If You Could See the Sun (31)

Soon, five whole days have passed and all I’ve gotten out of my invisible spying sessions is his iPhone passcode (which is literally just 1234) and the knowledge that Jake Nguyen secretly watches Sailor Moon in his spare time. To be honest, I’m not quite sure what to make of the latter.

What I do know, however, is that the longer this drags on, the greater the chances of Jake sending the photos out. And according to Rainie’s increasingly desperate messages, he’s threatening to do it very soon.

Then, early on Wednesday morning, as I’m getting ready for school, Henry calls me.

My hands freeze over my skirt zipper. I don’t know what’s weirder—the fact that he’s calling me, as if we’re still in the early 2000s, or the fact that it’s him.

“Hello?” I say, tentative, lifting the phone to my ear with my free hand. Part of me is convinced his number has been stolen.

Then his voice comes through the line, crisp and smooth as ever. “Alice. You busy?”

“No—well, I mean, I’m just getting dressed,” I say without thinking.

“Oh.” There’s an awkward pause. “Right.”

I quickly yank my zipper all the way up and sit down on the edge of my bed, my cheeks heating. “Wait, never mind. Forget I said that.” Across the room from me, Chanel is snoring softly. I press the phone closer to my ear. “So, um. What’s up? Why are you calling?”

“It’s about the latest task.”

For some reason, the first feeling that pools into my stomach is...disappointment. But of course it’s about the latest task. Why else would he be calling? “Go on.”

“Given how slow business has been, I’ve taken it upon myself to observe Jake’s movements around Mencius Hall these past few days—truly one of the lowest points in my life so far, I might add—and it seems there might be a small window of opportunity for you to delete those photos of his...”

I swallow my surprise. Out of courtesy, I’ve been keeping Henry updated on my progress—or, well, the lack thereof—ever since our first English class together, but I never expected him to go out of his way and gather information on his own. Part of me is grateful, obviously. Another part of me hates the fact that he’s spotted an opportunity before I did. It makes it feel like he’s winning, which is ridiculous.

This isn’t meant to be a competition.

Still, I can’t help the hot stab of irritation in my chest—nor the strange chill that follows it, like a winter draft blowing over me, except all the windows are closed...

Oh.

Henry continues talking, completely oblivious to what’s happening. What’s about to happen. “See, the only time Jake leaves his phone in his dorm is when he’s showering. So I was thinking, if I could wait in the halls near his room and pretend to accidentally spill something on him—something you’d have to wash off, like orange juice—you’d have around eight or nine minutes to—”

“That sounds great,” I cut in, suppressing a shiver as I push myself off the bed. My hands feel like ice. No, everything feels wrong, somehow, the walls of the dorm room swelling up around me like an open sore, and my heart speeding up with it. Just because I’ve experienced this shit before doesn’t make it any less terrifying. Any less unnatural. “You think you’d be able to do that in like, ten minutes? I’m heading over.”

“Er...right now?”

The cold has spread all the way down to my toes. I need to move. And quickly.

“Yeah,” I manage.

“Right, well, there’s a slight issue I was about to get to—you know Jake’s roommate, Peter? He’s still in the dorm, and from the sounds of it...” He pauses. A door creaks, and somewhere in the background, I swear I hear beatboxing, of all things. “...he’s currently busy recording a new mixtape. Or perhaps it’s another one of his political rants. If I’m honest, it can be quite hard to tell the difference—”

“What do we do then?” I cut in, urgency leaking into my every word. “I mean—crap, I forgot about the roommate situation—”

“I can probably help with that,” someone says from behind me.

I almost drop my phone.

When I whirl around, Chanel is standing there in her silk pajamas, still a little bleary-eyed from sleep but smiling.

“Chanel, I...” I say, too stunned to form a complete sentence.

“This is for your Beijing Ghost thing, right?” she clarifies. “Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing just now.”

Henry’s voice cuts through the phone line. “Wait. Chanel?”

“Yes, hi, Henry,” Chanel says into the phone, her grin widening. “How do you feel about us working together again?”

“Since when did you two work together?” I demand, the same time Henry says, a trace of incredulity in his tone, “You told her about Beijing Ghost?”

“Yeah, yeah, Henry and I’ve known each other since we were kids,” Chanel explains quickly, like it’s not really worth mentioning. “SYS collaborated with my father”—for a second, the corners of her lips turn down—“on a few promotional campaigns for his night clubs.”

“Oh.” I shouldn’t be surprised. Sometimes it feels like all the Airington students and their families belong to a single intricate, complex web of power, one I can see but can never enter. Not without getting trapped inside it like some pesky fly.