Page 11 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
I unclench my jaw to defend myself, but I can’t think of a single solid defense. It really is every bit as mortifying as it sounds.
“You know what I think?” he murmurs, drawing so close his mouth skims my ear, his cruel face blurring in my vision. My breath catches. Goose bumps rise over my bare skin. “I think you’re obsessed with me, Sadie Wen.”
Heat lashes through me. I move to shove him away, but my hands only hit hard, lean muscle, the flat planes of his chest. He laughs at me, and I want to kill him. I mean it with every cell in my body. I’ve never wanted to kill him so badly. I hate him so much that I could cry.
“Go away,” I hiss.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed—”
I hardly ever raise my voice, but I do now. “God, just leave me alone. I’m so sick of you.” It comes out even louder than I intended, cracking the serenity of the gardens, sounding over the treetops. My throat feels scraped open with the words.
He finally steps away then, his face impassive. “Oh, don’t worry, I was already planning on leaving.” Because it has to be his choice, not my command. Because he won’t even give me this one small satisfaction.
I don’t watch him go. Instead I fumble for my phone in my skirt pocket and load up my emails.Maybe they’re not all as terrible as I think, I attempt to reassure myself, though it sounds delusional, the voice of a girl insisting the fire isn’t that big when her house is burning down before her.Maybe you’re overreacting. Maybe the situation is still salvageable.
But then I open my first email to Julius from nine years ago, and a few sentences in, my insides turn to stone.
your a lier, Julius Gong.
when the Chinese teacher asked us for the idium for “water and fire don’t mix,” I answered at the same time you did!!!!!! How DARE you tell the teacher you were the one who got it right and not me??!!! How DARE YOU take MY gold stickre???? Who gave you the right, huh? you don’t deserv any stickers. your a very, very bad person, I don’t care how good other poeple think you are. I’m gonna make you regret this so much you’ll cry, just you wait.
My awful spelling at eight years old is almost as embarrassing as the content itself.
Desperate, I pull up another one. A Reply All response to an email Julius had sent to the year level below, offering to sell his study material for an offensive sum only a day after I’d offered upmynotes for sale. My spelling here is better. The content is, objectively, worse.
Sometimes I dream about throttling you. I would do it slowly. I would do it when you weren’t ready, when you were relaxed. I imagine wrapping my hands around your long, pale throat and watching the fear bloom in your eyes. I imagine your skin turning red, your breathing quickening as you struggle. I want to watch you in pain, up close. I want you to beg me. I want you to admit you were wrong, that I’ve won. Maybe you would even sink to your knees for me. Plead for mercy. That would be fun, but even then, that wouldn’t be enough—
It takes all my self-restraint not to hurl my phone into the pond.
I squeeze my eyes shut so tight I see stars. I like to consider myself a smart person. I take great pride in knowing things, like whether a graph is wonky, or when an answer is accurate, or which essay topic is going to work best.
But it doesn’t require much intelligence to know that I’m completely, utterly screwed.
When the school bell rings for next class, I’m busy calculating how long it’ll take to permanently relocate to another city.
I could go home now. Grab my passport and call up a taxi and book the earliest flight out of here. I have enough red pocket money saved up in my bank account from every Spring Festival to sustain myself for at least a month. And in the meantime I could find a part-time job, support myself by tutoring kids or waitressing at a hot pot restaurant—I’ve heard that they’re always looking for bilingual employees. Maybe I’ll dye my hair blonde, get a spray tan and contacts, change my name and fake my whole identity. Nobody from Woodvale would be able to find me . . .
But even as I play out this fantasy, my feet are already dragging themselves across campus to the English classroom.
I can’t help it.
It’s too deeply ingrained in me, the need to obey the rules, to show up on time, to keep up my perfect attendance. I’m like one of Pavlov’s dogs, except every time I hear the bell, my instinct is to find my desk and whip out my notebooks.
I feel physically sick as I stop outside the door. I’m shaking all over, my teeth knocking against themselves so hard I’m scared they’ll crack. The scent of disinfectant and shoe polish is overwhelming, the crescendo of voices grating my ears like shrieks. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but I know, with a sick, solid pang in my gut, that they’re talking about me.
My fingers tremble over the knob. I try to take deep breaths, but I suck in too much air too fast, until I’m lightheaded from it.
The bell chimes again.
Just go in.
Get it over with.
The second I step inside, there’s a brief but noticeable lag in the conversation. Eyes swivel away from me, landing on random spots on the whiteboard or the cracked-open windows or the outdated poster that readsKeep calm and Shakespeare on, which doesn’t even make any sense.
As I take my seat in the front row, my neck prickles with the sensation of being watched. I’m aware of my every sound and movement: my laptop opening, my chair creaking, my blazer sleeves creasing when I push them up.
Then Ms. Johnson walks in, and the expression on her face makes me freeze. Her mouth is pinched, her thin brows practically twisted into a double knot. She’s been teaching here for six years, and on maternity leave for three; in all the time I’ve known her, she’s never looked this livid before. Then she locks eyes with me—not in her usualthere’s my favorite student who always leads the group discussionsway, but in athere’s the brat who ruined my dayway. And all at once, my confusion clarifies into pure, nauseating dread.
