Page 33 of If You Could See the Sun
This is Henry’s cue.
Henry walks forward, textbook held up in front of him as if distracted, as if he hasn’t been waiting outside this whole time, and bumps straight into Jake. Almost in slow motion, the coffee cup tumbles out of Henry’s hand, and the dark liquid splashes everywhere.
“What thefuck.” Jake stumbles backward, hands flying to his soaked shirt.
“So sorry. I didn’t see you,” Henry says at once, making a good show of looking guilty. A few drops of coffee splattered onto him too, and as I watch, he slowly wipes his cheek clean with a faint grimace. “I could get you a new shirt if—”
Jake shakes his head, though he still looks pretty pissed. “Nah, whatever, man. I just need to go wash this shit off.”
With that, he disappears back into his room, snaps something that sounds like, “Peter, my man, could you please stop rapping forone goddamn second?” and reemerges with a towel draped over his shoulder and an expression that screams murder.
As he storms off to the bathroom, Chanel makes her move.
When I’d asked Chanel on our way here how, exactly, she planned to get Peter out of his room, she’d simply winked and replied in a matter-of-fact tone, “My feminine charms, of course.”
I’d thought she was joking.
But as I follow her into Jake and Peter’s room, she makes a straight beeline for him, hips swaying to the beat of the bass, and calls, her voice almost a coo, “Peter!I’ve been looking for you.”
The bass stops. Peter jerks his head up from what looks like a miniature recording studio in his corner of the room, complete with a keyboard and microphone and everything. “Uh...Chanel?” He blinks at her. Puts a self-conscious hand over his Star Wars pajamas, as if he can somehow block them from view.
“Sorry, I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Chanel asks, her eyes wide. She steps closer to Peter, until there are only a few inches of space left between them. “I just really needed to find you.”
Peter lets out a nervous laugh. “Okay... Uh, why though?”
“Oh my god. Why do you think?” Chanel says with a coy smile, like they’re sharing an inside joke. She swats his shoulder, but leaves her hand there, her fingers curling slightly over the fabric.
“You...want to borrow something?” Peter attempts, his eyes darting back and forth between Chanel’s hand and her face.
And even though he’s barely said anything of substance, Chanel breaks into giggles as if he’s just told the funniest joke in the world. “No,you idiot,” she says affectionately. “My dad’s thinking of hiring some new DJs for his nightclub, and he wants me to help him pick. But then it just hit methat like, we have a freakingexpertright in our year level.”
“Oh,” Peter says. Then Chanel’s words seem to actually register; his face flushes. “Oh.I mean—I wouldn’t call myself an expert, but—”
“Come on, you don’t have to be modest with me.” Chanel leans in closer, long lashes lowered, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cringe or applaud her commitment. “You’re talented as hell, and you know it. Everyone knows it.”
Peter just turns redder.
Suddenly, Chanel pulls away. Places a hand on her hip and studies him. “So you’ll do it with me?”
“Do...what?”
She arches a delicate brow. “Come up with a list of good DJs, of course. I’ve already got a few names on my laptop, if you want to come check it out now.”
For a brief moment, Peter hesitates, like he suspects this might all be a prank. But it turns out Chanel’sfeminine charmsare pretty persuasive, because he rises from his chair, still trying to conceal his pajamas from view, and says, “Uh, sure. I guess. Let me just—let me get changed first.”
“Great! I’ll wait outside.”
Chanel beams at him and struts out the door, and I quickly avert my gaze as Peter starts tugging off his shirt. I listen to the squeak of the wardrobe door, the soft clatter of plastic hangers as he searches for something to wear, to his muttered curse—“Aish!”—when he bangs his leg against the corner of his bed.
Then he’s gone, and I’m left standing all alone in his room.
I’ve never really been inside a boy’s dorm room before—apart from Henry’s, of course—and the more I stare around, the more I realize Henry’s taste in interior decoration must be an exception.
There are three giant computer monitors and headphones set up over the desk, rainbow lights flashing from the gaps between the keys. Protein bar wrappers littered everywhere. Two posters of some NBA star and that popular Chinese idol so many guys seem to love—Dilraba Dilmurat—plastered over the gray walls. Socks and underwear strewn across the floor in crumpled balls.
When I inhale, I catch a strong whiff of peanut butter, and something that might be cologne.
Wrinkling my nose, I search through the mess for Jake’s phone. I spot it only minutes later, half tucked beneath his pillow. A small sigh of relief escapes my lips. For some reason, I’d thought this part would be a lot harder.
