If You Could See the Sun (40)

“I do not sound like that,” he says, affronted.

“You’re right. You sound even posher. Why are you still here, anyway?” I ask, looking over his shoulder to scan the emptying hall. “Shouldn’t we be getting to class or—”

“English is canceled for the day. Mr. Chen was invited to deliver a lecture at Peking University.” He hesitates. “The email came a few minutes ago, when you were...”

When I was having a mental breakdown.

“Ah,” I say, suddenly far too aware of the damp patches on my blazer from when I used it to wipe my face. The puffiness in my lips and cheeks. The dry, uncomfortable ache in my eyes. I turn my head, feigning interest in the glass display to my left. Glossy certificates catch the artificial light of the hall, the golden, italicized text gleaming like magic: Rachel Kim: First Place in IGCSE History. Patricia Chao: Best All-Rounder Award. Isabella Lee: Perfect Score in IB Geography.

All legends. All names that continue to adorn our halls, remind us of their greatness, long after the students themselves have graduated.

The sound of crinkling paper pulls me from my thoughts. I glance back to see Henry reaching for something in his bag. “Do you want—”

“Oh, it’s fine, I can just get some from the bathroom,” I say, assuming he’s about to offer me a tissue.

But then he’s holding up one of those White Rabbit milk candies I saw him eating in his dorm, the creamy white wrapper smooth, almost the same shade as his outstretched palm. Confusion flickers over his features when he hears the end of my sentence.

We both pause. Catch our mistake.

God, why does everything have to be so awkward when I’m around him?

“Uh. Never mind.” I hold out my hand. “Guess I could do with some candy.” As he passes it over, his fingers brush against mine. Just once, briefly, there and then gone. So warm and light they could be confused for the flutter of birds’ wings.

It feels nice. Too nice.

I retract my hand as if I’ve been burnt.

“Thanks,” I mumble, busying myself with peeling the wrapper and bringing the candy to my lips. Immediately, the thin, papery outer layer melts on my tongue, and the rich, mildly sweet taste fills my mouth.

It tastes like my childhood. Like the long, luxurious summers in Beijing before I left for America, before my nainai passed away. Mama rarely let me have sweets, saying it was a waste of money and bad for my teeth, but every morning during the holidays, Nainai would hobble out to the local grocery store and buy little packets of White Rabbit milk candy, hiding them inside her handkerchief. Whenever Mama wasn’t looking, she would sneak one to me with a wink.

But my memories of her more or less end there.

She only called on my birthdays after we moved across the sea, said she didn’t want to inconvenience us as we tried to settle in, that she knew we were busy. Then, sometime after I turned nine, she died alone at home. A stroke. Preventable, if only she had the money to pay for a proper checkup and medical treatment, to ask for help when she wasn’t feeling well.

Baba and Mama didn’t even tell me she was gone until the day of the Qingming Festival.

My throat burns at the thought, at the injustice of it all, but this time, at least, I manage to force the tears back before they can form.

I don’t know why I’m so emotional today.

I sneak a quick glance at Henry to see if he’s noticed, but he seems suddenly fascinated by the awards display too.

“It’s been ages since I last had one of these,” I say, more to break the awkward silence than anything. “They were my favorite childhood treat.”

He turns to face me, his expression impassive. “Mine too.” He says this almost reluctantly, with great caution, like he’s disclosing some kind of confidential business information. “My mother used to give me one whenever I had a bad day at school.”

“Really?” Surprise leaks into my voice, and not just because I can’t imagine him ever having a bad day at school. Not even a subpar day. “I thought you’d have grown up eating all that fancy, expensive stuff.”

His eyebrows arch. “Fancy, expensive stuff?”

“You know what I mean,” I say, annoyed. I recall the lavish feast spread out before Chanel’s father and the young woman, the delicacies arranged in their clay bowls and tiny crystal plates. The food of emperors, of kings. “Like bird’s nest soup or sea cucumber or something.” As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I realize how ignorant I must sound. How painfully obvious it must be to Henry that we were raised in two separate worlds, that I’ve only witnessed but never experienced the casual luxuries he must take for granted in his life.

I wonder if he feels sorry for me, and anticipatory anger rattles in my stomach like a snake as I imagine him tiptoeing around the subject, trying to play down the obvious discrepancies between our childhoods: They weren’t that expensive, or We only had those once a week.

But in reality, he just shrugs one shoulder and says, “I never really liked sea cucumber, actually. They used to creep me out when I was a kid.”

“Yeah, well, they do look a bit like slugs,” I mutter, and he laughs.

I stare at him, taken aback by how his entire demeanour seems to change: the sharp, regal lines of his face softening, white teeth flashing, his shoulders slipping forward from their usual stiff posture. He’s so closed off all the time that I didn’t even think Henry was capable of laughing. For a moment I wonder what we might look like from an outsider’s perspective: just two teenagers joking around and sharing candy and chatting together after class. Friends, maybe. The thought startles me.