If You Could See the Sun (90)

To my embarrassment, my throat constricts, the basin of my heart overflowing, spilling into hope. There is so much stubborn hope.

I manage a small nod, and Baba smiles at me.

Maybe everything will be okay, I think.

“Speaking of Airington...” Baba pulls his hand back. Rests it on his lap. “They’ve already passed on the new information to Peter Oh’s parents. Since you apparently play a more minor role in the incident than they initially thought, they’ve chosen not to press charges.”

“But?” I press, sensing the shift in his tone.

“Peter’s parents are not pressing charges...but they are pressuring the school to make you leave once this semester is over. And based on my call with them earlier, I believe the school would like that as well.”

Oh.

I bite the inside of my cheek, waiting for the anger and panic to hit with full force, the questions to go off in my brain like a string of firecrackers: What will I do next? Who will I be without Airington?

And while I do feel all those things, dully, an unexpected calm washes over me. A kind of resignation. Deep down, I’d suspected something like this was coming; there was no way I could walk away from a crime of this magnitude completely unscathed.

“I understand,” I say, and the steadiness of my own voice surprises me. I sound calm, confident like Chanel or Henry. In a weird way, after hitting rock bottom and confronting Andrew and standing up to a representative of the school board, I feel ready to take on anything. Or survive anything, at least. “We’ll work something out.”

“What will you work out?”

Baba and I both turn at the faint rattle of keys, the low click of the front door shutting behind Mama. She’s wearing the old coat she bought on sale in America, her hair pulled back into a tight bun that emphasizes the sharpness of her eyes and chin.

“It’s...nothing to worry about. I’ll explain over dinner,” I say as she heads into the kitchen for her usual after-work routine: washing her face and scrubbing her hands for twenty seconds. After a moment’s deliberation, I get up too.

When Mama reemerges, I’ve already laid the small paper box out on the couch, the white of the package almost blinding in contrast to the old mustard cushions. It’s a silly little gift, probably a basic necessity for other families—but since gifts are so rare in our house, I’d been wondering when to give it to Mama. In light of Baba’s news, now seems like as good a time as any.

“What’s this?” Mama asks, eyeing the box.

“I bought it for you. With my own money, of course,” I add hastily.

Mama opens the box very carefully, as if afraid she might break it with one wrong move, and a bottle of expensive hand cream falls out into her open palm. She doesn’t say anything, just stares at the pretty bottle, at the delicate flower print snaking up its side, the recognizable brand name printed on top.

“I... I know your hands are always super dry from work,” I explain, more because the silence makes me nervous than anything. Will she think it’s a waste of money? “And when we were at the store the other day, I just thought, I might as well... It’s apparently supposed to help heal scars too.” I wring my hands together. “But if you don’t like it, I could always return it—”

Mama throws her arms around me, pulling me close. “Sha haizi,” she whispers into my hair. Silly child.

And as I lean against her, breathing in her familiar scent, I think, Maybe I was right earlier.

Maybe everything really will be okay.



* * *



Three long phone calls and countless rounds of emails later (all of which are ominously titled: Re: Alice Incident), I’m standing back outside the Airington school gates, a light bag in my hands.

After some negotiating, the school and Peter’s parents and I came to an agreement: I’m to leave Airington this December, but I get to spend my last few days here, finishing up my coursework for the semester and saying goodbye to my friends and teachers.

“Name?”

The security guard stares at me through the iron bars, and I’m struck by a sudden, overwhelming sense of déjà vu.

“Alice Sun,” I tell him, and offer a small smile. It’s weird how much I’ll miss everything about this place, now that I know I’m leaving—even this guy who can never seem to remember my name.

And who’s now watching me suspiciously.

“Why are you smiling?”

“Nothing, just...” I gesture to the deep blue sky above us, not a single winter cloud in sight. “It’s a nice day, that’s all.”

He glances up, then back at me, then up again, confusion shadowing his features. He looks young, maybe somewhere in his midtwenties. I wonder if he’s just graduated from college, how long he’s been living in Beijing, why he chose to work here. I hate that I’m only noticing these things now. “Uh, yeah, I guess it is...” He clears his throat. “Your year level?”

“Twelve.”

But I’m not the one who answers.

“Hi, Mr. Chen,” I greet as he draws closer to the gates, hoping he can’t detect the nervous wobble in my voice. He’s always been the teacher I respect the most—and the one I’m most afraid of disappointing.

Judging from his expression, the way his eyes dart to my bag and understanding flickers over them, he’s well up-to-date with the whole Alice Incident. Yet he doesn’t appear angry, exactly.