Page 48 of If You Could See the Sun
I’m not just stress pacing—I’m the textbook definition of anxiety right now. My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my throat, and my mouth tastes like ash. Ever since I messaged Evie Wu on Beijing Ghost this morning, telling her I’d be willing to help her cheat, my nervous system has been on the verge of breaking down. And I hate it, truly. I hate everything about this.
But I need to honor my choices.
“You also look like you’re going to throw up,” Chanel adds helpfully.
“I won’t,” I tell her, just as my stomach lurches. I fight back the rising swell of nausea. “I mean—oh god, I hopenot.”
“Hey,” she says. She tears open a new face mask packet, dabbing the excess foam on the pale insides of her wrists. “Not to be super gross, but like, if youwereto throw up...do you think your vomit would be invisible as well? Because technically it’d be outside your body, but if it was alsoproducedby—”
“Chanel?” I interrupt.
“Hmm?”
“Please stop talking.”
She manages to stay quiet for a full minute, pressing the mask onto her skin, before she says, “Will you at least tell me what kind of task you’re doing today that’s so—”
“Nope,” I say, and she responds with an exaggerated pout. “And careful, your mask is going to wrinkle.”
She stops pouting at once, settling instead for a stiff poker face as she hurries to smooth out the edges of her mask again. If I wasn’t trying so hard to keep my lunch down, I might’ve laughed.
“Anyway,” I say, completing another lap around our tiny dorm room. My feet refuse to stay still. “I’m not withholding information this time because I don’t trust you. But the less people know, the less likely things will go horribly wrong—and the less liable you’ll be.”
“ButHenryknows.”
I grimace. “Yeah, well. That’s because I need him for something. Speaking of which...” I glance up at the clock, and my heart seizes. 5:50 p.m. It’s time.
Oh my god. This is really happening.
When I speak again, my voice comes out as a squeak. “I—I should go find him now. Get this over with.”
I leave everything except my phone in the dorm and rush outside, barely catching Chanel’s quick “good luck!” as the door swings shut behind me.
Henry and I agreed to meet by the main entrance of the humanities building at 6:00 p.m. At exactly 5:59 p.m., we both arrive at the same time, and I have to give it to him—Henry might be unbearably pretentious, but at least he’s punctual.
He also happens to look especially put together today; his dark blazer freshly ironed, his tie straight, not a single hair out of place. I almost laugh. He looks like he’s about to deliver a speech to the school, rather than help me pull off a crime.
“Alice,” he says when he sees me, ever so polite.
“Henry.” I return his greeting with a mock salute, mimicking his formal tone.
Faint irritation flits over his face. Good. If Henry is in the mood to bicker with me, then at least I’ll have something to keep me distracted from my nerves—
“Are you nervous?” he asks.
Or not.
“Why would you think I’m nervous?” I snap, reaching over his shoulder to yank open the door.
“Well, you appear to be shaking.”
I follow his gaze, and hastily hide my trembling hands in my pockets, pushing past him into the building. “It’s cold,” I mutter.
“It’s twenty-two degrees right now.”
My jaw clenches. “What are you, the weatherman?”
“Really? The weatherman?” His voice is light, amused. “Not your best insult, Alice.”
