If You Could See the Sun (68)

But perfect is the term Rainie settles on.

“God, you’re so perfect,” she says with a little hiccup. Then, to my surprise, her eyes flicker to me as well. “And you, Alice. Both of you. King Henry and the Study Machine. Our perfect model students.”

I force myself to laugh along with them, but everything sounds off. The compliment burns on its way down like acid.

If only you knew what Airington’s two model students were up to tonight.

But beneath the panic, beneath all the guilt, there’s another emotion clawing at my chest. Resentment. Because if it weren’t for the school fees and Beijing Ghost and the terrible task waiting ahead, this night would be...everything.

I would be able to join in their silly gossip and laugh with Rainie and maybe work up the nerve to sit close to Henry, continue right where we left off, snake my fingers through his. I would be just a teenager, giddy in a fancy hotel in a beautiful new city, with old classmates and potential new friends: Rainie, who gave too much of herself to a boy who took too much; Mina, whose parents recently got back together after a messy divorce, and are working to patch everything up; Bobby, whose older sister ran away three years ago, but you’d never know it from looking at him now.

I would actually be happy with these people, carefree—not checking the cursed clock every two seconds and waiting for a strange wave of cold to soak through my body.

It makes me almost dizzy, thinking about the stark differences in realities, what will be and what could’ve been. But that’s the kind of difference wealth creates.

By the time I tune back into the conversation, the topic’s moved on to Beijing Ghost.

“...wonder who’s behind it,” Vanessa is saying. “Oh, come on, Alice, don’t act as if you haven’t heard of the app,” she adds irritably, misreading my stunned expression.

“I have heard of Beijing Ghost,” I say, choosing my words with care. My heart is pounding so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if they could all hear. “But I don’t know who’s behind it.”

“Well, obviously,” Vanessa says, rolling her eyes, and relief washes over me. “No one does. Though there’s plenty of theories going around.”

Bobby nods, then winces, as though the movement makes his head hurt. “Some people think the app’s run by, like, a top government spy who just wants to make a quick buck. Sorta makes sense, if you really consider it—they’d have all the right connections and the technology to make it work.”

“Bobby,” Rainie says, with the air of an adult speaking to a very naive child. “Top government spies don’t need to build their own illegal school app to get rich quick. That’s what bribery is for.”

“Who d’you reckon it is, then?” Bobby challenges.

“I don’t know,” Rainie says, grabbing the whiskey bottle from Vanessa and gulping down the rest of the brown liquid in one go. Then she wipes her mouth roughly with the back of her sleeve. “But whoever it is—they’re a hero.”

Hero.

Another compliment, and from Rainie Lam, out of all people, but the word only chafes my conscience. I can’t bring myself to meet her gaze.

“I’m going to do it,” Vanessa says abruptly, pushing herself onto her feet with surprising steadiness. Even though she’s had more alcohol than the rest of the bunch, she also seems the most sober—which, considering the fact that Bobby is now balancing the room service menu on his head like a hat, isn’t saying much.

“Do what?” Mina asks.

“Confess,” Vanessa says, and maybe she’s drunker than I think she is, because I have no idea what she means.

Rainie does, though. “Let her go,” she tells all of us as Vanessa staggers toward the door, fumbling twice to turn the knob. “She’s been crushing hard on this guy for ages.”

The menu slides off Bobby’s head with a loud flapping sound as he turns, eyes wide. “Who?”

But whatever the answer is, I don’t hear it. A chill has started creeping up my spine, and before I’m forced to prove Bobby’s government conspiracy theory incorrect firsthand, I leap up, mumble something about checking to see if Vanessa’s okay, and run.





16


I knock once on Peter’s door and try to steady my erratic breathing.

Taking the lift was too risky—there are always security cameras on those things, and it’d be impossible to explain a button lighting up on its own if someone else were inside—so I ran all the way up the stairs instead. The entire back of my shirt is soaked through with sweat, but it’s hard to tell if that’s because of the physical exertion, or the worry chewing a hole through my stomach.

After what feels like a lifetime, I hear the metallic click of the lock, and the door swings open.

Jake Nguyen squints into the hallway light, his hair a mess, one of those white hotel bathrobes draped over his bare shoulders like a villain’s cape. The room behind him is dark, the curtains drawn. Beside the empty single bed by the window, I can make out Peter Oh’s sleeping figure.

“What the hell,” Jake grumbles, staring straight through me. He scratches his head. “Is anyone there?”

He waits a full two seconds before moving to close the door again, and I duck inside just in time. But as I fumble my way further into the room, I trip over something hard—Jake’s foot. He tenses, the faint bathroom light outlining the crease between his brows.