Page 41 of If You Could See the Sun
“You forgot about the test,” he says. Notare you okay?orhow did it go?ordo you want to talk about it?Maybe he isn’t that concerned after all.
I run my tongue over the sharp edges of my teeth. “Yeah, I know. And I swear, if you’re going to rub it in—”
“No,” he says. Quickly. “That was not my intention.”
And even though it’s the last thing I’d expect myself to do, especially when I still feel like my world is about to end, I can’t help it: I snort.
He frowns. “Is something funny?”
“No, no, nothing,” I say, shaking my head—then stop abruptly, when the motion makes pain spike through my skull. At this rate, I can’t even tell if the migraine is from sleep deprivation or from bawling my eyes out.
Henry says nothing, but his frown deepens.
“Okay, fine, you really want to know? It’s just—you just sound soposhall the time, oh my god.” I straighten my posture to match his and mimic him with an exaggerated British accent.“That was not my intention.”
“I donotsound like that,” he says, affronted.
“You’re right. You sound even posher. Why are you still here, anyway?” I ask, looking over his shoulder to scan the emptying hall. “Shouldn’t we be getting to class or—”
“English is canceled for the day. Mr. Chen was invited to deliver a lecture at Peking University.” He hesitates. “The email came a few minutes ago, when you were...”
When I was having a mental breakdown.
“Ah,” I say, suddenly far too aware of the damp patches on my blazer from when I used it to wipe my face. The puffiness in my lips and cheeks. The dry, uncomfortable ache in my eyes. I turn my head, feigning interest in the glass display to my left. Glossy certificates catch the artificial light of the hall, the golden, italicized text gleaming like magic:Rachel Kim: First Place in IGCSE History. Patricia Chao: Best All-Rounder Award. Isabella Lee: Perfect Score in IB Geography.
All legends. All names that continue to adorn our halls, remind us of their greatness, long after the students themselves have graduated.
The sound of crinkling paper pulls me from my thoughts. I glance back to see Henry reaching for something in his bag. “Do you want—”
“Oh, it’s fine, I can just get some from the bathroom,” I say, assuming he’s about to offer me a tissue.
But then he’s holding up one of those White Rabbit milk candies I saw him eating in his dorm, the creamy white wrapper smooth, almost the same shade as his outstretched palm. Confusion flickers over his features when he hears the end of my sentence.
We both pause. Catch our mistake.
God, why does everything have to be so awkward when I’m around him?
“Uh. Never mind.” I hold out my hand. “Guess I could do with some candy.” As he passes it over, his fingers brush against mine. Just once, briefly, there and then gone. So warm and light they could be confused for the flutter of birds’ wings.
It feels nice.Toonice.
I retract my hand as if I’ve been burnt.
“Thanks,” I mumble, busying myself with peeling the wrapper and bringing the candy to my lips. Immediately, the thin, papery outer layer melts on my tongue, and the rich, mildly sweet taste fills my mouth.
It tastes like my childhood. Like the long, luxurious summers in Beijing before I left for America, before my nainai passed away. Mama rarely let me have sweets, saying it was a waste of money and bad for my teeth, but every morning during the holidays, Nainai would hobble out to the local grocery store and buy little packets of White Rabbit milk candy, hiding them inside her handkerchief. Whenever Mama wasn’t looking, she would sneak one to me with a wink.
But my memories of her more or less end there.
She only called on my birthdays after we moved across the sea, said she didn’t want to inconvenience us as we tried to settle in, that she knew we were busy. Then, sometime after I turned nine, she died alone at home. A stroke. Preventable, if only she had the money to pay for a proper checkup and medical treatment, to ask for help when she wasn’t feeling well.
Baba and Mama didn’t even tell me she was gone until the day of the Qingming Festival.
My throat burns at the thought, at the injustice of it all, but this time, at least, I manage to force the tears back before they can form.
I don’t know why I’m so emotional today.
I sneak a quick glance at Henry to see if he’s noticed, but he seems suddenly fascinated by the awards display too.
