Page 29 of If You Could See the Sun
I’ll admit—it does feel wrong to capitalize on her desperation like this, to charge money for the kind of help I should be offering for free, even if 50,000 RMB might mean nothing to her and her family.
But I would also be lying if I said my heart didn’t skip a beat at the number.
50,000 RMB.That’s more than what Mama makes in a whole year.
I glance at the time on my phone. It’s still half past five in the morning, giving me enough time to sign the NDA, revise for my Chinese tingxie quiz, and—ideally—come up with a game plan before first period.
I shoot back:
Ok. I’ll try my best.
Then I yank my uniform over my head, grab my school bag, and slide out the door, keeping my steps as light as possible so as to not wake Chanel up. After everything she went through last night, it’s the least I can do.
Henry and I are the first people to enter the English classroom.
Well, technically, that’s a lie—our teacher, Mr. Chen, is already seated behind his desk. He’s busy shuffling around piles of marked papers when I walk in, a Styrofoam coffee cup dangling from his mouth, his oil-black, shoulder-length hair combed back in a low ponytail. Out of all the teachers at Airington, Mr. Chen is probably the most talked about, and by far the most respected; he’s written for theNew York Times, had lunch with the Obamas, published a poetry collection on the Asian diaspora experience which was later nominated for a Nobel Prize, and got his law degree from Harvard before he’d even turned twenty, then gave up a six-figure job at a prestigious New York law firm on a whim to teach all around the globe.
He is, in short, everything I want to be.
“Ah. Alice.” Mr. Chen smiles widely when he sees me. He smiles a lot, Mr. Chen, despite the fact that there’s very little to smile about at eight o’clock on a Thursday morning. Then again, ifIwere a successful, award-winning Harvard law grad-slash-poet, I’d probably be grinning like an idiot even at my own funeral.
“Morning, Mr. Chen,” I say, smiling back and forcing as much enthusiasm into my voice as I can. This is a strategic move, on my part. When it comes time for the teachers to help us write letters of recommendation, I want to be remembered as someone “upbeat” and “positive,” with “excellent people skills”—never mind if that’s the complete opposite of my actual personality.
Of course, now that I might be leaving, all my efforts could be for nothing...
No.I crush the thought before it can fully form. I have Beijing Ghost now. A source of income. People who want to pay me50,000 RMBfor a single job.
Everything can still work out the way I want it to.
“...consider that English program?” Mr. Chen is saying, a meaningful look in his eyes.
It takes me a second to figure out what he’s talking about. He’d recommended this prestigious two-month writing course to me and only me at the end of last year, and I’d let myself get excited for exactly five seconds before erasing the whole thing from my mind. The program cost about as much as my parents’ flat, and even if Iwererich and had the time to spare, I’d probably invest in a coding boot camp like the one Henry went to in Year Nine. Something with a high ROI.
But obviously I can’t tellMr. Chenthat.
“Oh, yes. I’m still thinking about it,” I lie. My smile is starting to feel even stiffer than usual.
To my relief, Mr. Chen doesn’t push the matter. “Well, no rush. And in the meantime... I have something for you.” He holds up a paper with my tiny writing scribbled all over it. It’s last week’s English test: an essay and two long-answer questions on symbolism inMacbeth. “Good job.”
My heart stutters a beat, the way it always does when I’m about to receive academic feedback of any kind. I grab the paper and quickly fold it in two so that Henry, who’s walking toward us, can’t see my score.
“And you too, King Henry,” Mr. Chen says with a wink, handing him his test over my shoulder. I don’t remember who came up with the ridiculous nickname first, but all the humanities teachers seem to get a real kick out of using it. I’vealways found it a bit too on the nose. After all, everyone knows Henry is the equivalent of royalty at our school.
I have a nickname, too, though only my classmates sometimes call me by it: Study Machine. I don’t mind, to be honest—it highlights my main strength and suggests at control. Purpose. Ruthless efficiency.
All good things.
As Henry thanks the teacher and strikes up a conversation about some extra readings he did last night, I step off to the side and sneak a glance at my score.
99%.
Relief floods through me. If this were any other subject, I’d already be beating myself up for that deducted 1%, but as a rule, Mr. Chen never gives out full marks.
Still, I can’t celebrate just yet...
I turn to Henry when he’s finished talking. “What did you get?” I want to know.
He raises his eyebrows. He looks more well rested than he did the last time I saw him; his skin smooth as glass, dark hair falling in neat waves over his forehead, not a single wrinkle to be seen on his uniform. I wonder, briefly, if he ever gets tired of being so perfect all the time. “What didyouget?”
