Anh Trai

February 9, 1985
Saturday
San Diego

Steven Michaels pulled the five year old station wagon up to the curb in front of his father's house. "Everybody out!" he called. His sons, Kevin and Patrick, promptly scrambled from their seats and wrestled the curb-side door open, wrangling cheerfully about which had been first out and similar familiar topics as they dropped to the sidewalk. Karen Michaels moved to the vacated back seat and began disentangling their three year old daughter, Amy, from her carseat.

By the time Steven joined her on the sidewalk, the boys were racing each other across the lawn to the front door. Robbie Michaels had sold the family home and bought this small, late-30s bungalow when his estranged wife died in 1978. It was a tidy, tile-roofed stucco box, surrounded by well-trimmed evergreen shrubs. A typical small house of the period, its only unusual feature was the Spanish-tiled fireplace in the living room. There was a flowering plum in the newly-mown front lawn, and the driveway at the side of the house gave a glimpse of the large workshop-garage behind. Robbie's car, a blue Escort two-door, stood in front of the left-hand door.

The neighborhood was a quiet one, and the only sounds were the calls of birds, the shouts of the children playing in the small corner park, and the whir of a lawnmower somewhere nearby. Steven picked up the box that was the official reason for this visit and his wife picked up their daughter. He and Karen started toward the house. The boys were well ahead of them, bursting through the screen door-- the front door stood wide open in the warm southern California weather-- and all but colliding with their grandfather, who was framed in the picture window as he rose from his favorite battered armchair.

Before Steven and Karen had drawn level with the plum tree, Patrick was perched on the arm of his grandfather's recliner and Kevin had taken over the ottoman nearby. The lawnmower stuttered into silence, and Steven could hear his sons easily. Both boys were excitedly relating the high points of the last month, talking over each other with a cheerful disregard for volume levels and comprehensibility. A moment later their grandfather shushed them, saying laughingly that he couldn't understand either of them.

In the ensuing silence, a cool, slightly gravelly voice said, "Lawn's done," and both boys turned to look in the direction of the kitchen.

"That's good," Robbie said. "Boys, meet Dinh. Dinh, that's Patrick and this is Kevin."

"Hey, there," the cool voice responded.

"Hello, Dean," Kevin said.

"Dinh," the teenager corrected him.

"Dinh?" Patrick almost managed to pronounce it correctly. "That's kind of a funny name, isn't it?"

"Hey, can it!" Kevin pushed his younger brother. "You aren't supposed to say stuff like that!" He turned toward the kitchen and added apologetically, "He didn't mean anything by it, honest. He's just thick."

"S'okay," Dinh replied. "It's common where I was born, but not around here."

"Where's that?" Patrick demanded, and Kevin scowled at him, rolling his eyes in disgust at his brother's lack of manners.

"Vietnam," the voice said, tone flattened and decidedly cooler.

"Where the war was?" Patrick persisted, ignoring his older brother. "My dad was over there for a while."

"Yeah, I know." The voice held a hint of irony now, and Steven decided it was time to interrupt. He pushed the screen door open and followed his wife in.

Karen said, "Hello, Dad," and moved over to kiss her father-in-law's cheek. Robbie smiled at her, but he looked a little worried, too. Steven set the box on the bookcase by the door and greeted his father before turning to the slim figure leaning in the kitchen doorway. The tall, lanky teenager stood with arms folded, in an apparently negligent pose that Steven knew from experience was anything but. He was dressed in sneakers, gray sweat pants and a black tank top, and his shock of blue-black hair was held out of his eyes by a red bandanna tied like a sweatband. The tank top clung to his sweat-soaked torso, and his sneakers and pants were flecked with grass clippings. As his eyes met Steven's, the young man's impassive face registered no change beyond a sardonically raised eyebrow.

Steven cleared his throat, suddenly not so certain he'd made the right decisions about this meeting. "Hello, Dinh," he said, a little uneasily. "I see you've met the boys."

Dinh nodded, but said nothing. Well, Steven had expected his defenses to be up, but not to that extent. He ignored the butterflies starting in his stomach and turned to introduce his wife.

"Karen, this is Dinh. Dinh, this is my wife, Karen, and our daughter, Amy."

Karen took a step toward the slim youth. "Hello, Dinh. It's good to finally meet you."

"Hi." Dinh's voice was expressionless. He straightened from his slouch against the door frame. "Hey, Amy."

Karen shifted her daughter a little forward and prompted, "Say hello to Dinh, Amy." The three year old was promptly overcome by a fit of shyness, burying her head in her mother's shoulder and wrapping both arms around her neck.

"She's a little shy," Karen apologized.

"Yeah." Dinh pulled the bandanna off his forehead. "I need a cold drink. Anybody else want something?" The latter was deliberately addressed to the room in general, and Kevin and Patrick promptly asked for soda.

"Don't have any," Dinh told them. "Iced tea, or O.J.?"

The two boys exchanged disgusted looks and opted for juice. Their parents requested tea.

"Robbie?" His grandfather declined the offer and Dinh disappeared into the kitchen.

After a moment, Kevin turned to his father. "Dad?" He was clearly puzzled. "If you knew Grandpa had someone staying with him, why didn't you tell us?"

"I-- uh-- didn't think of it." Steven realized immediately how lame it sounded. Picking up the box he'd brought inside, he handed it to his father.

"What's this?"

"Something Kevin found at a church bazaar last week," Karen told him. She lowered Amy to the floor and handed her the milk crate full of blocks Robbie kept on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. "He thought you could find a use for it."

Robbie opened the box-- which claimed to hold Red Wing Shoes-- and exclaimed in delight. The box was full of miniatures. Six larch trees, two inches high. Five maples the same size, in vivid fall colors. Eight inch-high, four-inch-long boxwood hedges. Two miniature flower gardens, each the size of a large postage stamp. Eight silvery streetlamps, hair-thin wires trailing from their bases. And finally, an intricately woven gazebo of white-painted wire, the size of a walnut.

Dinh moved into the kitchen and reached glasses down from the cupboard. He'd only been in San Diego a bit over a month, but already it felt more like home than anywhere he'd lived in the last six years. As he pulled the ice bin out of the freezer, he heard Kevin's question to his father and froze, waiting for Steven's response. When it came, he carefully closed the freezer door-- resisting the temptation to slam it-- and gently set the plastic box full of ice cubes on the counter. He leaned both hands on the counter edge and forced himself to take slow, deep breaths.

It wasn't, he reminded himself fiercely, as if Steven had said he was going to tell his other children about Dinh. He hadn't. He'd just asked if this would be a good day to meet them. Dinh had assumed he'd tell them, but Steven hadn't actually said so.

And if Steven didn't want the boys to know that Dinh was their half-brother, well, that was his choice, wasn't it? Dinh couldn't very well object to that, could he?

But he could have warned me, Dinh thought. He wouldn't have been expecting anything, if he'd known. He'd have been ready for it. It might not have hurt so damn much, when he realized his brothers-- half-brothers, he reminded himself savagely-- didn't know who he was. Didn't even know his name... He knew all about them. Robbie and Steven had made sure of that.

After a minute, he straightened and began distributing ice cubes into the glasses. He'd go out there, be polite, and play along. If Steven hadn't told his kids who Dinh was, they wouldn't find out about it from him. He knew how to keep his mouth shut. He could deal with it.

Especially since he didn't really have any other choice.

He filled the two smaller glasses from the pitcher of orange juice he'd squeezed that morning, and carried them into the living room. Robbie and the boys were bending over a shoe box, examining the contents, and they took the glasses automatically. The older one, Kevin, spared him a polite smile and a "thank you" before turning back to the box.

Iced tea next, in three tall glasses. Dinh took a moment to gulp half of his before carrying the other two to Steven and his wife. He avoided looking at his father, not sure he could trust himself to keep his feelings hidden, and returned to the kitchen.

He took another long swallow from his glass and tried to think of an excuse to avoid making polite conversation. He wasn't very good at small talk at the best of times, and all the things he couldn't say in front of Steven's kids would just make it that much harder. He looked around the kitchen, trying to find some excuse to not look at his father when he went out there. He found it on the tray of the highchair Robbie kept tucked in a corner of the kitchen specifically for these visits.

When he re-entered the living room, he held his iced tea in one hand and a bright red "tippy-cup" in the other. Amy was still sitting in front of the door, scattering wooden blocks far and wide with happy abandon. He set his own glass on the bookcase, out of her reach, and dropped onto his heels, waiting silently for her to notice him. She was a beautiful little girl, with dark blond ringlets, big blue eyes, and the totally absorbed air that all happy, busy three year olds seemed to carry with them.

He'd always liked children that age. They were too young to care about where you came from or who you were. Watching her intent play was pure pleasure, and by the time she noticed him, Dinh could meet her solemn child-gaze with an equally serious, completely calm expression. She stared at him a moment and a small, puzzled frown crept over her face.

He offered her the red cup, face carefully neutral.

She hesitated, reached for it, and changed her mind suddenly, backing away and putting both hands behind her.

Dinh slowly set the cup on the second shelf of the bookcase, where she could reach it, and dropped into half-lotus in front of the kitchen doorway. He pulled a loop of string from his sweatpants pocket and stretched it between his hands. Assiduously ignoring the little girl who watched him uncertainly, he began to make patterns with it.

Amy's uncertain frown changed to a curious one, and she took a step toward him.

Dinh finished the first pattern, a flower, and tilted it so his half-sister could see. She took another step toward him, and a shy smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

He started another one, and she drew closer. By the time the cat shape emerged from the tangle of string, he didn't have to tilt it for Amy to see.

"Kitty!" she said, and giggled when he smiled at her.

As he started a third pattern, she leaned trustingly on his shoulder, watching the strings shift with wide-eyed delight. The bird-shape came clear suddenly, and he flexed his fingers just so, making the wings shift into mock-flight between his hands.

"Birdie fly!" Amy declared, delighted. "Look, Mommy," she waved an excited hand at Karen, "Birdie fly!"

Her mother looked down at the pattern stretched between his hands. "That's beautiful." Her voice was politely friendly. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Dinh's smile vanished, and he dumped the loops from his fingers, pulling the string into a taut line between his thumbs. "My mother taught me," he said flatly.

Karen said nothing.

After a moment, Amy patted the teenager's arm. "More pi'chers," she demanded.

Dinh hesitated a moment, then nodded and began another pattern, concentrating on the string between his hands. Karen took the hint and moved away.

Before he finished, Kevin asked, from his perch by his grandfather's chair, "Will they work, Grandpa?"

Robbie's reply was warmly affectionate. "They're perfect, Kevin. Do you and Patrick want to come out to the workshop and help me decide where they'll go?"

Both boys agreed enthusiastically and followed their grandfather down the hall to the back door. As they disappeared into the yard a silence descended on the living room.

Steven pulled the chair out from his father's desk and perched on the edge. "You, uh, seem to have settled in okay."

Dinh pretended to concentrate on the almost-completed pattern of strings. "I'm used to moving." He tried to sound neutral. "Robbie said you weren't coming 'til after lunch."

"We got away a little earlier than we expected." Karen was seated in the rocker by Robbie's chair. "I hope we didn't inconvenience you too much."

"Doesn't matter to me." Dinh finished the pattern and started another before Amy could ask.

"Since we got here early," Steven suggested, "I thought we might all go down to the Pizza Palace for lunch."

Dinh shifted a few more strings before answering. When he finally replied, he managed to keep most of the edge out of his voice. "That's not a good idea."

"Why?" his father asked. "They make lousy pizza?"

"No." Dinh finished the design, and Amy clapped her hands.

"More!" she demanded.

Dinh shook his head, dumped the pattern, and re-wound the string into a bundle around his left palm. "Later," he told her, tone shading to gentleness. He snagged the red cup from the bookcase. "No more now. Drink your juice." Amy frowned, but took the cup. "More pictures later. Promise."

He rose, tucking the string automatically into a pocket, and was reaching for his own glass when the light from the front door was blocked out. A voice said, "Hey, kid. Got a package here, needs a signature. Are you--" the postman glanced at the box in his hand-- "Dinn Nagooyen-Michaels?"

Dinh had to bite his lip to keep from snarling at the man. "Yeah," he snapped, and stepped around Amy to push open the screen. Great, he thought as he signed. So much for switching back to Holmgren before Steven finds out. Then, with a sudden rush of bitterness, He'll just have to live with it. Robbie liked the idea.

He accepted the package and a stack of envelopes, then turned to the bookcase and began sorting the mail into three piles. Still, I'd better make sure the boys don't see anything with my name on it. That'd blow Steven's dirty little secret for sure. Most of the mail was Robbie's, of course, but he had the package of cycle parts, and the March issue of Sport Aviation. Occupant and Resident still got more mail than he did, most days.

"N'win-Michaels?" Karen was still using that polite-guest voice, but she pronounced his name properly-- well, as close as any American ever got, anyway.

Dinh didn't turn around. It was hard enough to keep his tone polite as it was. "We figured it would save questions." That wasn't the only reason, or the major one, but it was the one he was willing to admit to at the moment.

"Very sensible," Karen agreed.

He didn't have anything else today, so he put the magazine, mailing-label down, on top of the box, covering the shipping label. The junk mail stayed on the corner of the bookcase, but he carried Robbie's over and dropped it into the usual rack on the desk.

As he did, Steven asked, "So, what's wrong with the Pizza Palace?" in a carefully casual voice.

Drop it, dammit. Dinh shot his father an annoyed look. Do I have to spell it out? "A lot of kids from the high school hang out there on weekends."

"So?" Steven persisted. He sounded honestly puzzled, which was completely infuriating.

Dinh set his teeth, and picked up the glasses Kevin and Patrick had left by Robbie's armchair. Okay, you asked for it, he thought. He added his own glass, now half-full of melted ice, and started toward the kitchen. "I just figured you wouldn't want to risk someone asking for an introduction." He couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice.

As Kevin followed his grandfather to the workshop in the garage, he wondered if it would be polite to ask about the Vietnamese teenager. Grandpa Michaels had hosted exchange students for "home-stays" for a couple of summers now, but Kevin had thought you had to have a kid in high school to have them staying at your house during the school year. And Dad had acted really weird when he'd asked about Dinh.

Come to think of it, Dad had been acting funny all morning-- sort of like he did the day before a big game. Kevin couldn't figure out what was up. It wasn't as if they hadn't visited Grandpa before while he was hosting someone. The older boy had seemed nice enough, until Patrick put his foot in it. Then he'd just shut up, like a door slamming. Why had Dinh gotten mad when Pat asked where he was from? It was kind of weird, now he thought about it.

And it was weird that Dad had seemed to know Dinh, but Mom hadn't. Dad had had to introduce her---

They reached the garage then, and Kevin forgot his questions as they entered the side room. The Town, as everyone in the family called it, had grown to cover most of two pieces of 6x8 plywood. Kevin could just barely remember when Grandpa had added the second sheet, back when Grandma died. He'd started the cemetery then, and some more streets. Dad had told them stories about all the things in The Town. How a lot of the houses were copies of friends' or family's houses. How Grandpa had added the baseball diamond when Uncle Murphy's Little League team made it to the state finals, and the football stadium when Dad's team had won the conference championship. That church was an exact copy of the one Mom and Dad had been married in. And the hospital-- Kevin felt very attached to that hospital. Grandpa had added it when he was born.

It was a beautiful Town, every detail perfect. The intricate mesh of streets, with their miniature sidewalks and tiny shops and houses, no two alike. Robbie never bought his houses from the hobby shop. He built each one, by hand. As they set the miniature trees in a row on the edge of The Town's park, Kevin saw with delight that they were, in fact, perfectly in scale for the tiny streets. Grandpa had told him that, in The Town, one inch was ten feet, and that made the trees twenty feet tall, perfect for lining the streets, or setting in someone's yard. He began to discuss, very seriously, where they should go. Should they line a walkway in the Park with the hedges, or give one of the elegant Victorian houses on the other side of town a high, private, green wall? Would the gazebo look better in the Park, or the Zoo?

Patrick, who wasn't nearly as interested in the trees as Kevin, soon wandered off and began inspecting The Town. Just as they were beginning to discuss the larches, he interrupted them.

"Grandpa, what's this?"

Robbie turned to look at the far edge of the second sheet, where a small brown strip and several funny-looking buildings were sitting. "That's the airport, Patrick," he explained. "It's new."

Kevin frowned a little. "It doesn't look anything like the airport in L.A., Grandpa," he pointed out.

"It's not that kind of airport. It's for little planes, that only hold one or two people." Robbie moved over there and began explaining what everything was. "That's the control tower, where they give the planes permission to land or take off. And these are the hangars-- sort of garages for the planes. And this is the workshop, where they fix the planes when they break." He paused at a square of black, with white lines painted on it to show where cars should park. "You know, Kevin, I think those streetlights would work just fine here, don't you?"

"I-- I guess so," Kevin agreed. As he carried them over, he wondered why Grandpa had added the airport. He never added anything big without a reason. Houses, and streets, and maybe shops, but never something like this. And Kevin didn't know anything that had happened recently that would make Grandpa want to add an airport to The Town....

Steven stared after his son with his mouth hanging open for a moment, then turned to his wife. "Why would he...?" He was stopped cold by the expression on Karen's face.

She was wearing that look. That exasperated, affectionate, "You're an idiot, but I love you anyway" look.

"What?" he asked, even more confused now.

Karen sighed, and walked over to perch on the edge of the desk. "You didn't warn him, did you?"

"Warn him about what?" he demanded, and got that look again, with the voltage turned a little higher.

"That you decided not to tell the boys about him, before they met."

"Well, no, but--" He suddenly saw what she was implying, and shook his head vehemently. "He couldn't think--"

"Why not?" she cut him off. "I called Robbie on Wednesday, to settle a few details, and he said Dinh was really looking forward to this afternoon. Specifically, to meeting his brothers." She sighed at his confusion and added, as one stating the obvious, "So what would he think, when he finds out the boys don't even know he's staying here, let alone who he is?"

Oh, God. She was right, of course. Steven had never even considered it, but Dinh.... Dinh had spent most of his life alone, an orphan and outsider, with no one to depend on or trust. He'd probably find it all too easy to believe Steven wanted to hide the truth about him from his legitimate children.

And that would also explain the stone-face he'd been wearing when Steven had first seen him. If he'd jumped to the conclusion Karen was suggesting-- and Steven didn't doubt it; Karen was a far better judge of people than he'd ever be-- then retreating behind his old defenses would have been pure reflex.

As his face reflected his chagrin, Karen took his hand in hers. "You owe him an explanation, Steven," she said quietly. "And an apology."

He nodded and squeezed her hand. "I'll try, but he may not want to listen."

Karen smiled at him then, that lovely, generous, all-forgiving smile that had first attracted him in college, sixteen years ago. "Do your best. I'll help if I can, but we can't just let this go, honey."

"I know." He kissed her cheek. "No time like the present..."

Dinh was filling the last ice cube tray at the tap as Steven came through the doorway. His first impulse when he walked into the kitchen had been to duck out the side door and just keep going... but Robbie deserved better than that. Instead, he'd taken as long as he could with tidying up, stretching it out to avoid having to return to the other room.

"Dinh?" Steven's voice had that careful, overcautious tone that set his son's teeth on edge.

"What." He didn't bother making it a question. He'd pretend in front of Steven's kids, but he didn't have to like it, and he damn sure wasn't going to keep the sham going when it was just Steven.

The tray was full. Dinh turned off the tap and carried it past his father, eyes on the shifting water. There were three others just like it on the counter by the fridge, and he opened the freezer and slid the first into place.

"I-- um-- need to explain... about the boys...." Steven trailed off uncertainly.

"None of my business," Dinh told him flatly, and added a second tray, and a third.

"But, you don't--"

Dinh cut him off. "Tell 'em what you want." He didn't want to hear excuses, not now. He shoved the last tray into place, slopping water, and closed the door a little too hard. "I don't give a damn."

"Dinh, please--"

The pleading tone Steven used was the last straw. His father was between him and the side door, so Dinh took the only other way out, through the archway into the living room. If he could just get to his room, have some time alone, away from this damn farce Steven had forced him into...

Karen had picked up Amy and taken her to cuddle in the desk chair when Steven started toward the kitchen, so she had a perfect view of her stepson's face as he burst past her, toward the hallway. His expression reminded her of the time Kevin had sprained his ankle playing soccer in the league semis, and hadn't wanted to admit it hurt. Pain, held just below the surface by force of will.

Steven was right on his heels. "Dinh!" he snapped, face twisted in frustration. "Dammit, stand still and listen, boy!"

Amy shrank against her mother, frightened. Daddy never shouted.

The slim, black-haired figure froze just short of the hallway. Dinh's head came up and his hands clenched into fists, but he didn't turn, and he made no sound. Steven glared at his son's rigidly held back as though he could force the boy to accept what he had to say by sheer determination.

Karen sighed and, yet again, came to her husband's rescue. "Steven," she said, in the fondly exasperated tone she usually saved for the boys' more harmless antics. "That's no way to start an apology."

Her fuming husband had the grace to look abashed at that, and spread his hands helplessly, eyes pleading with her to take over.

She rose from the chair, handed him their reluctant daughter, and moved over to stand just behind the obviously upset teenager, a little to his right, so she could watch his face. "I'm sorry," she told him, with the conviction of utter sincerity. "Steven's never been very good with frustration, especially when he's feeling guilty on top of it."

Dinh's spine relaxed a fraction. His eyes shifted right, and his head almost turned in her direction.

"We've made some stupid mistakes," she continued, taking half the blame for what had, in fact, been wholly Steven's decision. "But we honestly didn't mean to hurt you by them. I promise not to make excuses, but if you could listen while I explain, I'd be very grateful." She smiled a little, knowing it would show in her voice. "I promise not to shout."

The teenager swallowed, hard, and his hands relaxed a little.

"You don't have to say anything," she promised, very gently. "Just listen. Please?"

Dinh grabbed the corner of the mantle, swinging himself down to sit on the raised, tiled hearth of the fireplace. He slumped there, elbows on thighs and wrists crossed, staring at the floor between his feet. "So talk." He didn't look up at her.

Karen sat in the desk chair and shooed Steven away with a wave of her hand, out of Dinh's line of sight. Her husband sat in the rocker and began to soothe his frightened daughter.

"I doubt he's told you," she kept her voice soft, "but Steven and I have been debating how to introduce you to the children almost since Skip brought him back from the hospital in Fresno." She smiled encouragingly at her husband, who tried half-heartedly to smile back. "Steven was all for the lot of us driving up to Fresno the next day, but I convinced him to at least wait until you were out of the hospital.

"And of course, San Francisco is too far to drive in one day, so we decided to try for foster parent status. We figured, once that was out of the way, we could have you transferred to Newport Beach."

That earned her a sharp, startled glance from the slumped figure on the hearth. She smiled at him, and he looked away again. I didn't think Steven had mentioned that. "Unfortunately, we didn't qualify. At least, not for a teenager. There are rules about how many children you can put in a room, and--" she chuckled-- "even if there weren't, we didn't think you'd want to share the nursery with Amy."

Dinh snorted at that, and one side of his mouth twitched upward briefly.

"And then, just as we gave up on that, Robert McCall pulled a rabbit out of the hat, in the form of your friend, Tony Morelli. I'd really like to meet him some day, you know," she added. "He sounds like a wonderful person."

Dinh's head dropped a fraction, and his face softened a little more.

"Of course, once we knew you'd be moving in with your grandfather, it only made sense to wait until you were here, and give you time to settle in. So we did."

Dinh straightened, ran a hand through his tangled hair, and turned toward the tiled fireplace. His right hand rose to the low stone mantlepiece.

Now for the important part. "Steven and I debated exactly how to handle the actual introduction for quite a long time. Here, or in Newport Beach? Should we all descend on you at once, or should I come down without the children first? And, of course, how much of your history to tell the boys beforehand."

Dinh's right hand clenched on the mantlepiece, and he became very still.

Karen choose her next words with care. "We finally decided that it would be better if the children had a chance to get to know you before we told them anything. You see," she finished, very gently, "we wanted them to like you for yourself, not to pretend to like you just because you're their brother."

Dinh's hand dropped into his lap again, and he stared at the red-tiled floor for a long moment. Finally, he looked up at her. "Guess I can't argue with that." His tone was dry, and from the look in his eyes she suspected he didn't entirely believe her, but they could work on trust later. For now, it was enough that he hadn't rejected the explanation out of hand.

She smiled at him. "It won't take long, I expect. You've already made a fast friend of Amy."

He smiled back, a little skeptical still, and pulled his legs up, sitting cross-legged on the cool tiles.

After a moment, Steven set his squirming daughter on the floor and walked over to the fireplace. "I'm sorry," he told his son quietly. "I should have warned you. It was stupid and thoughtless of me. It won't happen again."

Dinh looked up, into his father's face. "I'll hold you to that."

"I expect you to." Steven nodded.

Amy had followed her father over to the fireplace and tugged at Dinh's shirt with one determined little hand. When he turned to look at her, she said, with three year old solemnity, "It later now. Make pi'chers."

Her brother stared at her in astonished silence for a moment, then laughed and scooped her into a hug. "You're a pest, y'know that, Amy?" He settled her on his lap.

"Pi'chers," she insisted. "You promised."

"How about a ride on Grandpa's swingset instead?" Karen suggested, and held out her arms. "C'mon, sweetie. Mommy push."

Amy immediately agreed, and scrambled off Dinh's lap to run to her mother.

"Fickle," Dinh called affectionately after her, and she giggled and waved as Karen carried her down the hall to the swingset in the backyard.

Patrick had grown bored again quickly, and wandered into the garage. Just as they were placing the last streetlamp, he rushed back, demanding eagerly, "Grandpa! When did you buy a motorcycle?"

"I didn't, Patrick," Robbie told him. "That's Dinh's; don't play on it."

"Ah, Grandpa, I wouldn't hurt it any!"

"Do as your grandfather says, Patrick." Dad appeared in the doorway. The Vietnamese kid was right behind him, carrying a box in one hand.

"Da-ad--" Patrick whined, but before Steven could call him on it, Dinh stepped forward. He grabbed Pat's chin in one hand, forcing him to look up at the older boy.

"Touch my bike without permission, you'll regret it," he said in a cool, scary voice, and Patrick got really quiet all at once. "Understand?"

Kevin frowned, and glanced at Dad. Dad didn't ever let anyone mess with his family. But now he was just standing there, watching. Not doing anything.

When he turned back to look at Patrick again, his brother was nodding, eyes wide and solemn.

The older boy smiled, a small, hard smile that never reached his dark eyes, and let go of Patrick's chin. "Good." The smile shifted, became lopsided and somehow warmer. "And now that we've got that clear," he lifted the box, "do you want to help me put the engine back together?"

Pat's face lit up. "Can I?" He grinned, fear forgotten.

"The parts finally got here, then?" Robbie asked.

"Just arrived." Dinh nodded, and scowled at Pat, but it was a teasing scowl, not an angry one. "Yeah, you can help. But you've got to do what I say, or the deal's off. Okay?"

"Deal!" Patrick followed him into the garage.

And when Kevin looked back at Dad, he was smiling after the Vietnamese boy, like Dinh had just handed him a present or something.

It was turning into a very strange visit.

They ordered the pizza delivered, and ate it in the backyard. The visitors left for the two-hour drive back to Newport Beach a little after three, and Dinh and his grandfather adjourned in unvoiced agreement to the cool shade cast by the fruit trees in the backyard. Robbie brought tall glasses of unsugared tea from the house, and Dinh picked grapefruit and oranges for both of them. He'd never liked grapefruit much, but Robbie had convinced him to try them again, shortly after he'd moved down here. He'd discovered, much to his surprise, that grapefruit didn't have to be the sour, juice-spraying half circles he'd loathed. Plucked fresh from the tree and a little overripe, they were as sweet as a Valencia, and the slightly bitter, unsweetened tea only made them seem sweeter.

He lay back in the cool grass and popped a section of grapefruit into his mouth, staring up at the patterns the shiny green leaves made overhead. Much as he'd wanted this meeting, he was glad it was over. Amy was adorable, but her constant demand for "pi'chers" had stretched his ingenuity-- and patience-- to the limits. Finally, in desperation, he'd begun repeating earlier patterns-- and she hadn't even noticed! Pat was okay, too. Once he'd made it clear that the ten year old wasn't going to get away with anything, they'd gotten along fine. He hadn't even slowed Dinh down in reassembling the Honda's engine-- much, anyway.

He should be able to finish the bike this week, unless they found something else wrong. And that meant he could start at SunHawk as soon as the license went through.

He popped another citrus slice and wondered if he should have mentioned the job to Steven. Robbie'd had to give permission, of course, but he hadn't made any fuss about it. It was a better job than most junior-year students managed, even if it was mostly cleanup work, out at the airstrip. And his shop teacher said he could probably get credit for it, too.

Dinh folded his arms under his head and pulled his thoughts back to the visit that had just ended. Karen was all right. He grinned, remembering the way she'd taken Steven down a peg without ever raising her voice. He'd been half-afraid she'd be one of those "my husband can do no wrong" types, or try to freeze him out. Instead, she'd jumped right in and untangled the mess Steven's thick-headedness-- and his overreaction, he admitted ruefully-- had made of things. Not many women would have done the same. Kevin, now... Kevin was a puzzle. He was a nice kid, no doubt about that. Polite, well mannered-- but really quiet, not like his happy-go-lucky younger brother. Dinh had pegged Patrick in a minute, but he still wasn't sure what made Kevin tick. He'd given Dinh some really odd looks a time or two. Oh, well, he and Robbie would be going up to their place next week, for dinner. He'd work on Kevin then.

Kevin stared out the window of the car as they traveled north along Interstate 5 and tried to figure out what was going on. Something was strange, that much he was sure of. For one thing, Dad had spent a lot of time talking to Dinh, instead of visiting with Grandpa the way he usually did. The only time he paid any attention to anyone else was when Dinh was playing with Amy, or letting Pat help him with his bike. Even then, it was like half Dad's attention was on the exchange student.

He hadn't been that way with any of the other students Grandpa had had staying with him.

And then, just as they'd been getting ready to leave, Mom had said, "So, Dinh, can we expect you and Robbie for dinner next Saturday?" Like it was up to the teenager, and not Grandpa, whether they'd come to visit or not! Well, he guessed the teen could have chosen not to come, but Mom had acted like he had the right to decide for Grandpa, too.

And besides, Robbie almost never came up to visit the weekend after they did. They usually only saw him once or twice a month; everyone had too many things going on to visit oftener. But Dinh had said, "Yeah, sure," and Mom had nodded. Dad actually sighed, like he'd been worried the older boy would turn them down or something.

Why should Dad care whether the teenager came to dinner or not? It wasn't like they had a lot in common. Kevin had asked him, politely, if he played baseball, or soccer, and Dinh had said no, he didn't go in for sports much at all. And when Pat had asked if he climbed rocks, like Dad, the teenager had laughed, and said no, he wasn't interested in spending any more time half-way down a cliff, thanks. And then he'd looked at Dad with a strange half-smile, like he'd made some kind of inside joke. Dad had just rolled his eyes and grinned back at him.

And that didn't make sense, either. You didn't make that kind of private joke with someone you didn't know pretty well. But Dinh hadn't known Dad's wrestling team had been conference champs for four years. Everyone who knew Dad knew that. Heck, until they'd made him head coach, when Kevin was seven, the local team had never even made it to finals, let alone won a championship. And Dad had been so proud, when the Booster Club gave him that plaque at the team dinner last week.

How could Dinh know Dad, and not know about that?

"Kevin?" Dad said sharply, and Kevin suddenly realized he'd called him before.

"Sorry, Dad, I was thinking," he apologized. "What'd you say?"

"What do you think of Dinh?" Steven repeated, as he took the off-ramp to Highway 1.

Kevin stared at the back of his head for a minute. Dad never asked questions like that. "I-- uh-- he's all right, I guess. Kind of hard to tell, what with just meeting him and all."

"He's cool!" Patrick burst in eagerly. "He said he'd take me for a ride on the motorcycle when it was finished!"

"Hmmm-- We'll have to talk about that." But Dad sounded pleased. "I'm glad you boys like Dinh. He doesn't know a lot of people down here, and I'm counting on you two to make him feel welcome."

Kevin just frowned, and stared out the window. Of course Dinh didn't know people around here-- he was from Hong Kong or something, wasn't he? And why did Dad think he'd want them for his friends? Most high school juniors didn't want anything to do with someone in junior high, let alone a ten year old like Patrick.

There was definitely something strange going on. If only he could figure out what it was....

March 7
Thursday
San Diego

Dinh pushed through the side door into the kitchen and hung his helmet on its usual hook. A glance at the clock told him it was a little past four, which meant Robbie wouldn't be home for at least an hour and a half. As he dumped his daypack in a corner, he noticed that the message light was blinking on the answering machine.

Dinh hit the replay button and let it run while he poured himself a glass of tea.

The first two messages were hang-ups. The third was for his grandfather, a reminder about a meeting tomorrow. The fourth was an aluminum siding salesman, and the fifth was another hang-up. The sixth....

"This is Steven. Uh-- Dinh? I-- uh-- guess you're not home from school yet. It's-- uh-- three o'clock on Thursday and I just wanted to ask you-- We're going to the Santa Ana Zoo on Saturday, and I thought you'd like to come along. Call me at home and we can settle the details."

Dinh paused the machine and scowled at it. This was getting frustrating. It had been a month since he'd met the rest of Steven's family, and Steven still hadn't told his half-brothers that they were his half-brothers. But that didn't stop him from expecting Dinh to spend every weekend with them.

The teenager took a long swallow of tea and leaned back against the kitchen counter with a sigh. He knew what Steven would say, if he asked about it again. He'd say they needed more time to get to know him first. He'd say that was why he kept dragging Dinh along, every weekend. He probably even believed it.

Dinh had enjoyed the visits at first, even if the boys' not knowing about him made it awkward. But it was becoming more and more obvious that Kevin resented his butting in on what were, for the most part, ordinary family outings. Dinh certainly couldn't blame the kid for that. He'd probably have felt the same way, if things were reversed. Especially since, from a few sentences Kevin had let drop, the boy apparently thought Dinh was some sort of exchange student. Dinh hadn't corrected him because, if he did, Kevin would ask him for the real explanation-- and Dinh couldn't tell him that, not until Steven did.

And it had been a month, dammit! A month when he spent every single free day up in Newport Beach, or hanging around the house waiting for Steven and his family to arrive. It wasn't as if he didn't have other things he'd like to do with his weekends, once in a while. He'd actually started making friends here-- and it was damn awkward having to explain why he suddenly didn't have any free time on the weekends without having to admit that his own father--

He shunted that thought aside quickly and took another gulp of tea. He'd just have to start finding ways to get out of some of this stuff. Maybe, if he stayed away more, only showed up for the important events, Kevin wouldn't mind so much. Maybe.

This trip to the zoo, for example. There was no particular reason he should tag along on that. And Jaime'd already asked for his help this weekend, combing the San Diego junk yards for the parts they needed to get his pickup running.

The teenager took a couple of cookies out of the jar on the counter and considered possible strategies. It had to be something that Steven would accept....

After a few minutes, he picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"SunHawk Aviation."

"Hey, Annie. Is Jerry around?"

"He's right here." The secretary must have put her hand over the phone, because her subsequent, "Jerry! It's the Michaels kid on line two!" was muffled.

Several clicks followed, then his boss's voice came on the line. "Dinh? What's up?"

"I was just wondering--" The teenager hesitated, then asked, "Any chance I could get in a few extra hours this weekend? Saturday, maybe?"

"Thought you said you needed Saturdays free?" Jerry didn't sound mad, just puzzled, so Dinh elaborated, trying not to sound too eager.

"I did, but I could really use the hours. And you were saying you needed to get the Jenny's wing repaired by Monday. I could help with that; Tom showed me how to dope patches last week."

"Well, all right." The teen heard the sound of pages being shuffled. "I'll put you down for, oh, nine to noon Saturday. But try to ask sooner next time, okay? I don't like juggling schedules at the last minute."

"I promise," Dinh assured him. "Thanks, Jerry. I really appreciate it."

"Just don't make a habit of it," his employer warned. "See you tomorrow, three o'clock?"

"Right. Thanks again, Jerry."

"Bye, kid."

Dinh pressed the button to disconnect and breathed a long sigh of relief. He had his excuse, a perfectly reasonable, unobjectionable excuse to get out of Steven's plans for this weekend.

Better get it over with, he thought, and dialed the Newport Beach number from memory.

Newport Beach

Patrick was doing his homework at the kitchen counter when the phone rang. He called, "I got it!" and lifted the receiver before Karen could object. "Michaels residence." His face lit up with a broad smile. "Hi, Dinh!" He listened. "I think he's in the garage. Hold on, I'll get him." The ten year old dropped the handset on the counter with a clatter that made his mother wince, and raced out the back door.

Any excuse to avoid math, Karen thought with an indulgent smile, and moved to pick up the abandoned receiver. "Dinh? How are you?"

"Uh-- hi, Karen." The teenager sounded nervous. "I'm fine. Ah-- Patrick said he was going to find Steven?"

"He is, I just thought I'd keep you company until they got back," she assured her stepson. "Steven's changing the oil in the car, so it may take a few minutes. How's school going?"

"Okay, I guess."

He sounded distracted, and she began to wonder what this call was about. It wasn't like the teen to call on a school night. Karen wished she could just ask Dinh what was bothering him, but they were a long way from that kind of relationship. She tried another approach.

"Patrick couldn't stop talking about that ride you gave him on the motorcycle last weekend. That was really nice of you."

"No big deal." The voice paused a moment. "Look, maybe I'd better just leave a message, okay? I mean, Steven's probably busy, and I'm just returning his call, really."

"Steven called you?" This was the first Karen had heard about it, but before the teen could reply, the back door opened and Steven appeared in the door, wiping his hands on a grease rag.

"Here he is," Karen said, and handed him the phone.

He spared her a quick smile before raising it to his ear. "Dinh?" he asked eagerly. "You got my message?" He listened, and a faint frown appeared. "Problem? What kind of problem?" Surprise replaced the frown. "I didn't know you had a job." He listened in silence for a few minutes. "I see." He sounded disappointed. "Of course, I understand." Pause. "No, of course you can't. Don't worry about it." He glanced around then, and saw Patrick bent over his homework. "Wait a minute." Steven placed a hand over the mouthpiece. "Patrick, take that into the dining room, please."

"But Dad--"

"Patrick...."

"I'll help you, honey," Karen offered, and together they gathered up his schoolwork and left the kitchen.

When Karen returned to her dinner preparations, Steven was still on the phone. She continued breading the chicken, but kept half her attention on her husband's side of the conversation.

"It's the perfect chance for you two to get closer," Steven insisted, and Karen frowned a little. That seemed to have become Steven's standard excuse for involving Dinh in anything the family was doing, and it was wearing more than a little thin.

"Great, I'll see you there, then. Tell your grandfather I called. Good-bye." He hung up the phone and turned to the refrigerator.

Karen decided it was time they had another talk about the way her husband was-- or, rather, wasn't-- dealing with this situation. "Dinh said you called him?"

"Uh, yeah." Steven didn't turn around. "I thought he might want to go to the zoo with us on Saturday."

"But he didn't?" she prompted. Honestly, she thought, he's as bad as the boys, sometimes.

"Yes, he did!" Her husband straightened indignantly, soda in hand, and frowned at her. "He'd come if he could, but he's got this job after school, and they want him to work that day, so he can't."

Karen sighed, wiped her hands on her apron, and turned to stare at her husband in exasperation. Steven was a wonderful man, but he could be so blind at times. "Did he say he wanted to come, or did he just say he had to work?" she asked bluntly.

The look on his face answered her. "It's the same thing!" he insisted, then added, a little plaintively, "Isn't it?"

"Not really, honey." She took pity on him and explained. "Look, ever since we introduced the boys to Dinh last month, he's been spending every weekend with us, right?'

Steven nodded, but his expression was still puzzled.

"And in all that time, it never occurred to you that maybe he'd like a day now and then to spend with friends his own age?"

"But-- he never said anything," Steven objected.

"I don't think he minded at first." She sighed, and decided that bringing up his refusal to tell the boys Dinh's background again would only confuse the issue. "I take it you changed his mind? It sounded like he was coming after all."

"No, I wouldn't do that." He seemed surprised that she had even considered it. "We were talking about next weekend."

"What about--?" Suddenly, she realized what he must mean. "The tournament?" she asked, appalled. "But Steven, we just agreed you'd take Kevin to the Invitational by yourself!"

"Yes, I know." He popped the top on his root beer, oblivious to her reaction. "But I figured, as long as Dad was coming up anyway, it would be a good way to show Kevin Dinh wants to be friends with him." He smiled at her, obviously pleased with himself for thinking of it. "Show he's interested in things Kevin likes. Nothing like a common interest to build a friendship."

Karen resisted the urge to tell him just how incredibly stupid his latest idea was. Kevin had wanted his grandfather there, true-- but he'd wanted Steven to himself for the day even more. Her husband meant well, he always did, but....

She sighed, and turned back to the cutting board. What was done was done, and arguing about it now wouldn't change things. "I hope you're right, Steven," she said, carefully keeping her voice level. "I really do."

"Sure I am," he insisted. "It'll make all the difference, you'll see." He moved over and planted a kiss on her cheek. "And I heard what you said earlier, about Dinh. I'll make sure I don't monopolize him from now on, I promise."

Karen didn't say anything, and after a moment Steven left to finish working on the car. She took out her frustration on the carrots, chopping them into bite-sized pieces with unnecessary force, and tried to figure a way to minimize the damage from Steven's latest well-intentioned blunder.

She could call Dinh and asking him not to go to the tournament-- but that would hurt the tenager terribly and besides, she'd promised herself that she wouldn't interfere between Steven and her stepson unless she was asked. They needed to work out this relationship on their own, if it was going to last.

No, she couldn't call Dinh, but maybe she could hint to Kevin that the older boy might be coming with his grandfather. Then, when he showed up, Kevin might not be quite so disappointed....

March 16
Saturday
Riverside

Kevin was in trouble.

He'd known it from the minute he saw his opponent. The other kid, a ninth-grader from Oceanside, was as good as he was, and two inches taller. He was using the extra reach for all it was worth.

The boy darted forward suddenly, grabbing Kevin's elbow and ducking under. Kevin barely managed to counter by grabbing his opponent's other arm and pivoting with him. They broke apart and circled again, making quick, darting jabs, looking for openings.

That was close. Kevin wished, not for the first time, that he hadn't let Coach talk him into entering the lighter weight class this season. It had meant making Varsity-- they had no one else who could wrestle at that weight-- but he ate like a bird and still worried about edging over the maximum weight every match. It also meant most of the guys he wrestled had an advantage over him since they could eat the day before a match without worrying about making weight.

The other kid tried for a double-leg, and only Kevin's reflexes prevented him from turning the take-down into a pin. Kevin executed a scoot-away and scrambled to his feet.

Keep your mind on the match, Michaels, he told himself fiercely. He'd never wrestled this guy before, which meant he didn't know his weaknesses, like he did for the kids in his own district. He had to find a way to counteract the height advantage.

Otherwise Kevin's part in the Invitational would be over very, very soon.

The whistle sounded the end of the first period and both boys straightened and stood panting for a moment. Kevin had won the coin toss before the match started, so he took top position.

As the second period started he pushed everything out of his mind but the match. After a couple of failed attempts by both wrestlers, Kevin managed to turn the other boy's short sit-out into a breakdown and followed up with a smother pin. Two seconds later, the ref called the fall.

As he offered his defeated opponent a hand up, Kevin heard his father calling from his seat on the left-hand end of the stands. "Great job, Kevin! Way to go, son!" Steven shouted over the crowd. He was on his feet, applauding his son's victory enthusiastically.

Kevin grinned back at him, and made his way through the other kids to his spot on the bench. His coach had a few good things to say, too, as he handed Kevin the Gatorade, but he only listened with half an ear. Dad's praise was much harder to earn than Coach Pearman's. And much more important.

He sat on the bench, towel draped around his neck, and wondered who he'd draw for the next round. It'd be at least an hour before he had to wrestle again. Of course, since this was a single-elimination tournament, there'd be less and less time to rest between rounds.

He'd figured on making it to the quarter-finals, with a little luck. He was the only eighth grader to make it through the opening round so far, and the only twelve year old in the whole tournament. Quarter finals would be good enough, this year.

Next year, though, he wanted to go all the way. Like Dad.

Dinh followed his grandfather toward the gymnasium. The banner stretched over the entrance proclaimed "40th Annual Southern California Citrus Growers' Invitational -- Junior High Wrestling Tournament" in day-glo letters a foot high. The parking lot was more than half full, and there was a steady trickle of people disappearing through the doors.

"Kevin do these things often?" he asked half jokingly.

Robbie shook his head. "The school districts nominate the top wrestler in each weight class," he explained. Then, realizing the teenager wasn't serious, he chuckled. "Don't worry, I'll point him out to you, so you know when to cheer."

"Thanks, but I think I can spot him on my own." Dinh grinned back. "They wear their names on their uniforms, don't they?" His complete disinterest in, and near-total ignorance of, team sports had become a running joke between them.

Now, if only Steven could see the humor of it, things would be a lot easier, Dinh thought gloomily. Why couldn't his father see that Dinh's lack of interest in his job as a coach had nothing to do with Dinh's feelings about him?

Oh, well, give it time. They'd only met six months ago, after all. Maybe they were both expecting too much.

He had his doubts about today's outing, too. Steven seemed to think it would help him get closer to Kevin. Dinh didn't see how sitting on a bench, staring at his brother throwing other kids around for three or four hours, would help anything. He also couldn't think of anything better, which was why he was here.

Kevin just didn't seem to want to be friends with him. Of course, since he thinks I'm an exchange student, that's not surprising, Dinh thought sourly. Steven kept putting off telling Kevin and Patrick the truth, insisting Dinh had to get to know them better first. But how do you get to know someone who figured you weren't worth bothering with because you were only going to be around for a couple more months?

The high-ceilinged room was noisy with shouting spectators, the cheers and shouts punctuated by loud thuds as contestants hit the mats. Bleachers had been set up the whole length of the room, backs to the door, and it looked like there were at least two or three matches going on at once. He and Robbie agreed to split up, starting at opposite ends and working toward the middle. Steven should be in there somewhere. The tournament had started half an hour ago, and he'd had to have Kevin here an hour before that. Robbie disappeared toward the left-hand end of the gym, and Dinh went right, stopping to pick up a trio of sodas at the concession stand. He generally preferred something without fizz, but the only thing along that line they offered was green Gatorade and he wasn't nearly that thirsty. Cokes in hand, he turned the far corner of the bleachers in time to hear his father's voice ringing out above him.

"Great job, Kevin! Way to go, son!" Steven bellowed, on his feet and beaming at the central set of mats.

Dinh craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse through the crowd, and managed to catch sight of a slim, blond, blue-clad form disappearing into the crowd of wrestlers. MICHAELS was visible on his singlet even at this distance and Dinh grinned as he realized he'd recognized Kevin without it. He stepped back to stand below his father and called upward, "I guess that means he won, huh?"

Steven's head pivoted and his grin widened a fraction more. "Dinh! You made it! That's great," he said, then answered the question. "Full pin, flat out. And he's the youngest here, you know." He practically glowed with pride.

"No, I didn't. Take these, will you?" Dinh passed him the cans of soda. As Steven accepted the cold, condensation-damp cylinders, Dinh reached up and grabbed the bleacher seats, one in either hand. His right foot found a hold in the cross-braces and with a quick heave he was standing beside his father.

"Thanks." The teenager took two of the cans back. "That one's yours."

Steven thanked him and they sat down on the narrow wooden seats. "Where's your grandfather?" he asked as he flipped the tab.

"Should be here soon. We each took an end." Dinh set the two remaining sodas on the seat next to him and looked around. "Where's the scoreboard?"

"Scoreboard?" S� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������teven shook his head. "Dinh, don't you know anything about wrestling?"

"Not this kind. Had a foster parent for a couple of months who was into Sumo." He leaned back against the unoccupied bench behind him and folding his arms.

"Didn't you learn the basics in gym?" Steven eyed him appraisingly. "I'm surprised your coach didn't try to get you involved. You've got the build for it."

Dinh sighed. They'd been over this topic, or one like it, a dozen times before, but Steven never seemed to get it. "Being on a team costs money, Steven," he pointed out. "And even if my foster parents had been willing to shell out the dough, I never stayed anywhere long enough to play. Assuming I'd wanted to, which I usually didn't," he added pointedly.

"Hmm...." His father considered that a moment. "I guess that means I give you a quick course in Wrestling Appreciation." He smiled awkwardly at his eldest son. "Wouldn't want you to applaud at the wrong time. Deal?"

Dinh accepted the tacit apology and returned the smile. "Sure," he agreed and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

"First lesson," Steven said, a hint of humor creeping into his voice. "That big blue square thing on the floor is called a 'mat'...."

Dinh chuckled. This might not be such a bad way to spend a Saturday afternoon, after all.

Kevin spotted his grandfather when he was about half-way down the stands. He hadn't been sure Robbie would make it to the tournament, but he had. Better yet, he hadn't brought Dinh with him. It wasn't, he told himself firmly, that he didn't like Dinh. The exchange student was okay, really. It was just that, since they'd met him last month, he'd been up to the house almost every weekend. All weekend. And if he didn't come up, they drove down to Grandpa's.

And whenever Dinh was around, Dad paid more attention to him than to his own kids.

Today, Kevin wanted his father's attention on him. This was his day. He'd earned it.

He'd worked and worked to be at the top of his division, hoping for an invitation to the tournament. Dad had made it to the Invitational his eighth grade year, and Kevin had been determined to match that even if it meant pushing himself, every minute of every match. He'd done it, too.

And since he'd earned his spot here, it wasn't really all that bad of him to want Dad all to himself for today, was it? Mom had understood. Without his even having to ask, she'd stopped Patrick from coming and volunteered to stay at home, with Pat and Amy.

He watched his grandfather make his way through the crowd at the foot of the bleachers. When Grandpa's face broke into a smile, Kevin knew he'd spotted Dad and turned to see if Steven had noticed.

His happiness evaporated.

He was already there, sitting next to Dad on the end of the bench. They hadn't noticed Grandpa; they were too busy talking, heads together. Dad was using his hands to explain something, probably a wrestling throw. Judging by the puzzled scowl on his face, Dinh didn't get it.

If he doesn't even like wrestling, why is he here? Kevin thought resentfully. He watched until Robbie finally got close enough to say something and they both looked up. Dad patted the empty seat to his left and Dinh passed him a soda as he sat down. When Grandpa asked a question, Dad finally looked across the gym and gestured to the bench where Kevin was sitting.

But he turned back to Dinh before Grandpa spotted Kevin.

Kevin stared gloomily at the back of the kid in front of him, pretending not to notice his grandfather searching the benches for him. They'll probably talk right through my next match, he thought bitterly. I wish he'd stayed home.

Dinh knew he shouldn't bring it up again. It was Steven's decision, really. But he couldn't help himself. He wanted it over.

"When are you going to tell them, Steven?" He tried to make it sound casual and kept his eyes on his soda can.

He heard his father sigh. "Soon," he promised, like he did every time Dinh brought it up. "I just want to give you and Kevin a little more time to get to know each other. That's why I asked you to come here today."

"Yeah, I know." Dinh took a swallow of the half-warm Coke. "I just don't think you should leave it too much longer, that's all. Kevin's a bright kid and you don't want him figuring it out on his own, do you?"

"Next weekend." Steven reluctantly pinned himself down to an actual date. "After dinner next weekend. I promise." He leaned forward as the announcer called the next match. "This is it!" he said with far more enthusiasm as Kevin stepped onto the mat.

In the hour they'd been waiting, Steven had managed to give Dinh a rough knowledge of the basics. Enough, at any rate, that he could recognize a victory as clear-cut as Kevin's turned out to be.

The moment the whistle blew, Kevin dived, hit his opponent at the hips, dumped him over his shoulder and rolled him onto his back. Two seconds later, the match was over.

After a moment's stunned silence, the crowd had erupted into loud, enthusiastic cheering, with three generations of Michaels men leading the chorus. Kevin, however, had helped his opponent to his feet and stalked back to his bench with scarcely a glance in his family's direction.

Judging by the looks on Robbie and Steven's faces, that was not standard procedure.

"Is it just me, or was that the shortest round today?" Dinh asked as they resumed their seats.

"Match," Steven corrected him automatically. "It was fast, all right." He sounded worried. "I can't remember Kevin ever playing so aggressively. That was an awfully hard take-down. He's usually more careful than that."

"Just how important is this tournament, anyway?" his son asked, watching Kevin stalk toward the back of the players' area.

"Not important enough for him to risk hurting someone," Steven said grimly.

"Maybe he'll ease off on the next match," Robbie suggested.

"I hope so," Steven muttered, then took a deep breath and turned to Dinh. "Okay, pop quiz time," he said, in an obvious attempt at lightening the mood. "What take-down did your brother use?"

Dinh stared at him for a moment, then suggested, tentatively, "A duck-under?"

Steven rolled his eyes in exasperation, and began going over the different holds again.

Which kept him from worrying about Kevin for the next five minutes, just as Dinh had intended.

Robbie, who knew his grandson better, just winked at him and offered to fetch another round of sodas.

Kevin accepted the congratulations from the other players automatically. He'd gone into the ring still simmering with anger, and determined to make it to the quarter-finals if it killed him. It wasn't until the ref blew his whistle that he realized he'd pinned the other guy with reflexive training and sheer brute force.

It wasn't his usual style at all.

But it had won the match for him, and right now that was all that mattered.

That, and the fact that he'd heard his father start the cheering.

A moment later he realized Coach Pearman was talking to him, handing him a cup of Gatorade. He swallowed it in three thirsty gulps and said, "What? I didn't hear you."

"I said," Coach grinned, "that I didn't know you had it in you. Great job, Michaels! Keep it up, and you'll make it to the finals."

"The what?" Kevin was sure he'd heard wrong.

"The finals, Kev," Gary, a ninth grader and the only other wrestler from their school, chimed in. "Man, you flattened Feden, and his team named him Best Overall this year." He slapped the smaller boy on the back and grinned. "Coach's right, buddy. Keep this up, and you'll be bringing home one of those fancy silver cups." He gestured toward the row of trophies standing on a table by the judges.

Kevin just stared at Gary. The finals. Dad made it to the finals, but he was fourteen. If I make it to the finals this year, he'll forget all about Dinh.

As he thought of the older boy, his eyes moved toward the stands. His father was talking to the teenager again, oblivious to the matches being played in front of him.

Kevin nodded grimly and crushed the cup in one determined hand. "I'll do my best," he promised. He returned to his seat on the bench, and began to watch the other wrestlers with intense concentration. He was going to win. Everything. No matter what.

An hour and a half later, Kevin was still in the tournament, and still pushing the limits. His family watched tensely from the stands, more worried than pleased by his success. He had discarded caution and attacked each match with an all-out, aggressive drive that managed, somehow, never to go so far out of line that the referees called him on it.

Dinh shifted his gaze from Steven to Kevin and back. He didn't have enough understanding of the sport to know precisely what was wrong, but he'd have had to be blind not to notice Steven's building concern.

His father's hands were clenched in his lap and his shoulders were tense. As they took positions for the next period-- Kevin on the top, this time-- he whispered, so softly Dinh barely caught the words, "Take it easy, son. Just take it easy. We don't want anyone hurt--"

The whistle blew and Kevin whipped into motion.

He didn't manage a full pin, but when the ref's whistle blew ten seconds into the third period, even Dinh knew his brother had won the match on points.

Kevin pulled his latest opponent to his feet, nodded, and walked off the mat, apparently oblivious to the applause that swelled around him.

Steven had stopped encouraging his son some time ago. He applauded with the rest, but remained otherwise silent. Before they could sit down, he blurted, "I'm going to go talk to him." Dinh could hear the worry in his voice. "If Kevin keeps on like this, he's going to hurt someone. Himself, or more likely his next opponent." His face grew grim. "No tournament's worth that."

"What're you gonna say, Steven?" Dinh asked wearily as he slumped in his seat. "Son, I don't want you to try so hard, no matter what I've said before? I'm afraid you'll get hurt, so just throw away your chances at winning this thing and play nice?"

Steven turned on him, clearly intending to tell him off.

Dinh just looked back up at him, letting his father see that he didn't like the alternative, either.

After a moment, Steven sighed and sat down. "I guess it would sound pretty stupid, wouldn't it?" he admitted.

"Even if they let you near him, which I doubt," Dinh agreed. "You can talk to him about it afterwards. He'll be more likely to listen after it's over, anyway."

"Why do you say that?"

"I would be," his son replied, and stared grimly across the gym to where his brother was stretching tired muscles, keeping them supple for the next match. Only four more matches, Dinh thought bleakly. Don't do anything stupid, Kevin. It's only a damn game.

Kevin's opponent for the last match before quarter-finals was a wiry Hispanic boy in a San Diego uniform. Castrizano had won most of his matches on technical falls; he wouldn't be easy to beat. But Kevin had made it this far, and he wasn't about to give up without a fight.

The whistle blew and both boys circled warily, reaching out to slap and jab at each other as they looked for an opening. Kevin caught his opponent in an arm-drag takedown, but Castrizano executed a perfect side roll and maneuvered Kevin into a near fall. Kevin bridged, wedged an arm between them as he dropped back a little, and bridged again. Before he could complete the escape, the ref's whistle ended the first period. Both boys were gasping as they broke apart.

Castrizano had won the toss and chosen top position. When the whistle blew, Kevin moved quickly into a switch, but Castrizano avoided the reversal and both boys jumped to their feet, circling warily.

After a few abortive feints, the Hispanic boy took Kevin down with a duck-under. Kevin pulled out of that with another switch, and as they hit the mat Castrizano moved for a side roll again. Kevin had been counting on the other boy using that move and countered instantly with a near-arm breakdown. Castrizano struck the mat; before he could recover Kevin shifted into a half-nelson and rolled his opponent onto his back for the pin.

They helped each other up and Kevin walked over to the Gatorade dispenser. The Hispanic kid followed him, so he drew two cups and handed one to his defeated opponent.

The boy took it with a grin. "Man, you are good. Glad you aren't in my district, or I'd never've made it up here."

Kevin shook his head. "You almost got me with that first side roll," he admitted and gulped from his cup. "My name's Kevin."

"Diego," the other boy said, and nodded toward the left end of the bleachers. "That your family over there?"

It wasn't until Kevin handed his latest opponent a drink that Dinh realized who he was.

"Oh, shit," he swore softly.

The other two men turned to him immediately.

"What?" Steven asked, worry evident in his tone. "What's wrong?"

"The kid Kevin just flattened." Dinh jerked his chin at the boy. "The one he's talking to right now, see him?"

"Yes?" his father said.

Dinh licked his lips. "His older brother, Jaime, is in my shop class. I spent most of last week at his house, helping him rebuild a tranny."

Robbie looked worried, which meant he'd figured it out, but Steven hadn't. "So?"

"One guess what he's asking Kevin," Dinh said grimly and added, as understanding spread across his father's face, "I told you not to wait too long...."

"Yeah, that's my dad, and my grandfather," Kevin replied, a little puzzled. "Why?"

"The guy on the end's your cousin then, right?" Diego helped himself to more Gatorade.

Kevin scowled. "Dinh? No, he's an exchange student. He's staying with my grandfather for a while, that's all. Why'd you think that?"

"Exchange student?" Diego shook his head. "Man, who told you that? Dinh's no exchange student. He transferred in from upstate this semester. My brother and him hang out together all the time." Seeing Kevin's surprise, he added, "I figured you were his cousin, since your names are so alike. His's Nguyen-Michaels, isn't it?"

"Nguyen--" Kevin couldn't finish. He realized, with a sense of shock, that no one had mentioned Dinh's last name in front of him. Ever.

"Yeah," Diego told him. "He's only half Vietnamese, his dad was a G.I. or something. Maybe your uncle didn't tell you about him?"

"My-- my uncle was never in 'Nam." Kevin forced the words out. "You must have misunderstood."

Diego shrugged. "Have it your way, man. Good match." He wandered off.

Kevin took a swallow of Gatorade, then another. Uncle Murphy had never been to Vietnam, but Dad had. Mr. Karls, who taught history at the high school, had tried to convince Dad to talk to his class about the War just last week. "I don't think so, Karls. Find someone else," Dad had said. "I wasn't over there very long. Got hurt and was evac'd out late in '67..." 1967. Seventeen years ago. And Dinh was sixteen.

Suddenly, Kevin understood everything. Why Dinh always came along, when Grandpa came to visit. Why Dad paid him so much attention and tried so hard to get Kevin to like him. Even why Dad never interfered when Dinh came down hard on Pat. Dad never let anyone pick on his family.

But he believed in letting his sons settle their own quarrels.

Kevin looked up, into the bleachers. Three faces looked back at him. His grandfather. His father.

And his brother.

The look on Steven's face was all the confirmation he needed.

Kevin lost the quarter-final. His mind obviously wasn't on the match and his opponent took him out without any real difficulty.

As soon as the ref's whistle blew, Dinh muttered "Be right back" in his father's ear and jumped clear of the bleachers. He made his way to the restrooms near the concession stand and stood in line for a turn at one of the two pay phones.

When he reached the head of the line, he fed quarters into the slot and called Newport Beach. It was picked up on the third ring.

"Hello, Karen? It's Dinh."

"Dinh, hello! How's the tournament going? Is Kevin still in?" she asked, friendly as ever.

"He just got bumped," Dinh told her. "But he made it to the quarter finals. Think that's good enough to celebrate?"

"Well, yes." She sounded pleased but puzzled. "We were hoping he'd make it that far, but not really expecting it. He's younger than most of the others there, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Dinh wondered how to phrase the next bit, and how much longer he'd have until Steven started to look for him. "Listen, Karen--" he took a long breath-- "Robbie and I'll be coming over for dinner; why don't you get a victory party organized?"

"Sure. I could do that." She hesitated, obviously realizing that something odd was going on. "How much longer will you be, do you think?"

"They've still got two rounds to go, then the awards ceremony. I'd say another hour should do it," Dinh silently blessed her for not asking questions he didn't want to answer. He hesitated, then decided to take one more risk. "Karen, do me a favor?"

"If I can," she said, hesitant and clearly worried.

"When we get there, ask me to help you finish dinner."

"Okay--" Karen gave in to her curiosity and asked anxiously, "Dinh, is something going on I should know about?"

Shit. "Yeah, but I can't explain it now," he said uneasily. "I'll fill you in when I get there, okay? This-- uh-- isn't a good time."

"I'll arrange everything," she promised, and didn't press him further. "See you in a couple of hours. Thanks for calling."

"Thanks, Karen," Dinh said. "You're a gem. If Steven ever went crazy and decided to ditch you, I'd snap you up in a minute."

She chuckled at that, said good-bye, and hung up.

Dinh replaced the receiver and breathed a long sigh of relief as he slumped against the cinder block wall. Since there was no one else waiting to use the phone, he just leaned there a moment, taking deep breaths and planning what to do next.

Steven probably hadn't noticed-- in the last six months, Dinh had come to realize that his father could be incredibly dense, where people were concerned-- but Dinh had seen the way Kevin kept looking up at the stands between matches. Specifically, looking at him, with an expression that said all too clearly that he wished Dinh would just drop through the floorboards and disappear.

Obviously, Steven's opinions to the contrary, Kevin hadn't wanted Dinh at the tournament.

And the look on his face when Diego talked to him--- Well, even Steven hadn't suggested they avoid telling Kevin the truth any longer. Dinh had convinced him to wait until after dinner, when they could tell both boys at once. And he'd made up his mind that, if he had to make Robbie stop and buy supplies along the way, Kevin was going to have a victory party first.

It was the least he could do, since the after-dinner conversation was just about guaranteed to drive Kevin's success completely out of everyone's mind. Which, if Dinh remembered being twelve as well as he thought he did, would not make Kevin any happier with his newly-acknowledged older brother.

He pushed himself away from the wall with a sigh and headed back to the bleachers, wondering for the hundredth time why Kevin didn't seem to like him.

When the tournament ended a little over an hour later, Kevin moved through the awards ceremony automatically, accepting the same medal all the other quarter finalists got without comment and filing silently off to the locker room when it was over. He showered, changed into the sweatshirt and jeans he'd brought with him, and slung his gym bag over his shoulder.

The twelve year old hesitated before pushing through the swinging doors into the hallway where the contestants' families waited. Dinh would probably be out there with Dad. What would Dinh say? What should he say? What did you say, to a brother you didn't know existed until six weeks ago? A brother you hadn't known was your brother two hours ago? And why hadn't Dad told him about Dinh before now? He could understand Dad keeping it a secret from Pat. Patrick was just a kid, but Kevin was twelve, almost thirteen. Dad could have told him.

Another of the boys from the tournament stopped to congratulate him on making quarters and he replied automatically, then braced his shoulders and headed toward the door.

Better just get it over with, he thought. I'll just pretend nothing happened and ask Dad about it on the way home. When he's not around.

Dinh wasn't waiting in the hall after all. Dad was, and Grandpa, but he was nowhere in sight. The two men congratulated him on making it as far as he had, and admired the medallion hanging around his neck, but Kevin could tell they were worried. Even out of sight, he still gets more of their attention than I do, the twelve year old thought resentfully.

As they crossed the now-empty gym, Steven said, "You want to follow us home, or meet us there?"

"We'll meet you there. I need to stop for gas first." Seeing Kevin's puzzled look, his grandfather explained, "Your father invited us to your house for a victory dinner." He smiled again and said the same thing he'd said in the hallway. "You did great, Kevin. You should be really proud of yourself today." But his eyes were worried and his smile faded faster than usual.

Kevin followed his father to the car, trying to decide whether he was glad Dinh would be around to answer all his questions or annoyed that the older boy was horning in on his celebration.

"Kevin," his father asked, as he pulled onto the highway, "what happened out there today?"

"What do you mean?" He knew of course, but he wasn't going to admit it.

"I mean the stunts you were pulling," Steven said sternly. "What got into you out there? Didn't you realize you could hurt someone, acting like that?"

Kevin frowned and stared out the window. It had been pretty stupid of him, but still.... "You always say to play to win," he pointed out stubbornly. "That's what I was doing."

"Play to win, yes, but I also expect you to use your brains," his father retorted angrily. "You're just lucky the referee didn't throw you out of the tournament entirely. My God, Dinh doesn't know anything about wrestling, and even he could tell you were taking unnecessary risks!"

Dinh again. It was always Dinh lately. Kevin stared out the window and said nothing.

His father sighed. "Look, I know this was important to you, but how would you have felt if you'd hurt somebody?" he asked. "Did you think of that? Or of how your grandfather and I would have felt, if it had been you who was hurt?"

"Coach Pearman said I did good," Kevin insisted, unable to back down even though he knew his father was right.

"Then he shouldn't be coaching." Steven bit the words off. "If one of my wrestlers started acting like that, I'd pull him from the match myself!"

Even when I win, I do it wrong, Kevin thought resentfully. He talks back to you all the time and you let him, but I can't do anything right. But he bit his lip and said nothing.

They drove on in silence.

A quarter of an hour later, Kevin decided he had to know. Hesitantly, without turning from the window, he said, "Dad?"

"Yes, Kevin?" Steven's voice was calm again.

"That kid I was matched with, the last round before quarters? Did you notice him?"

"Diego?" His father nodded. "Yes, Dinh recognized him. Diego's brother is a friend of his."

Kevin gulped and wrapped both hands around the ribbon of the medallion, now lying in his lap. "He said-- He thought Dinh was my cousin." Kevin rushed the words out, afraid he'd lose his nerve otherwise.

"Did he?" Steven's voice had an odd, strained sound to it.

He didn't say anything else, so Kevin turned to look at him. His father's eyes were locked on the road and he looked very uncomfortable. The silence continued.

"Dinh isn't your cousin," Steven told him at last, eyes still staring straight ahead. "But he is related to you. I'll explain everything after dinner. I don't want to spoil your celebration. Okay, tiger?"

"Yes, sir," Kevin sighed, knowing he couldn't get away with arguing about it, and stared at the bronze disc in his hands. Some celebration, he thought glumly, completely forgetting that quarter finals had been his goal when the tournament started. I could've made finals; Coach Pearman said so. I should have made finals. And suddenly, irrationally, I would have, if he wasn't there!

Part 2

Back to the index

Go back to The Pewter Gryphon's Lair