If You Could See the Sun (54)

And I almost forget about Vanessa and the art scandal and turning invisible at all.

I’m too busy watching the screen’s green-blue light move over Henry’s skin like water, the challenge set in the sharp line of his jaw as he makes his way back to me.

Is this how it feels? I wonder as I throw the disk up high again and watch it soar, weightless, over the heads of happy families and giddy teenagers, friends drunk on a wild night out. To be someone like Chanel, like Rainie, like Henry? To come to a place like this on any old weekday and just...have fun? Just live, without worrying about opportunity costs and paying out school fees?

I’m still thinking about this on the quiet car ride home, my fingers poised over my phone, a half-finished message typed out on the screen.

Unfortunately, I was unable to fulfill your request for Beijing Ghost...

I read it over, tasting the bitter failure in those words, and sigh. Delete everything. Tonight’s assignment should’ve given me 25,000 RMB, but all I have now is an unwritten apology and one fewer client and a pressing need to make up for all the lost money whenever and however I can. I squeeze my eyes shut briefly, go over the calculations inside my head until my chest tightens, stuffed full with panic and flashing numbers. Even with the 160,000 RMB in my bank account now, I’m still over 80,000 RMB short. And the next deadline for our school fees is due in less than three weeks.

80,000 RMB.

The tightness in my chest suddenly feels a lot like exhaustion. Like despair.

I’m yanked from my spiraling thoughts when my phone buzzes. Not a Beijing Ghost alert, but a WeChat message.

From Xiaoyi.

Yan Yan! Have you eaten yet?

I’ve attached a link on best foods to help counter excessive han energy in women... I think you should find useful—you can share with friends too. Most important is to drink ginger and brown sugar water while on period (I sense yours is starting soon)

And how is your little situation going? Is all under control?

I’m so mortified by what she’s written above that it takes me a moment to register which “little situation” she’s referring to.

My chest tightens. It’s been a while since my invisibility powers felt so completely beyond my control. I might as well be honest about it.

Not really, I type out.

She replies right away, as if she’d sensed this answer was coming as well. Ah.

Then that means you have not seen the light yet.

Don’t worry, Yan Yan. You will get better soon.

I stare at the message for a long, long time and decide that I have absolutely no idea what she means. I can only assume she’s alluding to some Chinese proverb.

Still, it’s nice to have an adult tell me everything will be okay. Even if I’m not so sure that’s true.





12


The next week, a teacher asks me to stay behind after class, but it’s not Mr. Murphy, as I feared—it’s Mr. Chen.

His expression is stern as I approach his desk, a faint wrinkle appearing in his forehead, the way it does when he’s going over a particularly difficult passage in our texts. Fear pulses through me.

“I wanted to talk to you about your English essay, Alice,” he says.

“My essay?” I repeat, like an idiot.

“Yes. From your midterms.”

“Why? Was it—was it bad?” The words tumble out of my lips before I can stop them, like water gushing from a broken dam. I hate that this is always my first instinct: self-doubt, anxiety, the nagging feeling that I did something wrong.

But Mr. Chen puts my worries to rest with a firm shake of his head. “On the contrary—yours was one of the most well-written essays I’ve read in years. And I don’t say that lightly.”

“Oh,” is all I can think to say as the compliment sinks in. One of the most well-written essays I’ve read. And that’s coming from Mr. Chen, the same teacher who was invited to speak at Peking University only weeks earlier, who received his education at Harvard. I’ve never had drugs before—never plan to in my life—but I imagine this is what the high must feel like. “Wow.”

“Wow indeed,” he says, but he doesn’t smile. “That’s not the main reason I asked you to stay behind, though.” He taps a finger absentmindedly on his desk like a pen, as if deciding how best to phrase his next question. “Do you remember your main contention for the essay?”

I try not to look too taken aback. “Um, roughly.”

“So you remember how you positioned yourself in...support of Macbeth and his actions?”

Now I see where this is going.

“It was only for the exam,” I say quickly. “To make an interesting argument. I obviously don’t believe you should go around killing people to gain power—or for any reason, really, unless the person you’re killing is about to wipe out the human species or something, but that’s a whole different topic. And I wasn’t saying that he was right either. Just—sympathetic.”

“Just sympathetic.” Somehow, when Mr. Chen repeats something, he sounds all wise and philosophical.

“I mean his ambition,” I say, feeling the need to clarify further, especially as his contemplative silence drags on a beat too long. “The fact that he goes after what he wants.”

“Well then, Alice.” Mr. Chen clasps his hands in front of him, peers at me across his desk. I feel vaguely as if he’s about to give me a test of some kind. “Since we’re on the topic—tell me. What is it that you want?”