Page 4 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
“Did it?” I say, shoving the glass doors to the humanities building open with maybe a bit more force than necessary. I’m kind of hoping that it’ll swing back and hit him, but of course, he catches the door easily with one hand and slides in after me.
“I mean that it went well forme,” he clarifies. “Both of them are sending their children here. I bet Ms. Hedge will be pleased. She must have known I was the best person for this task, though I suppose you made some limited contributions as well.”
I mutter something unrepeatable under my breath.
“What was that?” I can almost hear the gloating smile in his voice.
“Nothing. I just said we’re going to be late if we keep talking.”
“Well, unlike you, I have no problem with multitasking.”
Go to your happy place, I will myself as I push open the next set of doors. In my mind, I’m no longer walking these crowded halls, listening to the warning bell chime. No longer in this town, even. I’ve graduated, undefeated, as valedictorian and school captain, and gotten my degree from Berkeley, and I’ve bought a huge house in a big city for my mom and my older brother, Max (ideally, he would have managed to actually find a job on his own after finishing his expensive sports university, but this is meant to be an achievable dream, not an alternate reality). In the new house, there are more windows than walls and at dawn the sunlight turns everything into gold. We’ll have vases full of fresh jasmines, and chocolate-covered strawberries for dessert, and lunches outside in our own gardens. My mom will still run her bakery, but she won’t have to work twelve hours a day, and we won’t be understaffed anymore, and we’ll only go to sneak out taro buns and tuna rolls warm from the oven.
It’ll be just us, and we won’t need anyone else. Our lives will be better than they used to be with my dad around. I’ll do everything he should’ve done, provide everything he should have provided. I’ll do so much that nobody will feel his absence lingering in our living room like a silent ghost anymore. Maybe Mom will even start smiling again.
All I have to do to make that life happen is push through these last few months. Turn in all my homework on time and ace every remaining test and make my teachers happy so I can keep my conditional offer of admission to Berkeley. Abigail always enjoys placing emphasis on theadmissionpart, but I’m more concerned about theconditionalpart.
So. Just a few more months of this.
Which sounds simple enough, but at the thought, I feel a pressure that’s almost like a physical force, crushing my ribs. I have to steady myself before entering the classroom, breathe in through my nostrils, bounce up and down slightly on the balls of my feet, the way I do before running a race. It doesn’t help that the room is too bright, too loud, everyone lounging around the clusters of desks and talking at full volume.
Julius pauses beside me. “What, not going in?” The corners of his lips are curved in their usual condescending manner, but he studies me for an extra beat, like he’s trying to figure something out.
“I am,” I say, ignoring the tightness in my chest and pushing past him.
I’ve made it all of two steps inside when a freckled face jumps into my vision. Rosie Wilson-Wang. She’s one of those people who know exactly how pretty they are, and uses it to her full advantage. She’s also the girl who copied my science fair project last year without telling me, then went on to receive an A-plus for “innovation” and “creativity.”
“Sadie,” she gushes, which is a bad sign right away. Science project aside, Rosie and I are on amicable terms, but that’s because I’ve made it my mission to be on amicable terms with everyone. Or at least appear to be.
“Hey,” I say.
“Did you come in with Julius?” She peers over at him with what feels like unnecessary appreciation, then adds, “He’s so great, isn’t he?”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cough up blood. I guess it’s a testament to how well I hide my true feelings that nobody other than Abigail would even suspect how much I hate him. “Mm,” I muster.
“His hair looks really good today.” Her eyes trail after him as he takes his seat at the front of the classroom. “Like, it looks so soft?” It’s somewhat concerning that she’s chosen to vocalize this as a question. It implies a desire to find out the answer.
“Sorry,” I say, trying not to look too disturbed. “Were you going to ask me something?”
“Right, yeah.” She beams at me. “I was just wondering if you could send me your notes.”
“Oh. Sure. For history, you mean, or—”
“For all our history classes so far this semester,” she says quickly. “You know, because of that exam coming up next month? And, like, sure, I could technically use my own notes, but your notes are so much more comprehensive and organized.”
“Oh,” I say again. “Yeah, I guess I could—”
“Perfect,”she says, squeezing my wrist. Her long acrylic nails scratch my skin, but I stay still. “You’re such a saint, Sadie. A true lifesaver.”
The compliment goes down my throat like syrup, warming me up from within. It’s embarrassing how tight I latch on to these little pieces of validation, how much I want to be liked, to make everyone happy. Sometimes I think I would give them one of my own arms if they asked very nicely.
Rosie moves to her desk by the window where her tight-knit circle of friends are sitting. All of them are gorgeous, most of them are dancers, and a significant, overlapping portion of them are influencers. Yesterday, one of them posted a ten-second video of themselves standing before a mirror and bobbing their head. It received seventy thousand likes, and the comments were flooded with people begging to be adopted or run over by her Porsche. “By the way,” Rosie calls over her shoulder, “could you scan your notes in color and sort them by date and topic? And could you add in your practice essays too? Just send it all over to my school email by tonight—”
“Hey, could you send it to me too?” Her friend, the head-bobbing influencer herself, winks at me.
“Me too, please, while you’re at it,” her other friend chimes in.
I nod once, weakly, and they all turn their heads back to giggle about something on their phones.
