If You Could See the Sun (7)

I feel the smile on my face freeze, threaten to dissolve at the edges. I’m blinking too quickly. In my peripheral vision, I see the school slogan, Airington is Home, printed out in giant letters on a strung-up banner. But Airington isn’t home, or isn’t just a home for someone like me; Airington is a ladder. The only ladder that could lift my parents out of their dingy flat on the outskirts of Beijing, that could close the distance between me and a seven-figure salary, that could ever allow me to stand as equals with someone like Henry Li on a large polished stage like this.

How the hell am I meant to climb my way to the top without it?

This is the question that gnaws at my nerves like a starved rat as I return to my seat in a daze, barely registering Mr. Chen’s special little nod of approval or Chanel’s smile or my other classmates’ whispered congratulations.

The rest of the ceremony crawls by at a snail’s pace, and I sit for so long, my body frozen to the spot while my mind works in overdrive, that I start to feel cold all over, despite the stifling summer heat.

I’m actually shivering by the time Mr. Murphy dismisses us for the day, and as I join the tides of students pushing out through the doors, a small part of my brain entertains the idea that maybe this chill isn’t normal.

Before I can check if I have a fever or anything, someone behind me clears his throat. The sound is oddly formal, like a person readying themselves to deliver a speech.

I spin around. It’s Henry.

Of course it is.

For a long moment he just stares at me, cocks his head, considering. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. Then he steps forward and says in that infuriating British accent of his: “You don’t look very good.”

Anger spikes inside me.

That’s it.

“Are we insulting my looks now?” I demand. My voice sounds shrill even to my own ears, and more than a few students pushing past us turn to shoot us curious looks.

“What?” Henry’s eyes widen slightly, the faintest trace of confusion disrupting the precise symmetry of his features. “No, I just meant...” Then he seems to catch something on my face—something cruel and tightly wound—because his own expression shutters closed. He shoves his hands into his pockets. Looks away. “You know what? Never mind.”

The bottom of my stomach dips at the sudden flatness in his tone, and I hate him for it, hate myself even more for my reaction. I have at least twenty thousand better things to worry about than what Henry Li thinks of me.

Things like the cold still spreading under my skin.

I whirl back around and run out through the doors, onto the grass courtyard. I expect to feel better in the sunlight, but my trembling only grows more violent, the chill running down to my very toes.

Definitely not normal.

Then, without warning, something slams straight into my back.

I don’t even have time to cry out; I crash hard onto my knees. Pain shoots through me, the stiff, fake grass digging into my raw palms.

Wincing, I glance up in time to see that the culprit isn’t something, but someone. Someone built like a bull and twice my height.

Andrew She.

I wait for him to help me up—to apologize, at the very least—but he simply frowns as he regains his balance, his eyes passing right over me, and turns around to leave.

Confusion wars with indignation in my head. This is Andrew She, after all; the boy who cushions his every sentence with phrases like “sorry” and “I think” and “maybe,” who can’t speak up in class without his face going red, who’s always the first person to greet the teachers good morning, who’s been teased mercilessly by everyone in our year level for being polite to a fault.

But when I turn toward the tinted glass doors to check for any injuries, all thoughts of Andrew She and basic etiquette vanish from my head. My heart slams violently against my ribs, a loud, ragged beat of this-can’t-be-happening-this-can’t-be-happening—

Because the doors reflect everything like a mirror: the kids spilling out onto the basketball courts, the emerald bamboo groves planted around the science building, the flock of sparrows taking to the skies in the distance...

Everything but me.





2


My first thought is not so much a thought as a word that begins with f.

My second thought is: How am I supposed to hand in my Chinese essay like this?

I’m starting to understand what Mama meant about needing to seriously reevaluate my priorities.

As I stare at the empty space in the glass—the space where I’m supposed to be—a thousand questions and possibilities stir up a frenzy inside my mind like the wild, flapping wings of startled birds, all force and no direction. It must be a dream, I tell myself. But even as I repeat the words again and again, I don’t believe it. My dreams are never this vivid; I can still smell the cooked spices and coconut curry from the school cafeteria, feel the cool, smooth fabric of my skirt against my thigh, the ends of my ponytail tickling my sweat-coated neck.

I push myself shakily off the ground. My knees sting like hell and I’m dimly aware of the small blood droplets oozing from my palms, but it’s the last of my worries at the moment. I try to breathe, to calm myself down.

It doesn’t work. There’s a faint buzzing sound in my ears and my breaths come out in quick and shallow puffs.

And through the cloud of panic, annoyance spikes inside me. I really don’t have time to be hyperventilating.