If You Could See the Sun (76)

“I had to, Alice,” Mr. Murphy says. Another sigh. “It’s important that they know. You’re only a kid, after all.”

The words sound oddly familiar, and it takes me a moment to recall the last time I heard them: Mr. Chen, after praising my English exam, telling me with such sincerity that I deserved to dream, to carve out a future of my own.

Now the memory feels a million years old.



* * *



Apart from orientation and my scholarship interview, my parents have never set foot on school campus before. They always say it’s because the public transport is too inconvenient, which is true—most students have private drivers, so the school has never bothered to invest in anything more accessible—but I suspect it’s really because they’re afraid of embarrassing me. Because they don’t want to stand out for all the wrong reasons when they appear beside the typical Airington parental crowd of company owners, IT executives, and national stars.

Whatever the reason, I can’t imagine them navigating their way through the five floors of the humanities building, to the tiny office at the very end of the hall, having never even come close to the place before.

So when I race out of the bus, past the other students taking their time to unload their bags in the courtyard and waiting for their drivers to pick them up, and into Mr. Murphy’s office, I’m not entirely surprised to find it empty.

But that doesn’t stop me from panicking.

“They—they must’ve gotten lost,” I babble to Mr. Murphy, my chest tightening at the thought of my parents wandering around campus in a daze, looking for me. “I have to go find them—they don’t know English that well—”

God, it’s like America all over again.

“They’re grown adults, Alice,” Mr. Murphy says with a confused look, like I’m overreacting for no reason. He doesn’t understand. “I’m sure they don’t need a tour guide just to find—”

Someone knocks on the door, and I whip around.

My mouth goes dry.

A senior student I recognize but have never spoken to before is leaning against the door frame, my parents standing close behind him, their expressions equally pinched and closed off. With a pang, I notice that Baba’s wearing his blue work overalls, that Mama’s wearing the same faded floral shirt I last saw her in at the restaurant.

Both of them look older than I remember. Frailer.

“Found these folks walking around the primary school. Say they’re looking for a Sun Yan in Mr. Murphy’s office,” the boy tells us, shooting me a glance that’s at once pitying and curious.

“Great. Thanks for bringing them here, Chen.” Mr. Murphy smiles.

“No probs.”

The boy glances at me one last time before disappearing behind the door.

The second we’re alone, Baba stalks over.

I’m still holding on to one last straw of hope that he and Mama won’t react as badly as I feared—not without hearing my side of the story first, at least—but then I see the fury in his eyes.

“What were you thinking?” Baba shouts, spittle flying from his lips, a dark vein bulging at his temple. He’s shaking, he’s so mad. I’ve never seen him this angry before, not even that time I accidentally spilled water over the laptop he’d spent years saving up for. His voice is deafening in the closed space, and I know from the sudden hush that falls over the courtyard outside that everyone must be listening. That all my classmates and teachers can hear every single word. Chanel. Mr. Chen. Rainie. Vanessa.

Henry.

For the first time I find myself praying that I can turn invisible permanently. Disappear right this instant, sink into a void deep beneath the hideous office carpet and never resurface again.

“Are you trying to rebel?” Baba continues, his voice getting louder and louder. “How could you even—Your Mama and I don’t believe it at first when the school call us, not for award, but say you’re a criminal—”

Mr. Murphy keeps his gaze leveled at a random spot on the wall, looking terribly uncomfortable. When Baba takes a short break from his yelling to breathe, I muster all the courage I have left and whisper, “Baba, can we please—please—talk about this somewhere else? Everyone’s listening—”

But this is the wrong thing to say.

An awful, unforgiving look flashes over Baba’s face. “Do you only live for other people?” he demands. “Why do you care so much what they think?”

I don’t know how to reply without enraging him further, so I keep quiet. Pray this will all be over soon.

“Sun Yan. I’m talking to you.”

Then he reaches down for his shoe, and I recoil, certain it’s going to come flying my way, but Mama quickly intervenes.

“Laogong, now’s probably not the best time for this,” she murmurs to Baba in Mandarin, with a pointed look at Mr. Murphy.

“Fine.” Baba grabs my wrist—not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough to hurt. “Let’s go.”

I dig my heels in, wrenching my arm away with difficulty. “W-Where are you taking me?” I blurt out. There’s a low buzz building in my ears, a painful pressure rising up my chest and throat like bile. “I still have class—”

Baba barks out a laugh. “Class?” Without warning, he slams his hand down on the desk with a hard thud. Everyone jumps, including Mr. Murphy. Then Baba switches abruptly to English, and his already-disjointed words jumble together further in his rage. “Do you know what education for, huh? Why school charge 350,000 RMB—”