If You Could See the Sun (63)

We’re given the best tables with the fancy chopstick holders and red tablecloth and stunning window view of the lakes outside, and offered free jasmine tea (handpicked from the mountains, the manager tells us) and prawn crackers, and even the teachers are looking at Henry in openmouthed awe, like he’s glowing.

“I wonder how that feels,” I murmur, when Henry comes over to sit down beside me and Chanel.

“Pardon?” Henry says.

“Nothing.” I take a long swig of tea, letting the hot liquid scorch my tongue. “Never mind.”

Chanel, who doesn’t look quite as impressed as the others—probably because she’s used to receiving similar treatment herself—pokes her head between us and asks, “How was the train ride Henry? Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thank you,” Henry replies mildly, with a stiff half smile. I’m so used to seeing the side of Henry that laughs aloud, that teases me and challenges me and listens to Taylor Swift on repeat that I keep forgetting how distant he is with everyone else, even people he knows.

“Mmm, that’s what I figured,” Chanel says. There’s a glint in her eyes. “Since Alice never returned to our compartment.”

I almost choke on my tea.

“We didn’t—I wasn’t—” I splutter, so loud that the conversation at the neighboring table stalls, and the waiters stop setting down dishes to look at me. I flush and continue in a whisper, “We were only going over business details. Seriously.”

Chanel just winks at me, while Henry stares down with extreme focus at the single sesame bun on his plate, the tips of his ears pink.

More waiters soon step forward bearing trays of popular local dishes: deep-fried fish glazed with a thick tomato sauce, the meat so tender it slides off naturally from the bones; delicate red date paste cakes cut into the shape of diamonds; round wontons floating in bowls of golden broth.

It’s all mouthwatering, but across the table, Julie Walsh wrinkles her nose at the fish and asks, very slowly, “What...is that?”

A pause. No one seems to want to answer, but when the silence drags on too long, Chanel rolls her eyes and says, “It’s Mandarin Squirrel Fish.”

Julie’s hand flies to her chest. “Squirrel—”

“Not actual squirrel,” I can’t help interrupting. “It’s just the name.”

“Oh. Well, good,” Julie says, though she still makes no move to touch the dish. Instead, to my utter disbelief, she retrieves a packet of trail mix from her handbag and dumps the contents out onto her plate.

Irritation flares up inside me, and I realize that Henry was right the other day: my anger does make me brave.

“Excuse me, Dr. Walsh,” I say, raising my voice a little. “I thought this was an Experiencing China trip?”

Julie blinks at me, a salted almond half lifted to her painted lips. “Yes?”

“Then surely eating the local cuisine is part of the experience, is it not? Especially when the teachers are expected to lead by example?” Without giving her a chance to protest, I go on, “And weren’t you saying just the other day, in our social ethics class, that world harmony could be achieved if only people were willing to practice empathy and explore new cultures?”

The almond drops soundlessly and rolls over the tablecloth. Julie doesn’t pick it up; she’s too busy staring at me like I’m a bug she wants to squash.

I don’t think a teacher has ever looked at me with anything other than affection or concern before. Then again, I can’t recall ever talking to a teacher like this before either.

Then Mr. Murphy stands up at the next table and claps twice to get everyone’s attention, snapping the thread of tension—and conveniently saving Julie from having to respond.

“Listen up, guys,” he booms, using his presenter-at-assembly voice. “Since we have a very full afternoon planned out, and won’t be in the Autumn Dragon Hotel until late evening, we’ve decided to save some hassle and give you your hotel room numbers and cards now, all right?” He peers around at us as if we’re really all sitting down before a stage. “Is that something I can trust you guys to keep safe for eight hours?”

He receives only a few lackluster nods in response, but seems to deem this good enough.

“Great.” He takes out a crumpled paper folder not unlike the one I stole the history exam answers from. Guilt lifts its head, and I quickly stomp it back down. “I’ll call your names one by one, and if you or your roommate can just come up in an orderly fashion... Let’s see... Scott An.”

There’s an evident discrepancy between Mr. Murphy’s idea of “orderly fashion” and our interpretation of the words, because soon everyone’s standing up and jostling each other trying to get to the front.

“Orderly!” Mr. Murphy cries over the squeak of chairs and the countless voices talking at the same time. “I said orderly!”

In the chaos, I manage to squeeze close enough to get a view of the paper in Mr. Murphy’s outstretched hand, the tens of names printed in tidy rows across it. But it’s not my name I’m searching for.

Peter Oh and Kevin Nguyen: Room 902.

I carve the number into my memory. If everything goes well, this is the room I’ll end up in tonight.

Once we’re all back in our seats and our plates are scraped clean, Wei Laoshi takes over, leading us out to the bus again. I think he’s really starting to embrace his tourist guide role, because he puts on a red bucket hat, waves a little flag with the school logo on it high over his head and says, with sincere enthusiasm, “Now—who’s ready for some sightseeing?”