If You Could See the Sun (19)

“I remember everything,” Henry is saying. Then he clears his throat, some indecipherable emotion flickering over his face. “About everything, is what I mean. I just happen to have an excellent memory.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or roll my eyes. Henry’s arrogance will truly never cease to amaze me.

“So? Are you in?” I ask, fighting back a swell of impatience. Every second we waste standing around here talking is a second that could be better spent getting this thing up and running.

Henry moves to sit down on the edge of his perfectly made bed, crossing one long leg over another. “What’s in it for me?”

I’m more than prepared for this question; I did the calculations last night. “Forty percent of all profits,” I say. It’s more than he deserves, but I need to make an appealing case. Right now, he’s the best—and maybe only—person who can help me.

“Fifty.”

“What?”

“I’ll settle for fifty percent.”

I grind my teeth together so hard I half expect them to fall out. “Forty-two.”

“Fifty-five.”

“Wait—what? That—that’s not how negotiations are supposed to work,” I splutter, anger rising to my cheeks. “You can’t just keep—”

“Fifty-six,” he says, leaning back now, his gaze steady, his eyes the same ink-black shade as the night sky outside.

“Look, you asshole, forty-two is more than generous—”

“Fifty-seven—”

“Forty—”

“Fifty-eight—”

“Fine,” I snap. “Fifty percent.”

He grins, amusement dancing in those night sky eyes, and the effect is striking. Disarming. My stomach dips as if coming off the high of a roller coaster.

Then he says, “You’re a terrible negotiator, Alice.”

And I consider strangling him. I probably would, if it weren’t for the fact that murder seems like a less-than-ideal way of starting a business partnership.

“Do we have a deal, then?” I press, hoping to walk away from this conversation with something concrete to hold on to, to plan around, at the very least.

But ever the experienced negotiator, all Henry says in response is, “I’ll think about it.”



* * *



Henry and I don’t speak a single word to each other for the next three days.

Not for lack of trying on my end; every time I try to make eye contact with him from across the classroom, he’s distracted, a distant, faraway look on his face, or he’s busy working on something on his laptop, his long fingers flying over the keys. Then as soon as the bell rings, he’s gone, striding out the doors without even a glance back. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was the one with the invisibility problem.

Soon I’m starting to regret everything—seeking him out in his dorm, revealing the details of my plan, believing we might actually make some kind of partnership work between us—and with the regret comes a fast-brewing anger, like a gathering storm. This is my nightmare scenario; Henry Li knowing he has something I want, and having every right to withhold it from me. I imagine him mocking me in his head—I can’t believe what Alice Sun asked me to do the other day—and resentment fills my mouth like spit.

But then Thursday rolls around, and Henry hurries into our social ethics class ten minutes late.

This is unprecedented.

Everyone turns to stare at him, whispers flying across the room as we take in his appearance. He looks—well, not disheveled, exactly, since Henry at his very worst still looks better than every other guy at their most polished. But his normally immaculate school shirt is creased at the sides, the top two buttons undone, exposing his sharp collarbones. His hair falls in wild waves over his brows, rumpled and uncombed, and his perfect porcelain skin is a shade paler than usual, the area under his eyes stamped with dark circles.

If he notices the stares, he doesn’t show it. He simply takes off his fancy pollution mask, folds it into his blazer pocket, and makes his way over to the teacher’s desk.

“Sorry I’m late, Dr. Walsh,” Henry says to our social ethics teacher. Her full name is Julie Marshall Walsh, and she insists on being addressed as Dr., but everyone just calls her Julie behind her back.

Julie purses her lips, her white-blond Anna Wintour bob bouncing past her ears as she shakes her head. “I must say, I expected better of you, Henry. You missed ten minutes of a very important lecture.”

Someone makes an abrupt coughing sound that sounds suspiciously like a snort. The very important lecture in question is, in fact, a slideshow on “poor kids in Asia.” We’ve spent the entire class looking through high-resolution photos of matchstick-boned children covered in mud or eating scorpions, all while Julie sighs and gasps—at one point, I swear I see her pale blue eyes fill with tears—and dramatically whispers things like, “Can you imagine?” and “Oh, it really makes you realize how very lucky you are, doesn’t it?”

Henry’s brows lift a fraction, but his voice sounds completely respectful, earnest when he says, “I won’t let it happen again, Dr. Walsh.”

“I certainly hope not.” Julie sniffs. “You can go to your seat now.”