If You Could See the Sun (78)

With enormous effort, I manage to find my voice again. “What—what are you doing?” I croak.

“I’m telling my dad,” she says. Her mouth twists into a grimace that’s half bitter, half smug. “He’s been extra nice to me ever since I found out about—you know.” The corners of her lips pull down further, but she continues, “I bet if I ask, he can pull some strings, get the school to reconsider—”

“No.” I grab her by the shoulders, force her to put her phone away. “No—Chanel, don’t. Please. I mean, I’m so grateful you’d even want to—but it’s not the school. Well, not only the school. I just. I can’t be here right now.” My voice cracks on the last word, and Chanel’s eyes darken with concern.

We’re both silent for a while: me trying to breathe through clenched teeth and shove my emotions down; her standing completely still, gaze trained on the ground.

Then she sighs. “God, this sucks.”

The massive understatement draws a shaky, slightly hysterical laugh from my lips, and I nod.

“Can I help you pack, at least?” she asks, glancing at my bag again. “Or I could help you get a Didi? My driver’s probably coming soon, too—he could give you and your parents a lift.”

Her kindness is overwhelming, like the fierce blast of a heater in winter. I give her hand a light squeeze, too choked up to speak for a minute. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m pretty much done anyway,” I finally manage, gathering the last of my things. “And my house is almost a two-hour drive from here. It’d be too far for your driver.”

Before she can protest, I throw my arms around her small frame, hoping it can convey everything—all the guilt and gratitude—I don’t know how to say.

Then I turn and walk out the door, pushing aside the awful thought that this may be the last time I’ll ever see these halls.



* * *



Mama and Baba do not speak a single word to me the whole subway ride home. It’s better, I suppose, than being screamed at in public again. But not by much.

When we finally reach their flat—our flat, I keep reminding myself—it’s even smaller than I remember. The ceilings scrape Baba’s head. The walls are stained yellow. There’s barely enough room for all of us to stand in the living room without bumping into the dinner table or the cabinets.

Silently, Mama picks up my bag and suitcase, and for one terrible second I think she’s going to throw them and me out of the house. Force me to go live on the streets. Disown me for good.

But then she dumps my stuff in her and Baba’s bedroom—the only bedroom in the flat.

“You sleep there,” she instructs, without looking at me.

“Where will you and Baba sleep?” I ask.

“On couch.”

“But—”

“Not for discussion,” she says firmly, such finality in her tone that I can only swallow my protests and comply.

“Thank you, Mama,” I whisper, but she’s already turned away. If she heard me, she doesn’t show it.

I swallow the lump in my throat. All I want is for her to hug me, reassure me the way she did when I was a child, but I know that’s impossible. For now, at least. So instead I unpack my bags, change the sheets, shower, going through all the motions like a machine. Disciplined. Unfeeling.

And only when I’m alone in their bedroom, the door shut tight, do I pull the thin covers over my head and let myself cry.





18


The next morning, I wake up with a pounding headache and the pattern of my pillow pressed into my cheek. For a few short, blissful seconds, I forget I’m back at home. I forget why my throat feels so dry, like I haven’t drunk any water in days. Why my eyes are almost swollen shut.

Then I hear the clatter of pots, the click-click-click of the stove turning on in the kitchen—the kitchen—and everything comes flooding back to me in one sweeping, nauseating wave—

Fuck.

My lungs seize up as I’m assaulted by memory after painful memory, forced to relive every second of yesterday’s meeting, the look of profound disappointment on Baba’s face, the way Mama kept her lips pursed on the long subway ride home, as if she was trying to hold back tears.

I can’t remember the last time I messed up on such a catastrophic scale. I’ve never even been grounded before; whenever I did something wrong as a child, like accidentally scribble on the walls or shatter a plate, I’d be so harsh on myself that Mama and Baba would end up comforting me instead of handing down punishments.

But this is different. What I did was completely, undeniably wrong on every conceivable level. You can always fix or replace a broken plate, but when you hurt people—there’s no going back from that.

And that’s not even considering the legal implications. If Peter’s family decides to sue—which, let’s face it, they probably will because he’s their only child and I’m powerless and they’re used to having their way... If the school decides to expel me, put “criminal activity” into my permanent academic records... Or worse, if this ends up going to court... I’m not even sure how much lawyers cost, but I do know they’re expensive, a thousand times more expensive than we could ever afford, and if any of the court dramas I’ve watched are grounded in truth, a legal case like this could drag on for years. But what would the alternatives even be? Prison? Would they force my parents into jail in my place, because I’m underage? Or would they send me to some kind of juvenile detention center, where kids hide knives under their pillows and attack the physically weak like me?