Page 3 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
From that point on, Julius Gong became the bane of my existence. The issue is that nobody else seems to share my frustrations, because he only ever bares his fangs at me.
In fact, the aunties are already in love with him. He’s still smiling and nodding, asking the aunties about their health and their cooking and some upcoming farmer’s market (when I’m certain Julius has never set foot into anything that starts withfarmerin his life), and they’re all just eating it up. As one of the aunties asks him about his grades, he pauses, turns his head just a fraction toward me, and his smile twists into a smirk I alone can see.
“They’re okay,” he says, with false modesty. “I did receive the Top Achiever’s Award for English just last semester. And chemistry. And economics. And physics.”
“Wah,”the aunties gush in sync. They couldn’t be more cooperative if he’d paid them. “That’s incredible.”
“You’re so smart.”
“To do so well at such a competitive school? You must be a genius.”
“Both handsomeandintelligent. Your parents really raised you well.”
I can imagine my own blood boiling inside me, the steam scorching my throat. To the rest of the world, he might be an angel, a perfect student with a pretty face. But I know what he really is, what he’s like.
“We should get the tour going,” I say sweetly, clenching my teeth behind my fake beam. “There’s lots for us to see. Since there are four of you . . . I can show you two around.” I gesture to the aunties standing closest to me. Neither of them looks particularly happy about this arrangement. The auntie with the green scarf actually heaves an audible sigh of disappointment, which is always encouraging. “And Julius can lead the way for the others.”
The remaining two women step behind him at once, and Julius pushes open the wrought iron gates with all the ease of a host at his own party. “Gladly,” he says. “Follow me.”
In the back of my mind, the numbers flash like a warning sign:
Three points to Julius.
I spend the next hour talking until my throat hurts.
It’s not as if the school campus is even that big: We have three buildings in total, all designed in the same boring, rectangular style with white-framed windows and gable roofs, and spread out around the main oval.
The issue is more that there’s a lot of explaining to do.
Like: why photos of the senior teachers have been cut out and glued to the ceiling. “It’s a gesture of appreciation and respect,” I tell them, becauseprankis not the right word here. “At Woodvale, teachers and students are on very close terms, and we’re encouraged to express ourselves in, ah, creative ways. Every time we walk through these beautiful halls, we’re reminded that our teachers are always looking down on us from above. Like, um, angels. Or God.”
Or why there’s a massive statue of a green donkey in the middle of the hall when our mascot is meant to be a horse and our school colors are blue and white. “Donkeys are symbolic,” I lie on the spot. In truth, our deputy principal, who’d ordered the cursed statue, apparently just isn’t very sensitive to either colors or animals. It could have been worse, I guess; she could have ordered a statue of a cow. “They stand for determination and hard work and grit: all crucial school values we take to heart.”
Or why the schedule on the bulletin board says our next assembly will be happening at 9:00 a.m., 10:00 a.m., 10:20 a.m., 3:00 p.m., 3:35 p.m., and somehow also 8:00 p.m. “We like to be very flexible,” I say, ushering them along. “Obviously there is onlyonetime for the assembly that everyone knows about. Obviously this has been communicated well, because the communication at this school is flawless. Now, have you seen our drinking fountains? We have agreatfiltration system . . .”
Or why there’s a construction site next to the cafeteria.
“I remember reading about this on the school website,” the green-scarf auntie says with a small frown. We’ve stopped just outside the wire fences, and even I have to admit, the view isn’t great. There’s nothing but rubble and plastic coverings and a few scattered poles. As we stare, a literal tumbleweed rolls across the dirt. “It’s for the new sports and recreation center, no? I thought it was meant to be finished two years ago.”
“Right.That.” My smile widens in direct proportion to my panic. I don’t know how to tell her that, yes, the sports and recreation center was finished two years ago. But then there came a minor issue with the bathrooms. To be specific, the toilets were all built facing the side, instead of the door, so you couldn’t sit down on them without banging your nose. At first the school asked us to be grateful and flexible and view it as a learning experience, but after Georgina Wilkins got a bruise from the stalls and threatened to sue, they decided it was better to rebuild the center from the ground up after all. “There were some small delays,” I say, “but only so they could make it even bigger and better. There are sometrulyexciting features coming, including a mini golf course on the roof, a swimming pool, and three private gyms. But as you know, excellence takes time.”
The auntie considers this for a moment and, to my relief, moves on.
We’ve circled our way back to the school gates now. The students have started to trickle in, yelling goodbye to their parents from the curb, swinging their bags over their shoulders and messaging their friends. Julius is also there. He’s standing before the aunties, his styled hair glinting in the rising orange light, with his perfect skin and perfect uniform and perfect posture. Just seeing him makes me want to put my fist through something hard—ideally, his jaw.
“We’ll definitely be sending our daughter here,” one of the aunties is saying. “If you’re the standard for the students at Woodvale, then this is the perfect school.”
I feel a black thunderbolt of rage, the electricity crackling down my spine. It’s made worse when Julius catches my eye, like he wants to make sure I’m listening.
“It’s been a pleasure,” he says smoothly.
“No, no, the pleasure is all mine,” the auntie returns in Mandarin, and my jaw unhinges. She was the one who’d used English with me earlier. It probably means nothing. Or it definitely means she likes Julius more and feels more familiar with him and trusts him even though there are pyramid scheme leaders more trustworthy than he is. “We couldn’t have asked for a better tour guide. Really.”
Still looking at me, Julius smiles. “I’msohappy to hear it.”
I bite my tongue, swallow all impulses for violence, and wave to the aunties as they leave. The second their clacking heels have faded into the distance, I rush off to my first class: history. Unfortunately this is also the first of my shared classes with Julius, and it’s not long before his footsteps catch up to mine.
“That went well, didn’t it?” he says, his voice drifting just over my shoulder.
