If You Could See the Sun (77)

Mr. Murphy clears his throat. “Well, actually, it’s 360,000 RMB now—a reasonable price, if you consider our new state-of-the-art facilities—”

Baba ignores him. “It help you grow, form connection, see the world, one day give back to society. Not worship money. What your Mama always say? If you not good person, you’re nothing. Nothing.”

Heavy silence falls in the wake of his words like the drop of an axe. I’m trembling uncontrollably, my teeth chattering in a loud staccato. I think I’m going to die, or throw up, or both.

Then Baba shakes his head, eyes fluttering closed. Heaves a sigh. When he looks back up at me, he seems to have aged ten years in the span of ten seconds. It’s in Mandarin that he says, “No matter what happened, your Mama and I always felt so proud to have raised a daughter like you. But now...” He trails off.

My skin burns with shame.

“I—I’m sorry,” I choke out, and once the words have left my lips, I can’t stop repeating them. “I’m so, so sorry, Baba—I really am—I didn’t want it to be like this either...”

But Baba’s expression doesn’t soften. “We are leaving.”

Mr. Murphy chooses this moment to speak up. “Actually, given the current circumstances...a short break from school may be best for Alice.” He catches my look of horror, and quickly adds, “Not saying that she’s expelled, of course—it’ll likely be a while until Peter’s parents and the school board reach a decision. But until then...well.” His eyes flicker to the window, as if he, too, knows the entire Year Twelve cohort is eavesdropping on our conversation. He sighs. “I believe some distance would be beneficial. Give us all time to reflect and potentially make amends. What do you think, Alice?”

All three adults turn to me, and I realize it doesn’t matter what I think. The decision has already been made.

I swallow. “Can I at least go grab my stuff? From the dorm?”

Mr. Murphy looks visibly relieved. I guess it’d cause him a lot of trouble if I were to resist. Or maybe he just doesn’t want Baba to start yelling again.

It’s Mama who answers first.

“Yes,” she says quietly. Her voice is so distant she could be talking to a complete stranger—and just when I thought I couldn’t possibly feel any worse. “Go. Be quick.” She folds her hands together, the white scar peeking out from under her fingertips. “We still have to catch the subway.”



* * *



The short walk from Mr. Murphy’s office to my dorm is torture.

Everyone scatters the second I step outside, but I still sense their eyes trained on the back of my head, glimpse the suspicion and worry and judgment written all over their faces. My stomach squeezes. I’ve always hated negative attention.

I wonder how many of the people watching have pieced together that last night had something to do with Beijing Ghost. And how many more of them figured out that Beijing Ghost is me.

The walk starts to feel like a death march.

My eyes ache with tears as I climb up the steps to Confucius Hall, but I refuse to cry. To show weakness. I hold my head up high and throw back my shoulders, staring straight ahead, as if I’m not one wrong move away from breaking down in front of the whole year level.

A bitter wind picks up, howling in my ears, and over the noise I hear a faint voice—

“Alice!” someone calls after me.

I ignore them and move faster. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now, whether they’re well-intentioned or not. I have no idea what I’d say.

When I reach my dorm room, I stuff everything I own into a sad-looking duffel bag. There’s not much for me to pack, really; a stack of certificates and a few trophies, some toiletries, and a school uniform I might never have the chance to wear again...

“Oh my god. Alice.”

I jump and look up. It’s Chanel, her eyes wide as she takes in the opened wardrobe, the unzipped bag lying at my feet.

Then, without another word, she crosses the room and pulls me into a crushing hug. I stiffen at first, taken aback by the sudden gesture of affection, then rest my head tentatively on her bony shoulder, letting her hair tickle my cheek. For a moment, all the terror and uncertainty and guilt of the past few days catch up to me.

You can’t cry, I remind myself, as hot tears threaten to spill over.

“Dude. I was so worried,” Chanel whispers. She steps back to look me in the eyes. “What happened? I thought you were with Henry last night, but then—then I heard the ambulance sirens, and Mr. Murphy started calling all of us to pack at like, four, and he sounded scared shitless, and the teachers wouldn’t let any of us speak to you on the train... And now this?” She jerks a finger toward the duffel bag, its meager contents exposed. “What the hell is going on?”

“I’m leaving,” I say numbly.

She stares at me. “Leaving? Where? How long?”

All I can do is shake my head. If I speak another word, I’m scared I’ll fall apart.

But Chanel won’t let it rest. “Is the school making you leave?” she demands, angry now, two spots of color rising to her cheeks. “Because whatever you did, it can’t be that bad. And besides, you’re one of the best students they have. No—they can’t. I won’t let them.” She spins away from me, already reaching for her phone.