elbows, gives Mr. Pattison a respectful wai, palm to palm as though in prayer, at the level of her forehead. Mr. Pattison smiles. He is taller than she and frayed in the way some older people are, with peeling, papery skin, thinning hair, and eyes of a faded ghost-blue.
'Very pretty,' he says in thickly accented Thai, followed by a pale blue glance that silences the laughing boy. 'And she looks smart, too.'
The room-the only room in which Kwan has ever lived-contains two large pieces of furniture: the bed on which her mother and father and the three youngest children sleep, and a table surrounded by mismatched molded plastic chairs in dark, scuffed primary colors. On top of the table is a scattering of chipped and faded dishes and bowls and a stack of spoons. Above the crockery hang two shelves lined with jars of spices, sugar, and oil, tightly closed against ants. A length of faded cloth dangles diagonally across the far right corner to create a cramped space for people to undress and dress in before and after a bath and, at night, a place for Kwan to sleep. The cloth has been pulled partway aside, and the thin, soiled mat of rags that make up Kwan's bed is in plain sight. The sight stops her in the doorway. Why didn't they just hang her dirty underwear in the middle of the room?
Kwan's mother has pulled the two best chairs away from the table for the teacher and the farang to sit on and has claimed the edge of the bed for herself. She looks up at Kwan and, with her eyes, indicates the high metal stool that's been positioned in the middle of the room. Kwan goes and sits on it as Mr. Pattison and Teacher Suttikul take their seats. Perched there, halfway between them and her mother, she feels like the pile of small money that her father and his drunken friends play cards for, sitting all day on the raised wooden platform outside, next to the street. She catches a glimpse of herself in the cracked mirror hanging beside the door, averts her eyes from the geometrical schoolgirl chop that cuts her straight hair off just below her ears, making her neck look even longer than it is, and ducks her head apologetically, with no clear idea of what she's apologizing for.
'Thank you for letting us come,' Teacher Suttikul says.
'Don't thank her.' Kwan's father comes into the room, rubbing his chest as though it stings. 'If you've got to thank somebody, thank me.' He takes a small, inadvertent jog to the right but stops himself before it turns into a lurch, raking the visitors with his eyes to see whether they noticed it. Both of them are looking at Kwan, whose gaze is fixed on her lap, her spine as curved as a cello. Her father goes to the bed, waves his wife to move down although there's plenty of room, and sits heavily.
Teacher Suttikul smiles so appreciatively he might have spouted poetry. 'We want to talk about Kwan,' she says. 'You know, you have a very smart daughter.'
'So what?' her father says. He's at the near edge of very drunk, and his consonants are approximate. 'She's a girl.'
'There are lots of good jobs for girls these days. She'll earn plenty of money if she stays in school.'
'What good does that do anybody? If she makes money, it'll go to her husband's parents, not us.' He lifts his chin toward Kwan, not even bothering to look at her. 'If she can ever find anybody to marry her.'
Teacher Suttikul keeps the smile in place, although her eyes have gotten smaller, an expression that has chilled many classrooms full of children. 'She'll always take care of you. And I know she can get a good job. Someday she'll-'
'Someday,' her father says heavily, as though the words are in a foreign language. 'Someday. My children need food now. The roof needs to be fixed before the rain comes. We need money now.'
The words ricochet back and forth, past Kwan, who ducks her head and tries to sink farther into the stool, which is high enough to make her almost as tall as she is standing up. Nana's earring feels so hot in her hand that she wouldn't be surprised if its glow were visible through her skin.
'Now,' her father repeats, as though the word were an unfamiliar one.
'We're talking about now,' Teacher Suttikul says. She has locked eyes with Kwan's father, and she holds his gaze for a moment before politely dropping her own. 'Mr. Pattison can tell you what he wants to do.' She adds, as an afterthought, 'For you, I mean. What he can do for you.'
'The money in the scholarship fund comes from people all over the world,' Mr. Pattison says, very much with the air of a person who is beginning something that could go on for a while. His Thai is slow and badly pronounced but correct, and he speaks like someone who is unused to being interrupted. 'They give us money so we can help promising students stay in school-'
'While their families starve,' her father says.
Mr. Pattison puts up a hand, and the gesture startles Kwan's father so much that he stops talking. 'We understand that families need money,' Mr. Pattison says with weighty geniality. 'We know they want their children to begin to work as soon as possible.' A slow blink. 'So they can help the family.'
'It's their duty,' Kwan's father says, jumping into the pause and holding tight to the edge of the bed as though he's expecting to launch himself into an argument. 'We've taken care of her her whole life.'
Pattison nods. 'Of course you have. But we also know that in the long run it's better for children to be educated, so they can make even more money.'
'That's for sons,' Kwan's father says. 'Weren't you listening? Daughters leave. They take care of their husband's-'
'If you'll let me,' Mr. Pattison says without raising his voice, 'I'll tell you how Kwan can start bringing money into the house right now.'
Kwan's father rubs the bristles on his chin with the backs of his fingers, then nods to Mr. Pattison to continue.
'What we do,' he says, 'is give small amounts of money to the families while the children are still in school, in exchange for them letting them continue-'
'Stork? Money for Stork?'
'For Kwan,' Teacher Suttikul says in a voice that could snip tin.
Kwan's father purses his mouth. 'Small amounts. How small?'
Mr. Pattison licks his lips and looks at Teacher Suttikul. Teacher Suttikul says, 'Kwan is seventeen. She needs to go to school for one and a half years more-'
'And then what?' her father says.
'Then she can go to college,' Teacher Suttikul says, and despite the sheer impossibility of it, Kwan's heart leaps at the word 'college.' She holds herself absolutely still, trying not to betray her reaction.
'And I can die of old age,' her father says.
Before she can stop herself, Kwan says, 'It won't be old age.'
'You see,' her father says to the teacher. He looks almost pleased. 'She's probably good when she's at school, probably got a sweet mouth, but here she's just another sharp edge. Just looking for a slap.'
'Thirty-six thousand baht a year,' Teacher Suttikul says. She glances at Mr. Pattison and says, 'About nine hundred dollars U.S.'
Kwan's father sits back. Her mother stares at the teacher as though gold dust has just poured from her mouth. Out on the deck, there's a little ripple of words from the brothers and sisters. This is more than the whole family earns in a year.
'Okay,' her father says. He licks his lips. 'Give it to me.' He actually stretches out his hand, but he leans too far forward and his wife has to grasp his shoulders to keep him from falling off the bed. He shrugs her off indignantly. 'Now.'
'It doesn't work like that,' Mr. Pattison says. He smiles, but not broadly. 'We have to make a piece of paper that says you promise that Kwan will stay in school, and then we give some of the money every month to Teacher Suttikul, and she gives it to you if Kwan's been in class. By the end of the year, you'll have the whole nine hundred.'
Her father has screwed up his face, trying to see the numbers. 'So in a month…'
'About three thousand baht.'
'Three thousand baht? Are you joking?' Kwan's father lifts both hands and slaps them down on his thighs. 'No more talking.' He leans forward as if to rise, and his wife reaches for him, just in case.
But before he can push himself up, Teacher Suttikul says, 'That's more money than she could earn in most jobs.'
'Tomorrow,' her father says. 'Tomorrow I can get-' He stops talking, although his lips move for a moment. Then he shakes his head and tries to get up.
'How much?' the teacher asks. Her mouth is all muscle. 'Thirty thousand baht? Forty? And for what?'
