If You Could See the Sun (39)

It’s as if someone’s turned on a switch.

When I start crying, I can’t seem to stop. Short, violent breaths rock my entire body, a disgusting amount of tears and snot flowing down my face even as I try, desperate, to wipe them away. I cry so hard my chest physically hurts. My head feels light. I sound unhinged, like an inconsolable child, a tortured animal.

I sound like I’m about to die.

“Hey,” Mr. Murphy says again, lifting a hand as if to pat my shoulder, then thinks better of it. Fear creases his bushy brows, and I wonder, dimly, if he’s scared I’ll sue him for psychological damage or something. Two years ago, a student in Year Thirteen did just that when he failed a major chemistry test. His parents were both lawyers; the student won in the end. “It’s okay.”

I manage to suppress my sobs long enough to stammer out: “S-s-sorry, I wasn’t”—I hiccup—“I wasn’t even planning to cry...or I’d”—I hiccup again—“I’d have l-let you know in advance...”

Mr. Murphy’s lips twitch slightly at that, like he thinks I’m trying to be funny. I’m not. I’ve just never cried at school before, not even when I broke my arm during an intense dodgeball game in PE, or that time when Leonardo Cruz called the prom dress Mama made for me cheap-looking in front of everyone. I never wanted any of my classmates or teachers to see me like that—distressed. Discomposed. Weak.

But I guess today is a day of firsts for everything.

“You know, in all my years of teaching,” Mr. Murphy says, when my sobs have quietened a little, “I can’t remember the last time anyone reacted so...violently to a bad test experience.” He’s not smiling anymore. “Is there something going on, Alice? Issues at home? Relationship drama? Friendship troubles?” His expression grows more uncomfortable with every question. “Because you know, there are...resources at Airington for that.”

When I look at him, confused, he clarifies, “We have excellent school counselors who’d be more than happy to—”

“N—” The unspoken word lodges in my throat. I shake my head instead, violently, to get my point across. I don’t need someone to recommend meditation apps and listen to all my problems. I need to get my shit together. Pull my grades back up. Make more money.

I need to get out of here.

“I—I think I’m fine now,” I say on a shaky breath. “And I have to get to class. So I’ll—” My voice threatens to crack again, and I gesture to the door.

Mr. Murphy purses his lips. Studies me for a beat.

“All right,” he says finally, with an awkward smile. “Well...just. Just take it easy, okay?”

“Okay,” I lie, already turning around to go.

Mr. Murphy means well, I know, but his words play over in my head like a taunt. What he doesn’t understand—what most people here don’t understand—is that I don’t have the luxury of taking it easy.

If I’m not swimming as hard as I can, feet thrashing at the waves, I’m drowning.



* * *



Henry is waiting for me outside the classroom.

This, in itself, is not unusual. I can’t pinpoint when exactly it started, but Henry and I have gotten into the habit of walking to our classes together. It’s a simple matter of practicality. Necessity. We share the same classes for almost every subject, after all—a fact I used to deeply resent—and we always put those extra four or five minutes to good use, strategizing and fine-tuning and outlining the next Beijing Ghost tasks under our breaths as we walk. Sometimes I’ll even pull out my planner, or a clipboard.

But something’s different today.

I notice it in the way Henry looks at me when I walk out, the way he flinches as I draw near. It’s such an odd sight I’m almost convinced I’ve imagined it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Henry Li flinch before.

Yet even odder is the expression that settles over his features like a shadow:

Concern.

Concern for me, because... I was hyperventilating during our test just now? Because it’s clear I’ve been crying? Because he overheard my conversation with Mr. Murphy?

There are so many possibilities. All of them make me want to run far away in the opposite direction.

But before I can turn around, he steps toward me.

“You forgot about the test,” he says. Not are you okay? or how did it go? or do you want to talk about it? Maybe he isn’t that concerned after all.

I run my tongue over the sharp edges of my teeth. “Yeah, I know. And I swear, if you’re going to rub it in—”

“No,” he says. Quickly. “That was not my intention.”

And even though it’s the last thing I’d expect myself to do, especially when I still feel like my world is about to end, I can’t help it: I snort.

He frowns. “Is something funny?”

“No, no, nothing,” I say, shaking my head—then stop abruptly, when the motion makes pain spike through my skull. At this rate, I can’t even tell if the migraine is from sleep deprivation or from bawling my eyes out.

Henry says nothing, but his frown deepens.

“Okay, fine, you really want to know? It’s just—you just sound so posh all the time, oh my god.” I straighten my posture to match his and mimic him with an exaggerated British accent. “That was not my intention.”