If You Could See the Sun (48)

“I notice,” he says simply.

Another statement. Another phrase thrown into the air for me to decipher. But I can’t wrap my head around it. What does he mean, he notices? And how could he be aware of something about me that I wasn’t even aware of myself? It just doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense, because no one notices—

A sudden chill snakes down my spine, crawls along my legs, my wrists. A thousand pinpricks of ice. I go cold all over—painfully, unnaturally cold—and I understand what this means, at least.

It means it’s time to get to work.



* * *



“Henry! What are you still doing here?”

Mr. Murphy looks up from his desk as Henry and I walk in, his eyes sweeping right over me.

“I was hoping you’d still be in, Mr. Murphy,” Henry says with one of his rare, grossly persuasive smiles. Bright eyes. Shining teeth. Faint dimples in his cheeks. Even I’m almost tempted to believe what comes out of his mouth next. “Do you have a few minutes to spare? I was hoping to look at some of the primary sources from the Opium Wars—you know, since you said we’ll be learning about that next—but the librarian wouldn’t let me go near them without your approval...”

It’s perfect—the slight reluctance in his voice, like he’s afraid to inconvenience the teacher; the eagerness without appearing overeager; the sincerity in the way he holds Mr. Murphy’s gaze. And, of course, there’s the one factor others wouldn’t be able to replicate, no matter how great at lying they are: his reputation. He’s King Henry, every teacher’s favorite student, the one who always talks to them about extra course material, advanced readings, debates new theories with them just for fun.

I never thought I’d see the day where I was grateful for Henry being such a teacher’s pet, but here we are.

Mr. Murphy sets down the paper in his hands. His tone is friendly, slightly teasing, when he asks, “Primary sources, hmm? And this couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

Henry ducks his head, making quite the convincing show of looking sheepish. “Well, I was reading about the First Opium War this afternoon and it’s all just so interesting—terrible, obviously, but interesting—and when I remembered the library had some of the original texts... I suppose I got carried away.” He shoots Mr. Murphy another smile, softer this time, embarrassed, and my heart does a weird little somersault in my chest. “Sorry, you’re right. It’s not that important—”

“No, no, I didn’t mean that,” Mr. Murphy says quickly. He stands up, his chair rolling back a few feet and hitting the wall with a dull thud. “It’s great that you’re so passionate about your subjects, Henry. And I’m more than happy to go with you—right now, in fact.” As he says this, he tucks his laptop under his arm, and makes a motion for Henry to lead the way.

But Henry hesitates, his eyes falling on the laptop. For the first time, I sense a fissure in his mask of calm. “You don’t—you don’t have to bring that with you. It’ll be really quick.”

I swallow the lump of fear in my throat and step closer, studying Mr. Murphy’s reaction carefully, searching for any signs of suspicion, of confusion. But he just sighs and shakes his head.

“I know, but I think it’s for the best. I’ve heard a few funny reports lately...”

My stomach lurches.

“What reports?” Henry asks, tensing too.

“Oh, well, nothing to be overly concerned about, I’m sure,” Mr. Murphy says with a wave of his free hand. “Just stories of things disappearing here and there from lockers, phones and laptops being hacked. Stuff like that.” He nods toward the door. “You good to go?”

Henry straightens, but not before his gaze darts in my general direction. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He doesn’t ask Mr. Murphy about his laptop again, or persuade him to leave it behind, and I don’t blame him; if Mr. Murphy’s already on guard and vaguely aware of what’s been going on, it wouldn’t take much for him to suspect something was off.

But once Henry and Mr. Murphy have left the classroom, leaving me alone, invisible, the laptop I need gone, I can’t help feeling absolutely idiotic. My heart sinks all the way down, my head pounding. What am I supposed to do now? Follow them to the library, try to steal Mr. Murphy’s laptop when he’s not looking? Try again another day? But even with Henry’s reputation—even if Henry claimed to have found a never-before-seen primary source from the Daoguang Emperor himself—I doubt the teacher would be so trusting if Henry were to come find him two nights in a row.

No, there has to be some other way. Maybe I can access Mr. Murphy’s laptop from his phone or my phone, or maybe he has a copy of the exams sent to his email, or maybe—

Maybe he has a physical copy lying around somewhere.

Around here.

With a sudden, dizzying surge of hope, I remember the thick folder Mr. Murphy always carries with him, how he likes to print things out, says he finds it hard to read things on a screen.

I rush to his desk. It’s a complete mess, highlighters and half-marked papers scattered everywhere, one last bite of jianbing going cold on a dirty plate. But right there, buried beneath it, is the see-through folder I last saw Mr. Murphy with.

Slowly, inch by inch, I pull the folder free as if it’s a Jenga block, careful not to move anything else on the teacher’s desk. The folder’s been crammed full with worksheets, copies of the syllabus, past test rubrics, excerpts from the textbook readings...