Page 66 of If You Could See the Sun
It’s warmer here in the south, humid, like the inside of a sauna, and most of us are sweating by the time our rented bus pulls up outside some fancy restaurant that ranked first on Dazhong Dianping. As the only teacher here who can speak Chinese, Wei Laoshi quickly assumes the role of tour guide. We watch through the tinted windows as he approaches the waitress out front, gesturing to his school ID and then to us (a few students in the front seats wave; the waitress frowns).
Then the waitress and Wei Laoshi seem to get into a heated argument, both of them shaking their heads and fanning their faces, and even though we can’t hear a single word they’re saying, the message is clear: there aren’t enough tables in the restaurant for all of us.
“Well, fuck me,” Jake Nguyen grumbles from the row behind me. “I’m starving.”
“Language, Mr. Nguyen,” Julie Walsh says sharply.
“Shit—my bad,” Jake says.
“Language!”
“Right, got it, Mrs. Walsh.”
“It’s Dr. Walsh.”
“Yeah, whatever,” he mutters.
Someone snorts.
“Didn’t the school think to reserveus a few baojian?” Vanessa demands, standing up suddenly in her seat. Her long French braid almost whacks me in the face.
“Not all restaurants have private rooms, you know,” someone else—it sounds like Peter Oh—points out.
“What?” Vanessa whips her head around with a look of genuine shock. Even her cheeks go pink. “You’re kidding.”
“Don’t be such a snob.”
“I’m not—”
Beside me, Henry sighs. It’s a soft sound, barely audible over Vanessa’s complaints and Jake’s cursing, but—I kid you not—everyone quietens down at once.
Then Henry asks, “The restaurant’s name is Dijunhao, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, squinting at the golden calligraphy written backward over the restaurant’s double door. “Why?”
But Henry doesn’t respond; he’s already on the phone. I listen to him greet whoever he’s calling in flawless Chinese, ask politely if they’ve eaten lunch yet, rattle off his father’s name, two other names I don’t recognize, confirm the location of the restaurant, and hang up.
A few minutes later, the manager himself comes out to greet us with a smile so wide it looks physically painful.
“Of coursethere’s space for you! You’re our most honored guests,” he says, when Wei Laoshi questions the sudden change. He shoots the waitress a pointed look, and the waitress scurries off as if her life depends on it, returning with menus and five more waitresses who ask to help carry our bags.
We’re given the best tables with the fancy chopstick holders and red tablecloth and stunning window view of the lakes outside, and offered free jasmine tea (handpicked from the mountains, the manager tells us) and prawn crackers, and even the teachers are looking at Henry in openmouthed awe, like he’s glowing.
“I wonder how that feels,” I murmur, when Henry comes over to sit down beside me and Chanel.
“Pardon?” Henry says.
“Nothing.” I take a long swig of tea, letting the hot liquid scorch my tongue. “Never mind.”
Chanel, who doesn’t look quite as impressed as the others—probably because she’s used to receiving similar treatment herself—pokes her head between us and asks, “How was the train ride Henry? Did you sleep well?”
“I did, thank you,” Henry replies mildly, with a stiff half smile. I’m so used to seeing the side of Henry that laughs aloud, that teases me and challenges me and listens to Taylor Swift on repeatthat I keep forgetting how distant he is with everyone else, even people he knows.
“Mmm, that’s what I figured,” Chanel says. There’s a glint in her eyes. “Since Alice never returned to our compartment.”
I almost choke on my tea.
“We didn’t—I wasn’t—” I splutter, so loud that the conversation at the neighboring table stalls, and the waiters stop setting down dishes to look at me. I flush and continue in a whisper, “We were only going over business details.Seriously.”
