If You Could See the Sun (80)

“Ready to leave?” Mama asks, pulling me from my thoughts. Her basket is only half filled with vegetables and fruit, her hands pale and chapped over the handle. The winter always makes her skin dry, the scar more noticeable.

I’m about to tell her yes, when my eyes fall on the little pharmacy store next to the seasoning section.

“Wait right here,” I say, ducking around the nearest shelf. “There’s something I want to see first...”



* * *



Over the course of the next week, I do everything I can to distract myself.

I catch up on all the popular costume dramas from the past few years, the kind that stretch on for over seventy episodes and involve such complicated relationships you’d need a diagram to sort them out. I read books that aren’t Macbeth or dry classics or compulsory texts for IB, but fun fantasy novels with magic and mythology. I help Mama cook when she’s working, help Baba fold his clothes even though he’s still not speaking to me. I make long to-do lists, SMART goals, Five Year Plans, then toss them in the trash, knowing how pointless it all is when my future now hangs on such a thin thread.

And no matter what, I try not to think about Peter, or Andrew She, or the fact that the school should be calling any day now to announce what exactly my punishment will be.

I try not to think about Henry Li.

But then one afternoon, when Baba’s still at work and I’m watching the last episode of Yanxi Palace alone in my bedroom, a knock sounds on our front door.

“Alice,” Mama calls from outside, and I know right away that something is wrong. She’s using her fake polite voice, usually reserved for chats with the neighbors at the local park or large family gatherings.

I bolt upright from bed, pulse already racing, and call back, “What is it?”

“Someone’s here to see you.”



* * *



Henry Li is standing in our living room.

There’s something so surreal about the scene that I’m half convinced it’s a hallucination. Henry—with his perfect posture and ironed button-down shirt and polished shoes, the very image of wealth and privilege—next to our battered sofa, our yellow-stained walls with bits of old newspaper pasted over the holes.

He seems too big for the room. Too bright.

It’s like one of those “Which of these things is out of place?” games, except the answer is painfully obvious.

Then Henry’s eyes land on me, and I realize how I must look. I’m wearing Mama’s baggy plaid pajamas—the ones that have a wide tear in the sleeves—my eyes are still single-lidded and puffy from crying, and I haven’t washed my hair in four days.

A hot, sticky sensation fills my stomach, humiliation turning into anger and back again, and suddenly I want to crawl out of my skin.

“Hi, Alice,” he says, his voice overwhelmingly soft.

“Bye,” I blurt out.

And I flee.

Our flat is so small that it takes only seconds for me to sprint back into my room, slamming the door shut behind me with such force the walls tremble. I haven’t felt this kind of panic, this mad, heart-pounding, nauseating rush of adrenaline, since the last Beijing Ghost task. Since everything fell apart.

My mind whirs as I fall onto the bed, pulling the blankets high over my head as if I can somehow pretend this nightmare scenario away. I have no idea why Henry’s here, but I need him to leave. Now.

Maybe I’ll tell him I’ve developed a rare but very serious allergy to other humans, I think desperately. One that will cause intense choking and potential death if anyone comes within three feet of me. Or maybe I’ll say I have a dog in here who’s terrified of strangers. Or maybe—

“Alice?” He knocks on the door once. Twice. I hear the faint rustle of fabric, and imagine him sliding his hands into his pockets, cocking his head to the side. The image is so vivid, so terribly familiar it makes my chest hurt. “Can I come in?”

I open my mouth to give him one of my very flimsy excuses, but I choke on the words. After all that’s happened, I’m still a terrible liar. Maybe it’s for the best.

“Um—wait a second,” I tell him, scrambling out of bed. In one sweeping motion, I clear the dirty laundry and empty snack packets and wads of tissue off the sheets and stuff them all into a basket, cringing at the thought of Henry witnessing such a mess. When I’m absolutely certain there are no more unwashed bras or socks lying around, I open the door.

“Thank you,” Henry says, his tone and expression so formal I’m almost tempted to laugh.

Then he steps inside and examines the tiny bedroom carefully, as if trying hard to come up with a compliment. Him and his manners. At last, he points to a plastic tiger statue by the bed that was a Lunar Festival gift from Xiaoyi to Mama—the only object in the room that isn’t a necessity.

“This is really nice,” he says.

“Thanks. It’s my mum’s.”

He quickly drops his hand.

I debate offering him a seat out of courtesy, but there’s barely enough room for him to stand as it is. “Sorry this place is so small,” I mumble, then realize who I’m talking to. Remember how he usually acts in such cramped spaces. “Wait. Aren’t you afraid of—”

“I’m fine,” he says, but he doesn’t look fine. Now that he’s this close, I can make out the familiar lines of tension in his shoulder and jaw.