Page 50 of If You Could See the Sun
“Wait.” Something shifts in the black depths of his eyes. “You think I’m attractive?”
“Oh, come on, don’t act like that’s such a huge revelation,” I snap. “I’m pretty sure even the guys in our year level think so. I mean, really, when we had those diving lessons last year, everyone in the stands was straight-upgawkingat you as if they’d never seen a shirtless guy before, and later, when you did that photoshoot for the school magazine, and they made you wear that ridiculous suit—I couldn’t even—you just...” I trail off, suddenly all too aware of the heat in my cheeks, the anger curled in my chest that no longer feels like anger, but something else.
Something worse.
“Just—whatever.” I clear my throat. “Anyway. What was I saying?”
Henry cocks his head to the side, a slow smile spreading across his lips. “You were telling me how much you hate me.”
I bite my tongue, quickly avert my gaze. Try to will the strange feeling in my stomach away. Eventually, when I decide it’s safe to look at him again without my skin bursting into flames, he says, “Do you feel better now?”
“Huh?”
“You tend to stop being so scared when you’re angry,” he explains.
Confusion bubbles inside me. “How—how do you know that?”
“I notice,” he says simply.
Another statement. Another phrase thrown into the air for me to decipher. But I can’t wrap my head around it. What does he mean,he notices?And how could he be aware of something about me that I wasn’t even aware of myself? It just doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense, becauseno onenotices—
A sudden chill snakes down my spine, crawls along my legs, my wrists. A thousand pinpricks of ice. I go cold all over—painfully, unnaturally cold—and I understand whatthismeans, at least.
It means it’s time to get to work.
“Henry! What are you still doing here?”
Mr. Murphy looks up from his desk as Henry and I walk in, his eyes sweeping right over me.
“I was hoping you’d still be in, Mr. Murphy,” Henry says with one of his rare, grossly persuasive smiles. Bright eyes. Shining teeth. Faint dimples in his cheeks. Even I’m almost tempted to believe what comes out of his mouth next. “Do you have a few minutes to spare? I was hoping to look at some of the primary sources from the Opium Wars—you know, since you said we’ll be learning about that next—but the librarian wouldn’t let me go near them without your approval...”
It’s perfect—the slight reluctance in his voice, like he’s afraid to inconvenience the teacher; the eagerness without appearingovereager; the sincerity in the way he holds Mr. Murphy’s gaze. And, of course, there’s the one factor others wouldn’t be able to replicate, no matter how great at lying they are: his reputation. He’s King Henry, every teacher’s favorite student, the one who always talks to them about extra course material, advanced readings, debates new theories with them just for fun.
I never thought I’d see the day where I wasgratefulfor Henry being such a teacher’s pet, but here we are.
Mr. Murphy sets down the paper in his hands. His tone is friendly, slightly teasing, when he asks, “Primary sources, hmm? And this couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
Henry ducks his head, making quite the convincing show of looking sheepish. “Well, I was reading about the First Opium War this afternoon and it’s all just so interesting—terrible, obviously, but interesting—and when I remembered the library had some of the original texts... I suppose I got carried away.” He shoots Mr. Murphy another smile, softer this time, embarrassed, and my heart does a weird little somersault in my chest. “Sorry, you’re right. It’s not that important—”
“No, no, I didn’t mean that,” Mr. Murphy says quickly. He stands up, his chair rolling back a few feet and hitting the wall with a dullthud. “It’s great that you’re so passionate about your subjects, Henry. And I’m more than happy to go with you—right now, in fact.” As he says this, he tucks his laptop under his arm, and makes a motion for Henry to lead the way.
But Henry hesitates, his eyes falling on the laptop. For the first time, I sense a fissure in his mask of calm. “You don’t—you don’t have to bring that with you. It’ll be really quick.”
I swallow the lump of fear in my throat and step closer, studying Mr. Murphy’s reaction carefully, searching for any signs of suspicion, of confusion. But he just sighs and shakes his head.
“I know, but I think it’s for the best. I’ve heard a few funny reports lately...”
My stomach lurches.
“What reports?” Henry asks, tensing too.
“Oh, well, nothing to beoverlyconcerned about, I’m sure,” Mr. Murphy says with a wave of his free hand. “Just stories of things disappearing here and there from lockers, phones and laptops being hacked. Stuff like that.” He nods toward the door. “You good to go?”
Henry straightens, but not before his gaze darts in my general direction. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He doesn’t ask Mr. Murphy about his laptop again, or persuade him to leave it behind, and I don’t blame him; if Mr. Murphy’s already on guard and vaguely aware of what’s been going on, it wouldn’t take much for him to suspect something was off.
But once Henry and Mr. Murphy have left the classroom, leaving me alone, invisible, the laptop I need gone, I can’t help feeling absolutely idiotic. My heart sinks all the way down, my head pounding. What am I supposed to do now? Follow them to the library, try to steal Mr. Murphy’s laptop when he’s not looking? Try again another day? But even with Henry’s reputation—even if Henry claimed to have found a never-before-seen primary source from the Daoguang Emperor himself—I doubt the teacher would be so trusting if Henry were to come find him two nights in a row.
No, there has to be some other way. Maybe I can access Mr. Murphy’s laptop from his phone or my phone, or maybe he has a copy of the exams sent to his email, or maybe—
