If You Could See the Sun (49)

There doesn’t seem to be any kind of organization system, not even a single colored tab. All I can do is flip page after page as the folder grows unbearably heavy in my clammy hands, my heart racing, terribly conscious of the ticking clock and how many minutes have passed since Mr. Murphy and Henry left.

My senses seem to have sharpened, too, like a rabbit’s when it fears it’s being hunted; every rustle of movement in the corridors outside startles me, every creak of the door or tap of the branches against the windows makes me freeze. I can smell the leftover food from the staff’s office upstairs—seafood, and something sour—and feel the sweat forming on my skin in cool, perfect beads.

And still I force myself to keep rifling through the giant folder, keep searching, scanning the blur of text for the words Year 12 Midterm or History Exam until—

Finally.

Finally. There it is.

Adrenaline floods my veins as I take out the exam and answer booklet with shaking fingers, holding them up under the fluorescent classroom lights. For a second I’m so stunned by what I’m about to do I almost drop them, but I steady myself. Grab my phone and snap a photo of the first page, then the second, the third.

I’m close to finishing when I hear it—

Voices.

“...difficult to believe the emperor really was so ignorant. If you read between the lines of that letter, it seemed more like one last, desperate attempt to avoid trouble,” Henry’s saying, his slow footsteps falling behind Mr. Murphy’s quick, noisy ones. He’s speaking louder than usual—no doubt to warn me they’re about to come in.

No. Not yet.

I’m on the very last page now, but my shadow keeps blocking the words—

Then realization hits me like a boulder, almost knocking the breath out of me: my shadow. If I have a shadow, then I must’ve turned visible again, and if I’m visible when Mr. Murphy walks in here... If Mr. Murphy sees me...

Shit.

Panic invades every cell in my body. I twist the paper around in the light and snap a photo, then stuff it back into the folder and shove everything under the dirty plate again in one rapid, frenzied movement. I don’t know if it’s in the exact same position as before, but there’s no time to check.

The doorknob creaks. Turns.

Mr. Murphy opens the door just as I throw myself onto the ground, squeezing into the gap under his desk. The space is tiny; I have to tuck my knees under my chin like a fetus, wrap my arms tight around myself like a vise.

My heart is pounding so hard I think I might die.

“Thanks again for everything, Mr. Murphy,” Henry says. He sounds less than ten feet away. “I know how busy you must be...”

“You’re too polite,” comes Mr. Murphy’s response from nearby. He’s walking, drawing closer and closer, and—

Oh god.

His worn, leather shoes suddenly appear in my line of vision, only a few inches from my leg.

I retract further, press up against the hard surface of the desk, fold into myself until I can barely breathe, but still he’s too close. He only needs to look down to know I’m here. He only needs to listen carefully to hear my furious heartbeats, my uneven gasps for air.

I’m trapped.

The thought sends a new jolt of hysteria through me. I’m trapped and I can’t see any way of getting out. Not undetected. Not without consequences. The inevitable begins to play in my mind like a horror film: Mr. Murphy accidentally dropping a pencil or paper and seeing me crouched here, hiding at his very feet; the shock flashing through his eyes, even more pronounced than when I broke down over my test in class, and the realization that’ll follow shortly afterward, that I must be here for a reason. Then he’ll look at his desk, notice how the folder is maybe two inches to the right from where he’d left it, how the corner of the exam booklet is bent, and put two and two together, and then—

“Is there something else you need, Henry?” Mr. Murphy asks. He lowers himself into his seat, and I watch in silent horror as the chair rolls forward...

There’s no room for me to retreat. The front wheels ram into my right foot, crushing my toes. A white-hot bolt of pain shoots through me, and I have to bite down on my tongue to keep from crying out.

Please let this stop, I pray, not even sure who I’m praying to. Please, please let him get an urgent call, or have to get up to use the bathroom, or let the fire alarm go off sometime soon...

But neither the chair nor Mr. Murphy moves.

“Well, actually...” Henry’s voice floats over from the other side of the room, and I can tell from the pause that he’s trying to stall. He must know I’m still here. We talked about this before, albeit briefly; I would text him once I was safe outside, and if not, he would create a distraction to buy me time. I just hadn’t counted on him to remember.

For a second, I allow myself to hope.

Then I hear his footsteps moving in the opposite direction, and my heart falls. Confusion clouds my mind. What the hell is he—

A crash breaks through my thoughts: the unmistakable sound of flesh slamming into cement, like someone’s body hitting the floor.

Then a gasp—

“Henry? Henry!”

The chair rolls back and in a flash of brown, Mr. Murphy’s shoes disappear from view. I hear him run toward where Henry must have fallen and I don’t think. I just move. Ignoring the pins and needles in my legs, I scramble out from under the desk, almost banging my head against the corner, and sprint for the back door.