'Sixty,' her father says, with the satisfaction of someone playing a trump. 'For working in Bangkok. And then she'll be sending more money home right away. Sixty is just to start. A lot better than a few thousand a month, and nothing more coming in, while she learns things girls don't need to know.'
'And what job would that be?' the teacher asks.
Kwan's father shows her the back of his hand, flapping it in her direction in a way that's nothing short of scornful, certainly nothing like the respect Kwan believes a teacher is owed. Her spine folded forward, her chin practically touching her chest, Kwan has reached her limit. She can't endure another moment of humiliation-her teacher, whom she has worked so hard to impress, being insulted like this. She raises her head, glares at her father, and puts a foot down to stand.
Teacher Suttikul's voice almost takes the skin off her back. 'Kwan. You stay right there.'
Kwan turns to her and is startled by the fury in her teacher's face. She sinks down on the stool again, and for the first time she feels a lifting in the center of her chest. Something good may happen here after all.
'I asked what job you were thinking of,' Teacher Suttikul says. Her tone is sinuous as a snake. 'Sixty thousand baht is a lot of money. For what? Waitressing? Down in Bangkok, you said?'
Her father swallows, clears his throat, and pats his shirt pocket for a cigarette. 'Something like that.'
'Sixty thousand baht.' The teacher settles back in her chair. 'For a waitress.'
'It's a good restaurant.' He's already arguing.
'For a village girl, still dusty, just down from the paddies. Someone who's never even eaten in a good restaurant.'
'So what? You think waitresses eat in nice places? With gold plates and, and ice cream, and lace on the table? They eat noodles in the street, like everyone else.'
'What I think is that waitresses in good restaurants come from city families. I think they get the job because somebody knows somebody who knows somebody-'
'That's me,' Kwan's father says. He stops and makes her wait as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes, extracts one between his index and middle fingers, tweezers style, and lights up. 'I know somebody.'
'Who?'
He regards her, blinking through a cloud of smoke. 'What?'
'Who do you know?'
'What does that-' Kwan's father's face is suddenly deep red. 'What does that have to do with you? Who do you think you are, coming in here and asking questions like this?'
'I think I'm Kwan's teacher. That means I'm in charge of her welfare.'
'You just stop there.' Kwan's father is standing, wobbling a little, but standing. 'Stork is my daughter, not yours. She'll plow fields if I want her to, she'll wash floors, she'll shovel buffalo shit. She'll go where I want and do what I want. Did you bring her into the world? Have you worked all your life to feed her, even though she eats like an ox? Have you given her a roof and a place to sleep? Here's what you can do, you and your farang boyfriend. You can get out of my house, that's what you can do. And you can keep going. Kwan's out of school right now. You won't see her again. I don't want to see you again.' He stamps toward the door, trailing smoke like a locomotive. At the door he wheels and says, 'You have to get up before you leave. Come on, up, up, up.'
'You can leave if you want,' Teacher Suttikul says, waving him out. 'We'll keep talking.'
'You should stay,' Mr. Pattison says.
Kwan's father grabs the doorjamb on both sides. 'This is my house-'
'My job,' Teacher Suttikul says, and her words cut through his. Although she has not raised her voice, there is a glittering edge to it. 'My job says that I have to tell the police when a girl is taken out of school before she's eighteen. If she's not in school and I report it, they have to go looking for her. This is the first place they'll come. If they don't find her, there can be trouble.'
Kwan's father says, 'Police?' and fails to hear Kwan ask the same question at the same time.
'Some people,' Kwan's teacher says, eyes wide, 'actually sell their daughters. Into prostitution, I mean. They can get quite a lot of money, I'm told.'
Kwan's father starts to say something, darts his tongue into the corner of his mouth, and says, 'You don't-'
'Of course not,' Teacher Suttikul says. 'It's hard to believe, isn't it? But it happens. And there are laws against it now. It's not like it used to be. I've known families, close to here, who sold their daughters and got caught, and the police took all the money away-fifty, sixty thousand baht-put the father in jail, and then sent the girl home. Good for nothing by then, of course, not even a dowry. Ruined. Nobody would marry her. And then the father had to buy his way out of jail and pay the gangsters back. Took them years.'
Kwan's mother lets out a quiet moan. Kwan feels like she's been nailed to the stool. Sold? There's a thin, high mosquito whine in her ears, and the room seems to tilt a little. Ruined?
It's growing dark outside.
'May I light a lamp?' Teacher Suttikul asks, indicating the kerosene lantern on the table. 'We can all see each other better.'
Kwan's father shakes his head, then nods. To the kids clustered around him, he says, 'What's wrong with all of you? Go somewhere. Do something. Clean under the house.' He flaps his hands at them. 'Go on, go on.' They back up a couple of feet.
'Thank you,' Teacher Suttikul says. She reaches into her old straw purse and brings out a disposable lighter, removes the lamp's chimney, and lights the wick. It catches and sends up a thin, dark thread of smoke. 'Needs trimming,' Teacher Suttikul says, replacing the chimney. The light, shining directly beneath her chin, emphasizes her broad, strong cheekbones but leaves her eyes in shadow. 'There,' she says, resuming her seat as though nothing has happened. 'Isn't that better?'
Nobody says anything. 'What I think,' she continues, 'is that you should forget about Bangkok. It's probably not a real offer. They'll find a way to cheat you, and then they'll make her'-her eyes flick to Kwan-'wait on people for free. What could she do? Alone, miles from home. What could you do? The people who run… mmm, restaurants can be very rough. Instead, permit us to give you money to let Kwan stay in school.' She glances questioningly at Mr. Pattison, who nods about a quarter of an inch. 'You've got a lot of children to feed,' she says. 'We'll offer you something special. Forty thousand baht, and since you need money now, we'll pay you the extra four thousand when you sign. So that'll be seven thousand baht, and then three thousand a month for eleven more months.'
'Ten thousand,' her father says.
Teacher Suttikul shakes her head. 'If we give you ten when you sign, you won't get anything for the last month.'
Kwan realizes she is holding her breath. She lets it out in a rush that draws Mr. Pattison's faded blue eyes.
'That's a year from now.' Her father comes back into the room and reseats himself on the bed. He scratches at the side of his nose. 'I don't need to think about that yet.' He puts his cigarette butt between thumb and forefinger and snaps it through the open door. Children scatter out of the way. 'Ten thousand.'
'Just so you understand…'
'I'm not stupid. When do we make the paper?'
'We can do it tomorrow,' Mr. Pattison says.
'And you'll give me the money tomorrow?'
'Will you be able to read it?' Mr. Pattison asks, not unkindly. 'We need to know that you understand what-'
'She can read it,' Kwan's father says, glancing at Kwan. 'If she's so smart, she can read it.'
'Then I don't see any problem,' Mr. Pattison says. 'We'll come tomorrow evening, about this time.'
'With the money.'
'With the money.'
'Cash,' Kwan's father says.
Mr. Pattison's face doesn't change, but he glances away, out through the door. It looks to Kwan like he is eager to be out of the room. 'Of course.'
Teacher Suttikul stands up. 'I'm so glad we could talk,' she says. 'I know how much you love Kwan, and this is the best thing for her. You should be proud that you've reached this decision.'
Kwan's father nods brusquely, but his wife gets up. She's beaming. 'Thank you,' she says. 'Thank you so
