If You Could See the Sun (51)
Needless to say, my sleep quality hasn’t been great.
“I feel like Lady Macbeth,” I mutter to Chanel the morning before our first exams. “You know, like after a bunch of people die and she starts hallucinating about all the blood on her hands because it’s a super not-subtle manifestation of her guilt—”
“Alice, Alice,” Chanel interrupts, putting a hand on my shoulder. “First, it’s really bold of you to assume I have any idea what you’re talking about, because I haven’t read Macbeth yet—”
“But—but the English exam’s tomorrow—”
“Exactly,” she says. “That gives me a whole twenty-four hours to get the gist of it.”
“I think you’re severely underestimating the complexity of Shakespeare’s work.”
She ignores me. “Second of all, I still don’t know what your little mission with Henry was since someone won’t tell me, but I’m sure it’s going to be fine. You haven’t been caught a single time so far, have you?”
“No,” I admit. “But still. I just... I have a bad feeling.”
“You always have a bad feeling,” she says with a wave of her hand. “Your body like, functions on bad feelings. In fact, I’d be very concerned if you weren’t high-key stressed about something right now.”
“I guess,” I say, not entirely convinced.
But then exams come and pass in a blur of late nights and last-minute revision and adrenaline, and nothing out of the ordinary happens. Mr. Murphy thanks us all for our hard work with a round of Kahoot on ancient Chinese history (it gets a little intense; pencils are thrown, angry fingers are pointed, and Henry and I end up tying for the lead) and promises he’ll mark our exams within the next week. The teachers start handing us forms and brochures for our upcoming Experiencing China trip to Suzhou, and soon it’s all that anyone can talk about. The leaves on the school’s wutong trees turn gold, then a withered brown, falling and scattering over the courtyard like shredded notes, and such a pervasive cold creeps in by mid-November that even the Year Thirteen guys stop playing basketball outside during lunchtimes, hogging the limited space in the school café instead.
And through it all, the Beijing Ghost tasks keep coming.
More pregnancy scares and sex scandals and embarrassing photos taken drunk at an exclusive party in Wangjing. More instances of unrequited love and friendship worries and panic attacks and crumbling families. More messages detailing stories of exes and vigorous competitions and bribery and secret insecurities. This is the unexpected side effect of the app: the tasks feel like more than business opportunities now.
They feel like confessions.
Of course, I’ve always known that my classmates at Airington lead completely different lives from mine. But I’ve never looked beneath the shiny, polished surface of their million-dollar condos and private drivers and wild shopping sprees. Never considered that the people I’ve bumped into countless times in the corridors, made vague small talk with about upcoming tests, are people I might’ve actually been friends with. Exchanged secrets with. Reached out and comforted.
Instead, I’ve spent my five years here completely oblivious to everything outside my own studies.
Henry, on the other hand, doesn’t seem surprised by anything.
“Hmm,” is all he says when I show him the latest request at the end of our social ethics class.
“Hmm?” I repeat, incredulous. “Did you even read it?”
His eyes shift from the phone to my face, a gel pen twirling around and around between his long slender fingers. “Yes, of course. In its entirety.”
“And you—you knew about this?”
“No,” he says calmly, voice low enough for just the two of us to hear. Everyone else is busy pretending to jot down Julie Walsh’s board notes on Discrimination in Developing Countries, their hands already reaching for their bags and laptop cases, ready to run out of here the second the bell rings. “But I find it rather plausible. Her artistic statement for her final project last year doesn’t align at all with her coursework this semester. Either she underwent a drastic change in world views over the summer, or those views weren’t hers to begin with.”
I shake my head in disbelief. Even by the usual Beijing Ghost standards, the anonymous message currently loaded up on my phone is...well, shocking.
Apparently, Airington’s favorite art prodigy, Vanessa Liu, has been buying all her art ideas and designs from some older university student. The source wants me to follow her to Shimao Tianjie, or simply The Place, tomorrow—one of those high-end, inner-city places I never visit—where she’s meant to be meeting up with the student for another little exchange.
“But I’ve seen her draw,” I insist, keeping my voice down too. “She’s—I mean, she’s talented. I don’t understand why...”
“Talent isn’t the same as genius,” Henry replies, with all the secure, unaffected ease of someone who’s spent his life in the latter category and knows it.
A familiar thorn of envy—of want—digs into my side.
I set the phone down. “Well. I guess I’ll find out tomorrow night.”
Henry glances up, and for the first time since I brought up this subject, he looks interested. When he speaks again, he seems to choose his words with care. “Would you...perhaps like some company?”