If You Could See the Sun (41)

Then Henry catches me staring, registers the visible shock on my face, and sobers up at once, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. The curve of his ears turn pink slightly.

“Well, anyway.” He slides his hands into his blazer pockets. “I should probably go. Study. Our midterms are soon.”

“Oh. Okay.”

But he makes no immediate move to leave. “Will you be all right? After...” He trails off, once again leaving it to me to fill out the rest of his sentence. “Either way, it’s not as if a bad grade would bring your average down so much, right? So long as you do well in the midterms, you could still be ranked second in the class.”

I bristle, the remnants of that brief, tender moment we shared earlier vanishing like smoke. We’re not friends, I remind myself. We’re competitors. Enemies. Only one of us can win in the end.

“I don’t want to be ranked second.” I surge forward until I’m standing right in front of him, hating that I have to crane my neck just so we’re at eye level. “If I’m not first, I’m nothing.”

He merely looks amused. “Is there really such a substantial difference? I doubt your report card—”

“It’s not just about how my report card looks,” I interrupt. “It’s about losing my winning streak with the Academic Award next year. It’s about what people will think of me.”

“It doesn’t matter what people think—”

“Bullshit,” I say hotly. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. Perception is everything. Money would just be colored paper if we didn’t all think it was important.”

“Cotton, actually.”

“What?”

“Contrary to popular belief, money is mostly made out of cotton,” he says, as if this is life-changing information. “Just thought you’d want to know. But do go on.”

The idea of murdering him flits through my mind.

“My point is,” I say through gritted teeth, “when a large enough number of people collectively care enough about something—no matter how superficial or arbitrary or inherently worthless it is—it starts to carry value. It’s like when people say it doesn’t matter where you get your education, but watch how fast they change their attitude, their tone when you tell them you go to Airington.” I suck in a breath, curl my trembling hands into fists. “Even just now. Mr. Murphy was already looking at me differently because I—” I swallow. “Because I fucked up on that one test.”

Surprise flashes across Henry’s face. I don’t think anyone at Airington has ever heard me swear out loud before. It’s kind of liberating, really. Cathartic. It even makes me feel a little better—

Until one of the classroom doors down the hall swings open, and Julie Walsh steps out.

Her narrowed eyes instantly land on me, and she comes marching straight over, thin heels clacking, sleek blond hair bobbing with every step, her lips pressed into a tight line. As she draws closer, the strong, sickly sweet scent of her perfume hits my nose. I try not to choke.

“Such foul language,” she hisses, shaking her head. “Honestly, after everything we’ve taught you here at Airington, is this really how you wish to conduct yourself?”

A mixture of embarrassment and annoyance snake under my skin. I’m tempted to tell her about the number of Chinese and Korean swear words students have used right in front of her face in the past week alone, but because I still have somewhat of a will to live—and because I’d never throw the other kids under the bus like that—I decide against it.

“Sorry, Ju—” I catch myself just in time. “Dr. Walsh.”

“Hmph. You certainly should be.” She sniffs. “Don’t let me catch you swearing again, Vanessa Liu, or there will be consequences.”

I look up at her, stunned. Like Mr. Murphy, she’s been teaching me for five years—surely she must know who I am? My name, at least? Besides, Vanessa and I don’t even look remotely alike; her face is sharp and long whereas mine is wide, her nose petite while mine is round, and her skin is at least five shades paler thanks to all her Korean skincare products. Anyone with eyes should be able to tell the difference between us.

I wait for Julie to realize her mistake, to correct herself.

She doesn’t.

Just stares me down with those cold blue eyes like she expects me to apologize again.

But instead, all I say is, “It’s Alice.”

Her face goes blank with confusion. “What?”

“I said, my name is Alice. Not Vanessa.”

“Huh. Is it now?” she finally says, unconvinced, looking for a second as if she actually believes I might’ve mixed up my own name. When I nod, she gives me a tight-lipped smile that isn’t much friendlier than a glare. “Well, pardon me, Alice. But my earlier point still stands, of course.”

“Of course,” I echo.

Satisfied, she spins around on her noisy heels and leaves. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Henry mutters, “Charming, isn’t she?”

On this, at least, we can agree.





9


Next week, an ominous poster appears over the Year Twelve lockers, with the following words printed out in large, block letters:

15 DAYS LEFT