Page 6 of If You Could See the Sun
Then I see the smug smile now playing at the corners of his lips, and remember, with a new spike of resentment, the first time we stood on the stage together like this. I’d tried my best to be civil, had evencomplimentedhim on doing better than me in that history test. But he’d simply worn the exact same smug, infuriating expression on his face, shrugged a little, and said,It was an easy test.
I clench my teeth harder.
It’s all I can do to remind myself of the goal I made earlier: refrain from pushing Henry off the stage. Even if it’d be very,verysatisfying. Even if he’s been the bane of my existence for pretty much half a decade, and totally deserves it, and is still looking at me with that ridiculous smirk—
No. Refrain.
We’re forced to stay in place anyway as a photographer hurries forward to take our photo for the annual yearbook.
Then realization washes over me like ice-cold water: by the time the yearbook’s out, I won’t be a student here anymore. No, not just that—I won’t be graduating in this auditorium, won’t have my name listed under the Ivy League acceptances, won’t be walking out these school gates with a bright future laid out at my feet.
I feel the smile on my face freeze, threaten to dissolve at the edges. I’m blinking too quickly. In my peripheral vision, I see the school slogan, Airington is Home, printed out in giant letters on a strung-up banner. But Airington isn’t home, or isn’tjusta home for someone like me; Airington is a ladder. The only ladder that could lift my parents out of their dingy flat on the outskirts of Beijing, that could close the distance between me and a seven-figure salary, that could ever allow me to stand as equals with someone like Henry Li on a large polished stage like this.
How the hell am I meant to climb my way to the top without it?
This is the question that gnaws at my nerves like a starved rat as I return to my seat in a daze, barely registering Mr. Chen’s special little nod of approval or Chanel’s smile or my other classmates’ whispered congratulations.
The rest of the ceremony crawls by at a snail’s pace, and I sit for so long, my body frozen to the spot while my mind works in overdrive, that I start to feel cold all over, despite the stifling summer heat.
I’m actually shivering by the time Mr. Murphy dismisses us for the day, and as I join the tides of students pushing out through the doors, a small part of my brain entertains the idea that maybe this chill isn’t normal.
Before I can check if I have a fever or anything, someone behind me clears his throat. The sound is oddly formal, like a person readying themselves to deliver a speech.
I spin around. It’s Henry.
Of course it is.
For a long moment he just stares at me, cocks his head, considering. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. Then he steps forward and says in that infuriating British accent of his: “You don’t look very good.”
Anger spikes inside me.
That’s it.
“Are we insulting my looks now?” I demand. My voice sounds shrill even to my own ears, and more than a few students pushing past us turn to shoot us curious looks.
“What?” Henry’s eyes widen slightly, the faintest trace of confusion disrupting the precise symmetry of his features. “No, I just meant...” Then he seems to catch something on my face—something cruel and tightly wound—because his own expression shutters closed. He shoves his hands into his pockets. Looks away. “You know what? Never mind.”
The bottom of my stomach dips at the sudden flatness in his tone, and I hate him for it, hate myself even more for my reaction. I have at least twenty thousand better things to worry about than what Henry Li thinks of me.
Things like the cold still spreading under my skin.
I whirl back around and run out through the doors, onto the grass courtyard. I expect to feel better in the sunlight, but my trembling only grows more violent, the chill running down to my very toes.
Definitely not normal.
Then, without warning, something slams straight into my back.
I don’t even have time to cry out; I crash hard onto my knees. Pain shoots through me, the stiff, fake grass digging into my raw palms.
Wincing, I glance up in time to see that the culprit isn’tsomething, butsomeone. Someone built like a bull and twice my height.
Andrew She.
I wait for him to help me up—to apologize, at the very least—but he simply frowns as he regains his balance, his eyes passing right over me, and turns around to leave.
Confusion wars with indignation in my head. This isAndrew She,after all; the boy who cushions his every sentence with phrases like “sorry” and “I think” and “maybe,” who can’t speak up in class without his face going red, who’s always the first person to greet the teachers good morning, who’s been teased mercilessly by everyone in our year level for being polite to a fault.
But when I turn toward the tinted glass doors to check for any injuries, all thoughts of Andrew She and basic etiquette vanish from my head. My heart slams violently against my ribs, a loud, ragged beat of this-can’t-be-happening-this-can’t-be-happening—
