If You Could See the Sun (50)

In the dark of the corridor, I sink into the shadows, panting, catching snippets of Henry’s conversation with Mr. Murphy as I creep farther away from the classroom.

“...haven’t had much to eat. Don’t worry, this has happened before...”

“...to the school nurse? They might still be in—”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary. Really, it’s fine. I didn’t mean to startle you...”

The night air is cool when I step out. Sweet with the fragrance of begonias blooming in the school gardens. I close my eyes and inhale, hardly daring to believe what I just managed to get away with. What Henry just did. When he talked about creating a distraction, I never would’ve imagined he meant fake fainting.

It’s all so bizarre that a bubble of laughter bursts from my lips, and suddenly my whole body is shaking with hysteria, the much-needed release of tension. I don’t know long I stand there, waiting, light-headed and almost giddy with relief, but soon I hear voices. Henry and Mr. Murphy’s. Some of their words are muffled by the front door, but I can make out Henry’s continued insistence: “I’m fine, I’m fine. I can go see the nurse myself.”

Mr. Murphy must believe him—or maybe he simply knows better than to challenge Henry’s stubbornness—because there’s the squeak of shoes, of heavy footsteps moving away, while another set draws closer.

The door creaks open.

“Well, that was a thoroughly humiliating ordeal.”

I twist around.

Henry is standing behind me, his expression calm, hands in pockets, the collar of his shirt rumpled. A reddish-yellow bruise has started to bloom over the curve of his left cheekbone, a violation of his otherwise perfect skin.

Without thinking, I grab his face in one hand and tilt it up to the moonlight, inspecting the injury. It looks swollen. Painful.

“Holy crap, Henry,” I say, no longer laughing. “You didn’t have to go that far—I mean, I’m grateful, obviously—so grateful—but... Does it—does it hurt?”

He doesn’t answer me, but his eyes widen slightly. Flicker to the point of contact between us, where my hand is still cupping his cheek.

I let my hand drop and step back, mortified.

“Um, sorry. Really don’t know why I just did that...” I shake my head, hard, as if I can somehow shake the awkward moment away too. What is wrong with me? “Do you need a bandage though? Or ice? Or one of those cloth things they tie around...” I trail off when I see the corners of his lips twitch with ill-suppressed amusement. “Is this somehow funny to you? Because you could’ve been seriously—”

“I appreciate the concern,” he says. “But I’m honestly fine. I promise. I’ve done this before.”

I stare at him. “What? Why?”

He hesitates, and I can almost see the gears in his mind working, trying to decide how much information he can afford to disclose. Finally, he says, “It was a long time ago...when I was seven or eight. My father had signed me up for violin lessons and I really, really did not want to go...”

It takes me a minute to understand what he’s saying, to grasp the sheer absurdity of it. This is truly the last thing I’d expect from Henry Li. “Wait. So you’d fake faint just to get out of violin lessons?”

“I only did it once.” He grimaces. “All right, twice. But in my defense, it was very effective; the violin teacher was so concerned for my well-being she personally asked my father to keep me home.”

I choke out an incredulous laugh. “And you couldn’t have just—I don’t know, faked a cough or a cold like a normal kid?”

His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes harden. “That wouldn’t have been enough. So long as I was physically conscious, my father would’ve insisted that I continue with my studies, push through until I was perfect.” He turns his head away from me, the moonlight washing over his stiff profile, lining the slight furrow in his brows, and I realize, with an odd pang, that the conversation is over.

I also realize that for all the glamorous magazine profiles and interviews and SYS-related news I’ve devoured in my attempts to better understand my competition, I don’t know Henry that well at all... Yet now, more than ever, I kind of wish I did.

A few beats of heavy silence pass. Then Henry asks, “Do you have everything you need?” His voice is formal again, perfectly professional. I hate it.

“Oh—yeah.” I pat the front of my blazer, where my phone is. “I do.”

But as we make our way slowly back to the dorms, the exam answers saved and safe in my pocket, the promise of a sizeable payment awaiting me, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve left something invaluable behind.





11


As exams loom closer, I keep waiting for Mr. Murphy to find me.

Alice, I imagine him saying at the end of class, his expression unusually stern. Maybe he’ll have his folder ready by his side, a secret recording device I failed to notice, all the incriminating evidence he needs. Would you care to explain this?

Each time I enter his classroom or pass by him in the halls, I feel violently sick. My palms go all clammy and I have to swallow back the nausea, barely mustering the energy to return his smiles and occasional nods of greeting.

The paranoia is so bad that I start having nightmares about it: strange, disturbing nightmares where Mr. Murphy faints before me and I rush over to help him only to be tackled to the ground, police sirens screeching around me until I wake up with a start; or I’m about to enter the examination hall when I realize I’ve forgotten to put clothes on, and Jake Nguyen leaps onto the teacher’s desk, declaring that being naked is a sign of guilt, all while Henry catches my eye from across the hall and whispers: Have you no shame?