If You Could See the Sun (8)

What I need are answers.

No, even better, what I need is another list. A clear course of action, like:

One, figure out why the hell I can’t see my own reflection like some kind of vampire in an early 2000s movie.

Two, rearrange afternoon homework plans depending on results.

Three...

As I rummage my brain for a third point, it occurs to me that I might just be hallucinating, that maybe this is some early onset psychological condition—it would also explain the strange cold spell earlier—and I should probably go to the school nurse’s office.

But on my way there, the sense of wrongness digs deeper into my bones. More students bump into me, their gazes gliding over my face like I’m not even there. After the fifth kid steps on my foot and reacts only by sending the ground a quizzical look, a bizarre, terrible thought enters my head.

Just to test it, I run up to the closest student in my line of view and wave a hand in front of his face.

Nothing.

Not even a blink.

My heart pounds so hard I think it might fly out of my ribcage.

I wave my hand again, hoping against hope that I’m somehow wrong about all of this, but he just stares straight ahead.

Which means either the whole school has banded together and manipulated every surface on campus to play the most elaborate prank of all time or—

Or I’m invisible.

This is a slightly bigger inconvenience than I’d imagined.

I twist out of the student’s path before he can knock me over and move to stand in the shelter of a nearby oak tree, my mind reeling. There’s no point going to the nurse now if they can’t even see me. But maybe—surely—someone else can help. Someone who’ll believe me, come up with a solution, and if not, then at least comfort me. Tell me everything’s going to be okay.

I do a quick mental scan of all the people I know, and what I end up with is a harsh, painful truth: I’m friendly with everybody...but I’m friends with nobody.

This sounds exactly like the sort of realization that should inspire a good hour of careful soul-searching. Under any other circumstance, it probably would. But the rush of fear and adrenaline pulsing through my veins won’t let me rest, and already I’m making more calculations, trying my best to strategize my next move.

So I don’t have any close relationships to rely on during a personal, potentially supernatural crisis. Fine. Whatever. I can be objective about this. Treat this like an extra-credit question on a test, where all that matters is getting the right answer.

Now, objectively speaking, there is a person here at school who might prove useful. A certain person who reads obscure academic journals for enjoyment and once interned at NASA and didn’t even blink that time a North Korean dignitary rocked up at our school. A certain person who might actually be calm and competent enough to figure this shit out.

And if he doesn’t have any idea what’s happening to me... Well, at least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing there’s a puzzle Henry Li can’t solve.

Before my pride can catch up to my logic and convince me why this is a terrible idea, I march toward the one building I never thought I’d go near, let alone seek out intentionally.

Minutes later, I’m staring up at the words painted over a set of vermillion double-doors in sweeping calligraphy:

Mencius

Hall.

I take a deep breath. Check to make sure no one’s watching. Then push open the doors and walk in.



* * *



All four of the dorm buildings on campus are named after ancient Chinese philosophers: Confucius, Mencius, Laozi, and Mozi. It sounds pretty classy and everything, until you stop and think about the number of horny teens who’ve hooked up in Confucius Hall.

Mencius is by far the fanciest building of them all. The corridors are wide and spotless, as if swept clean by the school ayis at hourly intervals, and the walls are a rich shade of ocean blue, decorated with framed ink paintings of birds and sprawling mountains. If it weren’t for the names printed over every door, the place could probably pass for a five-star hotel.

It doesn’t take long to find Henry’s room. His parents were the ones who donated this building, after all, so the school decided it was more than fair to assign him the only single room at the end of the hall.

To my surprise, his door has been left half-open—I’d always pegged him as the type to be super private about his personal space. I take a tentative step forward and pause in the doorway, overcome by a sudden, inexplicable urge to smooth out my hair.

Then I remember why I’m here in the first place, and a bubble of hysterical laughter rises up inside me.

Before I can lose my nerve or comprehend the true absurdity of what I’m about to do, I slip inside.

And freeze.

I’m not sure what, exactly, I expected to see. Maybe Henry reclining on giant piles of money, or polishing one of his many shiny trophies, or exfoliating his ridiculously clear skin with crushed diamonds and the blood of migrant workers. That sort of thing.

Instead, he’s seated at his desk, his dark brows furrowed slightly in concentration as he types away on his laptop. The top button of his white school shirt is undone, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the lean muscles in his arms. Soft afternoon sunlight streams through the open window beside him, bathing his perfect features in gold, and as if the whole scene isn’t dramatic enough, a light breeze drifts in and runs its fingers through his hair like this is some goddamn K-pop music video.