Lucky Child Read Online Free PDF Page B

village, Chou revolves her life around the family, farming, fishing, collecting water and firewood, and running from bullets during raids—whether the gun-bearers are government soldiers or Khmer Rouge. Sometimes, while she serves the men their dinners, Chou listens to them discuss the ever-changing Cambodian government. Their faces snarl like rabid dogs when their talks turn to the Khmer Rouge still daring to leave their mountain hideouts to raid the surrounding villages and towns.
    Back inside the hut, the other family members prepare their food for another day in the field. Chou reaches over the bed and retrieves two large metal pails and a thin, flat wooden board. She carries the wood on her shoulders, holds the pails in her hands, and leaves to collect water from the pond. On the short walk, her eyes search for thick brushes and bushes where she can hide in case of an attack. She wonders why Ma ever named her Chou. In Chinese, Chou means a beautiful gem or precious stones. Chou feels neither beautiful nor precious. Every day, she wakes up with her heart pounding and wonders if this will be the day she’ll see a Khmer Rouge gun in her face.

3 minnie mouse and gunfire
    July 1980
    Last night I dreamt I was in the middle of gunfire. There were people running after me, trying to kill me. I ran and ran but they were always nipping at my heel. I woke up sweating and full of fear. But in my closet, I am not afraid. The day after we moved in, Meng put up a curtain, gave me a chair, and turned the three-by-four-foot space into my own private world. Here, I am the creator, taker, and giver of life. My sun, the one lightbulb above my head, shines brightly at the flick of my wrist. At my command, it illuminates my box and bestows life to the shadow creatures on my floor. Like mischievous ghosts, they beg me to play with them. But I ignore them and bend my head closer to my sketchpad, my hand busily drawing away.
    Outside my sanctuary, Eang clangs our pots and pans as she scrubs them spotlessly clean in the sink. I suppose I should be a good girl and go see if she needs my help, but for now the bad girl wins and I stay put. I tug my curtain to close it tighter and focus on my paper. In my closet, I know things and things are known to me. Outside of it, the world is big and bright and so full of things I need to learn that sometimes my brain feels like the cream-filled doughnuts Meng sometimes brings home, all crammed up and mushy. I envision that if I squish the side of my head with my hands, the overstuffed filling will shoot out of my nose. But inside my closet, my world is controlled and my brain pulses firmly and gently under my skull.
    I lean back on my chair and stare at my creation. My brows furrow with frustration and my teeth gnaw at a thumbnail. Under my blue pajama pants, the gray metal pull-out chair cools my butt, sending a chill up my spine. Involuntarily, I shake out my shoulders to let loose the energy before returning to my task. My left arm cradling my small pad, I finish the mouse by adding its circle ears. Once I finish, I place the pencil behind my ear and observe my drawing at arm’s length.
    My feet start their rhythmic tapping on the hardwood floor. Normally, if Eang is within visible distance, I stop my feet by resting my hands on my knees. When my legs are still, my thighs and calves tingle as if hundreds of millipedes and their thousands of legs are crawling on my skin. Their friction creates static electricity, making the hair on my body stand up. From my knees, the millipedes’ microscopic legs travel down my feet until their electrical current becomes a tickle in my toes. At this point, I imagine if I don’t twitch to release the energy, the voltage will explode like ten tiny rockets out of my toes.
    But Eang cannot see me in my closet so I let my knees knock and my feet tap to their content. I take my No. 2 pencil and shade in the pants, shirt, ears, and nose. My pencil presses down on the shape,