Page 84 of If You Could See the Sun
I swallow. “Can I at least go grab my stuff? From the dorm?”
Mr. Murphy looks visibly relieved. I guess it’d cause him a lot of trouble if I were to resist. Or maybe he just doesn’t want Baba to start yelling again.
It’s Mama who answers first.
“Yes,” she says quietly. Her voice is so distant she could be talking to a complete stranger—and just when I thought I couldn’t possibly feel any worse. “Go. Be quick.” She folds her hands together, the white scar peeking out from under her fingertips. “We still have to catch the subway.”
The short walk from Mr. Murphy’s office to my dorm is torture.
Everyone scatters the second I step outside, but I still sense their eyes trained on the back of my head, glimpse the suspicion and worry and judgment written all over their faces. My stomach squeezes. I’ve always hated negative attention.
I wonder how many of the people watching have pieced together that last night had something to do with Beijing Ghost. And how many more of them figured out that Beijing Ghost is me.
The walk starts to feel like a death march.
My eyes ache with tears as I climb up the steps to Confucius Hall, but I refuse to cry. To show weakness. I hold my head up high and throw back my shoulders, staring straight ahead, as if I’m not one wrong move away from breaking down in front of the whole year level.
A bitter wind picks up, howling in my ears, and over the noise I hear a faint voice—
“Alice!” someone calls after me.
I ignore them and move faster. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now, whether they’re well-intentioned or not. I have no idea what I’d say.
When I reach my dorm room, I stuff everything I own into a sad-looking duffel bag. There’s not much for me to pack, really; a stack of certificates and a few trophies, some toiletries, and a school uniform I might never have the chance to wear again...
“Oh my god.Alice.”
I jump and look up. It’s Chanel, her eyes wide as she takes in the opened wardrobe, the unzipped bag lying at my feet.
Then, without another word, she crosses the room and pulls me into a crushing hug. I stiffen at first, taken aback by the sudden gesture of affection, then rest my head tentatively on her bony shoulder, letting her hair tickle my cheek. For a moment, all the terror and uncertainty and guilt of the past few days catch up to me.
You can’t cry, I remind myself, as hot tears threaten to spill over.
“Dude. I was so worried,” Chanel whispers. She steps back to look me in the eyes. “Whathappened? I thought you were with Henry last night, but then—then I heard the ambulance sirens, and Mr. Murphy started calling all of us to pack at like, four, and he sounded scared shitless, and the teachers wouldn’t let any of us speak to you on the train... And now this?” She jerks a finger toward the duffel bag, its meager contents exposed. “What the hell is going on?”
“I’m leaving,” I say numbly.
She stares at me. “Leaving?Where? How long?”
All I can do is shake my head. If I speak another word, I’m scared I’ll fall apart.
But Chanel won’t let it rest. “Is the school making you leave?” she demands, angry now, two spots of color rising to her cheeks. “Because whatever you did, it can’t bethatbad. And besides, you’re one of the best students they have. No—they can’t. I won’t let them.” She spins away from me, already reaching for her phone.
With enormous effort, I manage to find my voice again. “What—what are you doing?” I croak.
“I’m telling my dad,” she says. Her mouth twists into a grimace that’s half bitter, half smug. “He’s been extra nice to me ever since I found out about—you know.” The corners of her lips pull down further, but she continues,“I bet if I ask, he can pull some strings, get the school to reconsider—”
“No.” I grab her by the shoulders, force her to put her phone away. “No—Chanel, don’t. Please. I mean, I’m so grateful you’d even want to—but it’s not the school. Well, notonlythe school. I just. I can’t be here right now.” My voice cracks on the last word, and Chanel’s eyes darken with concern.
We’re both silent for a while: me trying to breathe through clenched teeth and shove my emotions down; her standing completely still, gaze trained on the ground.
Then she sighs. “God, this sucks.”
The massive understatement draws a shaky, slightly hysterical laugh from my lips, and I nod.
“Can I help you pack, at least?” she asks, glancing at my bag again. “Or I could help you get a Didi? My driver’s probably coming soon, too—he could give you and your parents a lift.”
Her kindness is overwhelming, like the fierce blast of a heater in winter. I give her hand a light squeeze, too choked up to speak for a minute. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m pretty much done anyway,” I finally manage, gathering the last of my things. “And my house is almost a two-hour drive from here. It’d be too far for your driver.”
