no chapter name
At a grey, rain‑threatened Sunday the narrator and Ma sit in a bright Dunkin’ Donuts. Ma offers coffee and croissants, then the narrator, trembling, tells Ma that he does not like girls. Ma repeats the confession, asks what the narrator likes, and after a pause the narrator says “boys,” though the word feels dead in his mouth. Ma reacts with concern, calling the narrator “Little Dog,” and asks why he would ever wear a dress, warning that “they’ll kill you.” The conversation shifts when Ma reveals that the narrator has an older brother who is dead. She then recounts her own teenage pregnancy in Vietnam in 1986, forced abortion by the narrator’s father, and the poverty and hunger surrounding that time. The scene is intercut with the din of a Justin Timberlake song and the memory of a piano‑playing man in Saigon.
The narrative then jumps back to the narrator’s first grade in a refurbished Lutheran school where lunch is served in a gym. He describes the cramped tables, microwaves, and a boy named Gramoz, an Albanian immigrant who shares a warm pizza bagel with him. Gramoz’s kindness leads the narrator to shadow him on the playground until Gramoz angrily shouts “Stop following me, you freak!” and runs away, leaving the narrator feeling abandoned.
Weeks later Ma buys the narrator a cheap hot‑pink Schwinn with training wheels. While riding in the tenement parking lot the bike is seized by a larger boy who scratches the paint with a key‑chain, breaking the bike’s pink finish. The narrator watches helplessly as the color is stripped, learning that “a boy could be knocked off that shade and made to reckon his trespass.” Later that night Ma paints over the bike’s cobalt scars with pink nail polish.
The chapter returns to the present Dunkin’ Donrons scene. Ma becomes ill, rushing to the men’s bathroom where she vomits, and the narrator helps her. He later reveals that he has already worn a dress on a night in an old tobacco barn, dancing with Trevor while a lanky boy with a busted eye watches. The dress had been salvaged from Ma’s closet, bought for her thirty‑fifth birthday but never worn. In the barn, surrounded by tires and the smell of dead moths, they feel no fear.
Interspersed are brief, stark references: a fourteen‑year‑old Vietnamese boy assaulted with acid for slipping a love letter, the 2016 Orlando nightclub shooting by Omar Mateen, and philosophical musings about the placenta as a first language and the body as a mirror. The narrator reflects on the persistence of beauty, replication, and the power of the comma as a fetal curve. The rain stops, and the chapter ends with the narrator and Ma leaving the shop, the rain returning, and Ma brushing a sprig of hay from the narrator’s hair as she decides to keep the son she once considered aborting.