Page 53 of If You Could See the Sun
“I only did it once.” He grimaces. “All right,twice.But in my defense, it was very effective; the violin teacher was so concerned for my well-being she personally asked my father to keep me home.”
I choke out an incredulous laugh. “And you couldn’t have just—I don’t know, faked a cough or a cold like a normal kid?”
His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes harden. “That wouldn’t have been enough. So long as I was physically conscious, my father would’ve insisted that I continue with my studies, push through until I was perfect.” He turns his head away from me, the moonlight washing over his stiff profile, lining the slight furrow in his brows, and I realize, with an odd pang, that the conversation is over.
I also realize that for all the glamorous magazine profiles and interviews and SYS-related news I’ve devoured in my attempts to better understand my competition, I don’t know Henry that well at all... Yet now, more than ever, I kind of wish I did.
A few beats of heavy silence pass. Then Henry asks, “Do you have everything you need?” His voice is formal again, perfectly professional. I hate it.
“Oh—yeah.” I pat the front of my blazer, where my phone is. “I do.”
But as we make our way slowly back to the dorms, the exam answers saved and safe in my pocket, the promise of a sizeable payment awaiting me, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve left something invaluable behind.
11
As exams loom closer, I keep waiting for Mr. Murphy to find me.
Alice,I imagine him saying at the end of class, his expression unusually stern. Maybe he’ll have his folder ready by his side, a secret recording device I failed to notice, all the incriminating evidence he needs.Would you care to explain this?
Each time I enter his classroom or pass by him in the halls, I feel violently sick. My palms go all clammy and I have to swallow back the nausea, barely mustering the energy to return his smiles and occasional nods of greeting.
The paranoia is so bad that I start having nightmares about it: strange, disturbing nightmares where Mr. Murphy faints before me and I rush over to help him only to be tackled to the ground, police sirens screeching around me until I wake up with a start; or I’m about to enter the examination hall when I realize I’ve forgotten to put clothes on, and Jake Nguyen leaps onto the teacher’s desk, declaring that being naked is a sign of guilt, all while Henry catches my eye from across the hall and whispers:Have you no shame?
Needless to say, my sleep quality hasn’t been great.
“I feel like Lady Macbeth,” I mutter to Chanel the morning before our first exams. “You know, like after a bunch of people die and she starts hallucinating about all the blood on her hands because it’s a super not-subtle manifestation of her guilt—”
“Alice,Alice,” Chanel interrupts, putting a hand on my shoulder. “First, it’s really bold of you to assume I have any idea what you’re talking about, because I haven’t readMacbethyet—”
“But—but the English exam’stomorrow—”
“Exactly,” she says. “That gives me a whole twenty-four hours to get the gist of it.”
“I think you’re severely underestimating the complexity of Shakespeare’s work.”
She ignores me. “Second of all, I still don’t know what your little mission with Henry was sincesomeonewon’t tell me, but I’m sure it’s going to be fine. You haven’t been caught a single time so far, have you?”
“No,” I admit. “But still. I just... I have a bad feeling.”
“You always have a bad feeling,” she says with a wave of her hand. “Your body like, functions on bad feelings. In fact, I’d be very concerned if youweren’thigh-key stressed about something right now.”
“I guess,” I say, not entirely convinced.
But then exams come and pass in a blur of late nights and last-minute revision and adrenaline, and nothing out of the ordinary happens. Mr. Murphy thanks us all for our hard work with a round of Kahoot on ancient Chinese history (it gets a little intense; pencils are thrown, angry fingers are pointed, and Henry and I end up tying for the lead) and promises he’ll mark our exams within the next week. The teachers start handing us forms and brochures for our upcoming Experiencing China trip to Suzhou, and soon it’s all that anyone can talk about. The leaves on the school’s wutong trees turn gold, then a withered brown, falling and scattering over the courtyard like shredded notes, and such a pervasive cold creeps in by mid-November that even the Year Thirteen guys stop playing basketball outside during lunchtimes, hogging the limited space in the school café instead.
And through it all, the Beijing Ghost tasks keep coming.
More pregnancy scares and sex scandals and embarrassing photos taken drunk at an exclusive party in Wangjing. More instances of unrequited love and friendship worries and panic attacks and crumbling families. More messages detailing stories of exes and vigorous competitions and bribery and secret insecurities. This is the unexpected side effect of the app: the tasks feel like more than business opportunities now.
They feel like confessions.
Of course, I’ve always known that my classmates at Airington lead completely different lives from mine. But I’ve never looked beneath the shiny, polished surface of their million-dollar condos and private drivers and wild shopping sprees. Never considered that the people I’ve bumped into countless times in the corridors, made vague small talk with about upcoming tests, are people I might’ve actually been friends with. Exchanged secrets with. Reached out and comforted.
Instead, I’ve spent my five years here completely oblivious to everything outside my own studies.
Henry, on the other hand, doesn’t seem surprised byanything.
“Hmm,” is all he says when I show him the latest request at the end of our social ethics class.
