finishing the returns for unclaimed prescriptions when Jonathan’s crisp, clear laughter rang through the pharmacy. He had been working with his last patient of the day for some time now. Despite being the opening pharmacist, he made no indication he was in a rush, giving her his full and undivided attention.

I glanced over. A chatty Hmong woman in her late 50s stood on the other side of the glass divider at the counter. She had graying hair tied into a tight bun, beautiful wrinkles that creased the corners of her eyes when she smiled, and a big laugh. She looked relaxed and cheerful to be here, much like every patient who talked to Jonathan.

The patient asked in Hmong, “Es, mi tub, zaum i kuv tuaj nqa tshuaj es koj hais tias koj tsis tau muaj tug no es, koj puas tham tau hluas nkauj na?”

By the way, son. Do you still not have a girlfriend? Last time I came to get my medication, you mentioned you weren’t dating.

“Tsis tau os,” he laughed lightheartedly. “Tsis muaj tus nyiam kuv ne.”

Not yet. Nobody likes me.

I had never heard Jonathan speak the language before. To be honest, I didn’t even know he could. He was a Hmong man, of course. Being a child of Hmong immigrants who also escaped the Secret War in Laos, I’m sure he grew up surrounded by all our culture and traditions.

However, I’d always assumed he could only understand it. Hmong as a language wasn’t hard to learn if you grew up in a household where it was the primary language. On the other hand, if you had parents who emphasized learning English to properly assimilate into American culture, it would be harder. The language can be hard to grasp because of its eight different tones; a slight tonal variation could change the entirety of the word itself.

Most Hmong-Americans speak a blend of Hmong and English these days, especially the ones who were born and raised here. It was easier for us. But Jonathan’s Hmong had a clear and smooth cadence. He sounded even better than me, if I were honest.

The patient, like any Hmong auntie who didn’t want to hear your nonsense, waved her hand dismissively. She quickly pulled out her phone saying, “Txhob hais li koj. Kuv tus niam hluas muaj ib tug ntxhais muaj hnub nyoog nees nkaum rau xyoo. Nws yuav kawm tiav nws daim ntawv mavxwmtawj. Nws zoo nkauj kawg. Kuv xav tias neb yuav sib phim heev.”

Don’t say that. My younger sister has a twenty-six-year-old daughter. She is almost done with her master’s degree. She is pretty. I think you two will match well.

Before Jonathan could even decline, the patient’s phone was shoved across the opening of the divider. In response to her offer, he laughed warmly. “Ua tsaug os tus phauj. Tiam sis kuv khwv khwv tsis muaj sij hawm los tham hluas nkauj.”

Thank you, Auntie. But I am very busy with no time to date.

“Kuv lam muab nws tus xov tooj rau koj seb koj puas hu tham nws os,” continued the patient.

I’ll just give you her number if you want to call and talk to her.

Heat washed over me as Sheryl and I exchanged glances. Sheryl looked excited and giddy, while I stifled a laugh. Although the situation was hilarious, I got a bit exasperated. Not for Jonathan, but for the poor niece. Her aunt was throwing her private information at a random stranger at the local pharmacy without her consent or knowledge.

Jonathan held up both of his hands with a light and easygoing voice. “Auntie, I mean it—I don’t have time to date right now.”

The patient didn’t take the hint and refused to leave until Jonathan jotted down her niece’s phone number. “Here. Her number is this one.”