If You Could See the Sun (55)

“What do I want?” I echo.

He nods, expectant.

But the open-endedness of the question catches me off guard, knocks the air out my lungs as a million answers surge up to meet it—

I want to be respected. I want to be rich. I want to become an acclaimed civil rights attorney or a business director at a Fortune 500 company or a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist; I want to be a professor at Harvard or Oxford or Yale, to walk those gleaming lecture halls with my head held high and know that I belong; I want to inherit a giant multimillion-dollar company, like Henry, or be bold and gifted and innovative enough to pave my own path in some niche field, like Peter, or to have endless opportunities to stand before thousands of people and be seen, like Rainie; I want my name to be spoken at Airington long after I’ve left, for all my teachers to be proud that they once taught me, to say to future students, “you heard of that Alice Sun? I always knew she would make it”; I want glory, recognition, attention, praise; I want to buy my parents a brand-new apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows and a balcony that overlooks a glittering green lake, to earn enough money to treat them to roast duck and fresh fish every day; I want to be great at what I do, no matter what I do; I want, I want, I want—

Yet just as quickly as it balloons, the wild longing in my chest deflates.

With a sharp jolt I feel all the way down to my bones, as if I’ve fallen from a great height, I remember who I am, and who I am not. I can’t afford to think so far ahead into the future, to be so frivolous with my plans. I should only be focusing on making enough money to cover my school fees and bills for this year, then next year, then the year after that...

Maybe I was lying just now about why I find Macbeth so sympathetic. Maybe it’s because I understand what it’s like to want things that do not belong to you.

But of course, I don’t tell Mr. Chen any of this.

“I want to get good grades. Graduate. Get a job in whichever field my strengths lie.”

His brows furrow, like he doesn’t quite believe me. “Not what you’re passionate about?” he asks delicately.

I lift my chin. “I’m passionate about being good at things.”

There’s a defensive edge in my voice, and Mr. Chen must hear it. He drops the subject.

“Well, all right then. I suppose I should let you go to lunch...”

“Thanks, Mr. Chen.”

But as I turn to leave, he adds, very quietly, “You’re still a kid, you know.”

I falter. “What?”

His eyes are kind, almost sad when he looks at me. “Even if it doesn’t feel that way now, you’re still only a kid.” He shakes his head. “You’re too young to be this...hardened by the world. You should be free to dream. To hope.”

My conversation with Mr. Chen plays over and over again in my head as I make my way over to the cafeteria. Most people have eaten and left already, and only the Chinese cuisine bar is still open, so I grab a tray of rice and braised pork ribs that have already gone cold and nibble at my food half-heartedly, the chopsticks held loose in my hands.

You’re still a kid, you know.

Coming from any other adult, the words would’ve seemed condescending, easy to laugh at and brush off, but I could tell Mr. Chen really meant them. Which is almost worse, somehow. It makes me feel too vulnerable.

Exposed.

It’s like that time I wrote a poem about my family in Year Eight, thinking it was only for an English assignment, but the teacher insisted on reading it aloud to the whole school at assembly, her voice reaching an emotional crescendo as she described the old callouses on Mama’s hands, her own hands rising and falling in exaggerated movements. People approached me about it afterward, kind and gushing and sympathetic, and part of me basked in the positive attention, while the other part—a bigger part—wanted nothing more than to flee.

I guess that’s the thing: I’ve spent my whole life longing to be seen, but I’ve also come to realize that when people look too closely, they inevitably notice the ugly parts too, like how the tiny cracks on a polished vase only become visible under scrutiny. Like Mama’s callouses, hidden from the world until the teacher had to go and read my poem into the microphone, into the silence of the giant, filled auditorium.

You’re still a kid, you know.

The back of my neck prickles. Something sharp and hard lodges in my throat, like a shard of bone, even though the pork ribs on my tray are still untouched. I give up trying to eat.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

Mr. Chen had said my Macbeth essay was one of the most well-written essays he’d read in years, which is the kind of praise I usually live for, lap up like a starved dog, but he hadn’t looked impressed at all.

Only concerned.

“Alice! Hey, girl!”

I jerk my head up and spot Rainie making a beeline for me from the other end of the cafeteria table, a wide grin on her face. Her glossy hair has been tied up in a high ponytail, and it bounces elegantly over her shoulders as she sits down beside me. Another thing I wasn’t expecting to happen today.

“So. What class is next?” she asks cheerily.

“You have art for fifth period,” I inform her, thinking this must be why she came here. Since I’ve long fallen into the habit of memorizing Henry’s timetable every school year, I know pretty much everyone’s class schedules by heart. But she just shakes her head and laughs.