Page 9 of If You Could See the Sun
Then, unbelievably, his usual mask of calm falls back into place.
“How...strange,” he says after a long silence.
I roll my eyes at this severe understatement, then remember that of course, he can’t see me.
Great. Now I can’t even spite him properly.
“It’s more than strange,” I say aloud. “It should be—I mean, this should beimpossible.”
Henry takes a deep breath. Shakes his head. His eyes search for me again, only to end up falling on some random spot above my collarbone. “But I saw you less than half an hour ago...”
Heat spikes through me at the memory of our last exchange. I will it away. “Well, a lot can change in half an hour.”
“Right,” he says, drawing the word out. Then he shakes his head again. “So how exactly did”—he makes a motion in my general direction—“happen?”
To be honest, I thought he’d give me a much harder time about this—at least demand to know why I camehere, out of all places. But he simply snaps his laptop shut, pushing it back so that, whether on purpose or by accident, it’s covering the old photo of us, and waits for me to speak.
So I do.
I go over everything, from the brief cold spell to Andrew She knocking me over, careful not to leave out any detail that might serve as a clue to what the hell is going on. Well, everything except for my little meeting with my parents before the assembly; no one at school really knows about my family’s situation, and I intend to keep it that way.
When I’m done, Henry suddenly leans forward, his hands clasped over his lap, dark eyes thoughtful. “You know what?”
“What?” I say, trying not to sound too hopeful. I’m expecting something profound, scientific, maybe a reference to some recent social phenomenon I haven’t read about yet, but what comes out of his mouth instead is—
“This is an awful lot likeThe Lord of the Rings.”
“What?”
“The part with the invisibility—”
“Yeah, no, I got that,” I splutter. “But how—why—okay. Wait a second. Since when were you into high fantasy?”
He straightens in his seat. “In a few years,” he begins, which sounds like a very long-winded way of answering a straightforward question, “I’ll be the CEO of the biggest tech start-up in all of China—”
“Second biggest,” I correct automatically. “Don’t lie. TheWall Street Journalsaid so just a week ago.”
He shoots me an odd look, and it occurs to me a second too late that I definitely should not know this much about his father’s company. “As of now, yes,” he says after a short pause. Then the corner of his mouth lifts up in an expression so smug I have to resist the urge to punch him. “But not once I take over.Anyway,” he continues, as if he hasn’t just made the most arrogant statement in the history of mankind, “considering the role that awaits me, it’s important that I’m well-informed on a range of subjects, including commercially successful media franchises. Also makes it easier to connect with clients.”
“Right,” I mutter. “Forget I asked.”
“But back to your new power—”
“It’s not apower,” I cut him off. “It’s an—an affliction—a difficulty, a very major inconvenience—”
“Everything’s a form of power,” he says simply.
“Yeah, well, power implies some level of control,” I protest, even though a small part of my brain—the part not clouded by panic and my four-year grudge against him—agrees with the statement. In theory. “And I can’t control anything about my current situation.”
“Really?” He rests his cheek on one hand. Cocks his head to the side, just as another lazy breeze flutters in and ruffles his hair. “Have you tried?”
“Of course I’ve—”
“Have you tried harder?”
There’s something so patronizing about the question or the way he says it that the last thread of composure inside me—already pulled taut in his presence—snaps.
I grab the back of his chair and pull him closer toward me in one abrupt movement, an all-too-familiar rage bubbling under my skin. To my immense satisfaction, his eyes widen slightly. “Henry Li, if you’re suggesting this is about a lack of willpower, Iswear to god—”
