Excerpt from How to Pronounce Knife by Souvankham Thammavongsa, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"No. Not you. Not you. No way."

"Why not me? You think I don't want to be beautiful?"

"Why in hell would you do that to yourself! You're already beautiful." Somboun said this with such sincere conviction that she was embarrassed for him. How naked and bare, his want.

"How would you know. You don't know about girls."

Somboun lowered his head and quietly said, "I don't got to know anything about girls to know what's beautiful." He was so proud, and all for nothing. He'd worked at the plant the longest. Started when he was in high school, thinking this was something that was going to get him to college. Ten years later, he was still working at the plant doing the same thing. He was the one who slit the necks in the other room before they got to Red. He saw the chickens when they were still alive. She shuddered at the thought of doing anything with Somboun. What kind of gentleness could a man who did that for a living be capable of?

Still, after that, nose jobs were the one thing Somboun could manage to get Red to talk to him about. Who had got a nose job and when and if it was a good one. Red told him she was going to get a nose job too as soon as she saved up enough. She always said, "Next year, for sure. For sure."

When Red saw Somboun standing at the entrance that morning, still smoking even though he often talked about quitting, and wearing the same drab uniform and the same haircut all these years, he reminded her of all the things she wanted for herself but still didn't have. Day after day, the sight of him in the same place and in the same clothes and giving her the same greeting each morning showed that, for them, nothing had changed. Nothing had happened.

"I didn't get one!" she yelled at him.

"You look fine the way you are," he said, as if they were just picking up a conversation where they'd left off. As if the only time that counted for him were the ones they spent together, talking.

Walking quickly past him, she said, "Thanks, Sam." Red knew he hated to be called by his English name. "Not Sam," he would insist, "Somboun," pronouncing the tones of the vowels the way Lao people would, refusing to make it easy. But he took what she said as if she was teasing and he smiled widely. To know someone's dislikes was to be close to them.

"Hey, Dang?" Somboun called after her, trying to hold her attention and to keep up with her as she entered the plant.

"What is it?" Red said irritably, hoping not to encourage him further.

"Did you hear about Khet? It was cancer. Started a few months after her nose job. Might have something to do with the material they put in there." Somboun was always coming up with reasons as to why a nose job was a bad idea. "Just something to think about," he said, grinning as if the cancer was a blessing in disguise, opening up an opportunity for him to talk with Red.

She walked faster and he soon fell behind.


IT WAS TIME to break for lunch. They only got twenty minutes. Enough time to use the washroom and gobble down some food. Red often used the time to be alone. The smell of raw chicken flesh and loosened guts and all that killing and packaging sometimes made her forget she was alive and living in the world too. She was on her way out of the line when she saw Tommy come by and tap the shoulder of one of the girls who worked for him. This was something he often did. That girl was the one selected for that day. Red made her way outside. A short time later, Tommy and the girl came out and walked to his car, where all of it took place. Red wondered what that felt like, to be seen, to feel the mouth of someone who wanted you. It didn't matter if what Tommy did wasn't for forever. He did it and you got to be something to him for a little while.

Just as they were getting into the car, Tommy's wife pulled into the parking lot.

She didn't even bother to park properly.

Excerpted from How to Pronounce Knife by Souvankham Thammavongsa. Copyright © 2020 by Souvankham Thammavongsa. Excerpted by permission of Little Brown & Company. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.