If You Could See the Sun (59)

I quickly push the thought aside.

“All right then. Let’s start brainstorming how we’re going to do this whole kidnapping thing now, hmm?” I retrieve a pen from my pocket, and point at the calendar hung up over his desk, a colored sticky note marking every important event. Written in his handwriting, so neat it looks as if it’s been typed up and printed, are the words Experiencing China trip. Only three days away. “We don’t have much time to waste.”





13


There’s a strange hum of energy in the air as we board the train at Beijing Railway Station.

It’s not just because of the enormous crowd moving with us, pushing past and into the narrow compartments: young, sunburnt workers heaving pots and plastic duffel bags over their shoulders, eager to return to their hometown over the weekend; mothers clutching their purses tight to their chests, yelling and gesturing wildly for their children to follow; gray-haired businessmen negotiating deals on the phone at the top of their voices as they fumble around for a charger.

It’s excitement, anticipation, wholly unique to Airington students alone. Everyone knows that Experiencing China trips are where Things Happen. After all, the combination of long train and bus rides, luxurious hotels in a foreign place, and nonschool-related activities completed in close proximity of one another seems almost intended to create drama. Friendship circles are broken and rearranged. Long-time couples split and exes hook up again. Secrets are revealed, scandals are made. Like when Vanessa Liu lost her virginity behind a Buddhist shrine on our Year Nine trip to Guilin, or when Jake Nguyen managed to sneak his way into the hotel bar during our Year Ten trip and got so drunk he launched into an hour-long monologue about how he felt inferior to his brother, while Rainie—who was still his girlfriend at the time—stroked his hair and fed him sips of water.

But the same scandals that shocked me this time last year now seem so small, so trivial. So normal.

Compared to what I’m meant to pull off in the days ahead, they feel almost like a joke.

“This should be our compartment,” Chanel tells me when we reach the middle of the carriage, shoving her giant suitcase through the opened doors with surprising ease. “I travel alone a lot,” she explains, catching the look on my face, and without another word, helps me roll my suitcase inside as well.

“Oh—thank you.”

I wonder if it’s obvious to Chanel that I don’t travel a lot at all. In fact, apart from my plane ride in and out of America, and the previous Experiencing China trips—and only because the school fees cover them—I haven’t gone anywhere outside of Beijing.

So it’s with fascination that I take in our tiny train compartment: the kettle set out on a folded table, the identical bunk beds sticking out from the walls, the space in between them so narrow only one person could possibly stand there at a time.

“Not a great place for the claustrophobic,” Chanel remarks as she squeezes her way through behind me, plopping down on one of the lower beds. “Or for anyone, really.”

It’s still bigger than my parents’ bedroom. A faint pang twists through my stomach at the thought, but I just smile and nod. I was prepared for this to happen, after all; within the Airington school gates, it’s still fairly easy to pretend that everyone’s the same. But out here, well...

“Qiqi! Guolai, kuai guolai—zai zhe’er!”

The loud, rapid Mandarin exclamations cut through my thoughts, and I turn toward the noise.

A short, middle-aged woman is wheeling two suitcases into our compartment, one of which is covered in a bright pink Barbie design that makes Chanel’s eyes twitch.

Seconds later, a little girl no older than six comes skipping into the compartment, a doll clutched to her chest, her high pigtails bouncing with her every step. This, I assume is the Qiqi the woman was yelling for.

“Oh!” The little girl stops short at the sight of me and Chanel. Then she breaks into a wide grin, pointing at us with her free hand. “Jiejie! Da jiejie!”

The woman glances in our direction for the first time and pauses too. I wait for the flash of surprise that usually arises when strangers see our uniforms, but then I remember we’re in casual clothes: Chanel, wearing a lacy blouse that rises just above her pale, flat midriff, and me, in a faded sweater and jeans Mama bought at Yaxiu Market a few years ago.

Instead of surprise, a crinkle appears between the woman’s drawn-on brows, like she’s not sure if Chanel and I are traveling together or not.

“Jiejie hao,” Chanel greets politely, and only then do the woman’s features smooth out, her lips lifting into a smile at the subtle flattery; being called jiejie, older sister, instead of ayi, for older women.

I quickly copy Chanel’s greeting, but the woman is already preoccupied, her gaze fixed on Chanel as if they might’ve met somewhere before. Then, in that same brisk, accented Mandarin, she says: “I’m not sure if anyone’s ever told you this, but you look a lot like that famous model—what’s her name again...”

“Coco Cao?” Chanel offers.

“Yes!” The woman claps her hands together and beams. “Yes, exactly!”

“Oh, right, well...” Chanel tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and with a practiced air of nonchalance, says, “That’s my mother.”

The woman’s eyes widen. “Really?”