If You Could See the Sun (18)

“And where do I fit into all this?”

“I need an app,” I say, pacing before him. His gaze follows the soft shuffle of my footsteps. “Something that can allow people to send their requests easily, without getting caught. Or maybe a website, some sort of device. It’s your call—you’re the tech guy. But once we get our communication channels sorted, I’ll be doing all the dirty work.”

I study his face carefully as I speak, watching for the telltale sign that he’s lost interest. If you look close enough, you can always catch it: the second his eyes grow distant, cold, even as he continues smiling and nodding and saying all the right things in that polite-but-bored way of his. Years of careful observation have shown me that trying to hold Henry Li’s undivided attention is like trying to hold water in your hands.

Which is why I’m so surprised to see the light in his eyes now. Feel the intensity of his gaze and focus on me, even if he can’t see me, can only hear the words coming out of my mouth.

When I’m finished, he nods once and says, slowly, “That does sound like a plan...”

“But what?” I say, catching his tone.

“Well, what about the ethical implications?”

“What about them?” I challenge.

“So you think there aren’t any,” he says, eyebrows raised, enough sarcasm dripping from his voice to form a pool at his feet. “According to you, everything about your plan screams perfectly moral. Everything. As in, if Jesus were here, he’d be completely on board—”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t drag Jesus into this. You’re not even religious.”

“But to capitalize on people’s vulnerabilities, their darkest secrets—and our own classmates, no less, who you’re going to have to sit next to and talk to every day...”

And despite myself, despite the carefully thought-out list of pros and cons I’ve already made addressing these exact concerns, I do feel a jolt of guilt.

But right now, my wants are bigger than my fears. This plan is a perfect win-win situation, if only I have the nerve to carry through with it; with the profit I make, I could stay here at Airington and complete my IBs instead of taking the gaokao or moving across the world, pay the 250,000 RMB needed for my school fees, maybe even my college tuition, and give all the extra money to my parents, to Xiaoyi. I could treat Baba and Mama to a real feast, at a proper Peking duck restaurant where they carve the meat right in front of us, buy Mama expensive hand creams and lotions to undo the damage from all that scrubbing and soaking around in disinfectants at the hospital, get her and Baba a car so they never have to squeeze into the subway at peak hour again...

I almost consider telling him this, justifying myself, but then I remember who I’m talking to. 250,000 RMB is just a number to Henry Li, not the difference between two lives. He would never understand.

“You, of all people, shouldn’t get to make a speech on ethics,” I snap. “SYS has enough money to basically stop global warming, but instead all you’re doing is coming up with new algorithms to benefit your sponsors and contribute to the rising wealth gap—”

“Our apps do their part to benefit society,” he says smoothly, readily, standing up straighter all of a sudden, and I wonder for a second if I’ve just stepped into a company ad. “And for your information, forty-three percent of our daily active users are actually from third-and fourth-tier cities, and over thirty percent—”

“—identify as being from lower-income families, yeah I know,” I cut in, impatient, then realize my mistake.

God, I really need to stop talking.

Henry pauses. Stares in my direction, long and hard. If his eyebrows shoot up any higher, they’ll probably disappear. “I’m sorry, do you—do you secretly work for my father’s company or something?”

I make a noncommittal noise with my throat, though it sounds more like I’m choking, and scramble to get back to the point. “Look. If you’re so concerned about ethics, we can donate ten percent of the profits to charity—”

“That’s not how—”

I snort. “That’s exactly how all the big corps work, and I’m not even doing it to dodge taxes.”

He opens his mouth to argue, then clamps it shut again. Most likely because he knows I’m right. A silence falls over us, broken only by the low rumble of snores from the neighboring rooms and the persistent chirp of cicadas outside. Then he says, “To be honest, I’m surprised you of all people would come up with something like this.” Amusement curls the corners of his lips. “Weren’t you the one who burst into tears in Year Eight maths because the teacher scolded you for not bringing a graphing calculator to class? Then followed up the next day with a signed ten-page letter vowing to never make the same mistake again?”

“How—how do you even remember that?” I demand, humiliation burning through me at the memory. The truth is that I had brought a calculator with me that day, but it was one of those old second-hand ones Mama had found in a sketchy little store down the street. It’d broken into pieces by the time I pulled it out from my bag at school, and after the teacher’s scolding, I’d used up all my lunch money for the next month to buy myself the same calculator as my classmates.

But Henry definitely doesn’t need to know the full story.