If You Could See the Sun (20)

As Henry turns around, his dark eyes search the room, then lock on mine. My mouth goes dry, a violent bolt of anger and something else I can’t quite name flashing through me. Now he’s decided to acknowledge my presence? I glare at him with all the force I can muster, and—to my surprise—he holds my gaze, as if trying to convey something meaningful without moving his hands or his lips. Clearly, this boy has overestimated my ability to read minds.

I jerk my shoulder in the universal I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-saying gesture, and he frowns. Drags a hand through his messy, crow-black hair. Opens his mouth—

“Is something the matter over there?” Julie calls. It’s a known fact around the school that the chirpier Julie Walsh’s voice gets, the angrier she is.

And she sounds very chirpy right now.

Henry must hear it too, because he quickly slides into his usual seat at the opposite end of the room. I’m not even sure when that started happening—us sitting as far away from each other as possible in every classroom. If it was something intentional, or if perhaps we work like magnets, with some kind of invisible field automatically pushing us apart wherever we go.

But for the first time, I hate the distance between us. What was he trying to tell me? And why was he late?

I can barely keep still for the rest of class. Even as the classroom lights dim and the projector flickers on again, more images of starving, unsmiling children flashing over the screen like phantoms, I can’t stop peering over at where Henry is sitting, trying to search his face for clues. And more than once, I catch him looking at me too.



* * *



The second the bell rings, Henry strides over to my desk.

“Can we talk?” he asks. The dark circles under his eyes are even more prominent up close, yet there’s no trace of exhaustion in the way he’s carrying himself, his chin lifted and his back straight as an arrow, or the crisp inflection of his tone.

“Um. Right here?”

The thing is, I want to talk, I’m dying to, but I’m all too aware of the kids around us slowing their footsteps, the curious glances they’re sending our way. Everyone knows Henry and I are sworn enemies, and even if we weren’t, Henry has never approached anyone in class before. He doesn’t need to; people have a way of gravitating toward him.

“Maybe somewhere more...private,” he concedes, seeming to realize the issue. He shoots a look at Bobby Yu, who’s lurking around my desk, and Bobby quickly ducks his head and hurries away, textbooks tucked under his beanpole arms.

Then, without another word, Henry spins around on his heel and heads out through the classroom door, leaving me no choice but to follow.

Walking next to Henry through the crowded halls of Airington is a deeply strange experience. More people—teachers included—stop and greet him in the short walk from our social ethics classroom to our lockers than the total number of people I’ve spoken to since school started. That’s not an exaggeration either. I can almost feel the tides of power ebbing and flowing around us, how everyone’s attention shifts to Henry and stays on him as if he’s glowing, and I think, briefly, that this must’ve been what it felt like to walk beside the emperor in the Forbidden City.

If only the emperor were me.

At last, we reach a quiet, deserted spot nestled between the lockers and the ayis’ cleaning cabinets. We have a twenty-minute morning break before next class, so most students are rushing off to the school café at this time.

Henry stands with his back to the wall, scans the area twice to make sure no one’s passing by, then says, “The app is ready.”

I blink. “What?”

He sighs, takes his iPhone out of his pocket, taps onto something, and holds it up for me to see. A little blue logo shaped like a cartoon ghost blinks at me from the center of the screen, positioned next to Douyin and some kind of stock market app.

“Your app,” Henry repeats. “Beijing Ghost. I’ve already trademarked the name, so if you don’t like it, there’s unfortunately not much we can do to change that.”

“Wait—wait—so you’re in?” I say, my mind scrambling to catch up. “You—we’re really doing this?”

He gestures to his phone, eyebrows raised. “What does it look like?”

I grit my teeth. Would it really kill him to give a straightforward answer without sounding so condescending for once? A few choice words rise to my lips, but I force them back down. If he’s gone ahead and made the app for me, then we’re officially business partners now, meaning it’d be quite unprofessional to tell him to shove his phone up his—

“I would’ve come to you sooner,” Henry tells me, “but there were a few logistics I still needed to figure out, and as a general rule, I dislike talking about things before I have concrete results. So, if you look over here...”

He’s talking faster than usual, I notice, his hand motions almost animated as he navigates the app’s home page and points out the key features. “The app essentially promises anonymity on both sides, for those in request of a service and those carrying out the service—though of course, in this case, it’d only be you. All users have to do is set up an account, fill out a quick request form, and message you with any additional questions or concerns they have. Then you can respond with whatever price you’re charging—I’d recommend starting at around 5,000 RMB and raising the price depending on the scale of the task—and if they agree, you enter into a binding contract until the task is complete, and they’ve made their payment.”