If You Could See the Sun (32)

“And Alice told me about your app last week,” Chanel goes on, speaking to Henry now. “But it’s kind of a long story, and we’re apparently very short on time.” She turns back to me. “So. Can I help out or not? God knows I need the distraction.”

I’m aware that this kind of decision should warrant careful evaluation, a comprehensive risk assessment and at least two long lists detailing all the pros and cons of getting a third person involved. But I’m also acutely aware of the cold spreading fast over my body.

“Okay,” I say. “You’re in.”





7


“This feels so weird,” Chanel mutters for at least the tenth time as we creep down Mencius Hall. She keeps glancing back in my direction, as if checking to see if I’m still there. “I mean, I really can’t see you. Like, at all.”

“Well, what did you expect?” I whisper. My eyes scan the mostly empty corridor. It’s early enough in the morning that most students haven’t woken up yet—I guess they don’t share my need to be productive before 6:00 a.m.—and the ones who have are already off to breakfast. The good news is there won’t be too many witnesses around in case things go wrong.

The bad news is Chanel and Henry will look a lot more suspicious standing around here.

“To be honest, part of me thought... I don’t even know what I thought,” Chanel continues under her breath. “But things like this don’t just happen to—”

“Shh,” I hiss. A boy I’ve seen around campus a few times walks past us, but not before he shoots Chanel an odd look. He must think she’s talking to herself.

“Sorry,” Chanel tells me once he’s gone, barely moving her lips this time.

“It’s fine.” I try and fail to slow my rapidly pounding heart; my nerves have been going into overdrive ever since we left our dorm. “Let’s just get this over with.”

To my immense relief, Henry is already standing in position outside Jake’s dorm just as we agreed earlier, a full cup of coffee in one hand and a history textbook in the other. As Chanel and I slow to a stop behind one of the many large decorative pot plants lining the corridor, Henry knocks on Jake’s door, then takes a few steps backward.

A long moment passes. Nothing happens.

The knots in my stomach tighten. What if Jake’s already left his room? Or what if he sensed something was wrong, that Henry’s been acting weird and spying on him from afar? No. That couldn’t be possible. Right?

But then the door swings open, the low, rhythmic thump of a bass emptying into the corridor, and Jake shuffles out in plastic slippers. He’s wearing only a loose white tank and boxers, his spiky black hair sticking up everywhere. He stifles a yawn. Blinks around in confusion.

“Who was that just now?” he grumbles.

This is Henry’s cue.

Henry walks forward, textbook held up in front of him as if distracted, as if he hasn’t been waiting outside this whole time, and bumps straight into Jake. Almost in slow motion, the coffee cup tumbles out of Henry’s hand, and the dark liquid splashes everywhere.

“What the fuck.” Jake stumbles backward, hands flying to his soaked shirt.

“So sorry. I didn’t see you,” Henry says at once, making a good show of looking guilty. A few drops of coffee splattered onto him too, and as I watch, he slowly wipes his cheek clean with a faint grimace. “I could get you a new shirt if—”

Jake shakes his head, though he still looks pretty pissed. “Nah, whatever, man. I just need to go wash this shit off.”

With that, he disappears back into his room, snaps something that sounds like, “Peter, my man, could you please stop rapping for one goddamn second?” and reemerges with a towel draped over his shoulder and an expression that screams murder.

As he storms off to the bathroom, Chanel makes her move.

When I’d asked Chanel on our way here how, exactly, she planned to get Peter out of his room, she’d simply winked and replied in a matter-of-fact tone, “My feminine charms, of course.”

I’d thought she was joking.

But as I follow her into Jake and Peter’s room, she makes a straight beeline for him, hips swaying to the beat of the bass, and calls, her voice almost a coo, “Peter! I’ve been looking for you.”

The bass stops. Peter jerks his head up from what looks like a miniature recording studio in his corner of the room, complete with a keyboard and microphone and everything. “Uh...Chanel?” He blinks at her. Puts a self-conscious hand over his Star Wars pajamas, as if he can somehow block them from view.

“Sorry, I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Chanel asks, her eyes wide. She steps closer to Peter, until there are only a few inches of space left between them. “I just really needed to find you.”

Peter lets out a nervous laugh. “Okay... Uh, why though?”

“Oh my god. Why do you think?” Chanel says with a coy smile, like they’re sharing an inside joke. She swats his shoulder, but leaves her hand there, her fingers curling slightly over the fabric.

“You...want to borrow something?” Peter attempts, his eyes darting back and forth between Chanel’s hand and her face.

And even though he’s barely said anything of substance, Chanel breaks into giggles as if he’s just told the funniest joke in the world. “No, you idiot,” she says affectionately. “My dad’s thinking of hiring some new DJs for his nightclub, and he wants me to help him pick. But then it just hit me that like, we have a freaking expert right in our year level.”