If You Could See the Sun

“You’re stress pacing again,” Chanel observes from her dressing table.

I’m not just stress pacing—I’m the textbook definition of anxiety right now. My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my throat, and my mouth tastes like ash. Ever since I messaged Evie Wu on Beijing Ghost this morning, telling her I’d be willing to help her cheat, my nervous system has been on the verge of breaking down. And I hate it, truly. I hate everything about this.

But I need to honor my choices.

“You also look like you’re going to throw up,” Chanel adds helpfully.

“I won’t,” I tell her, just as my stomach lurches. I fight back the rising swell of nausea. “I mean—oh god, I hope not.”

“Hey,” she says. She tears open a new face mask packet, dabbing the excess foam on the pale insides of her wrists. “Not to be super gross, but like, if you were to throw up…do you think your vomit would be invisible as well? Because technically it’d be outside your body, but if it was also produced by—”

“Chanel?” I interrupt.

“Hmm?”

“Please stop talking.”

She manages to stay quiet for a full minute, pressing the mask onto her skin, before she says, “Will you at least tell me what kind of task you’re doing today that’s so—”

“Nope,” I say, and she responds with an exaggerated pout. “And careful, your mask is going to wrinkle.”

She stops pouting at once, settling instead for a stiff poker face as she hurries to smooth out the edges of her mask again. If I wasn’t trying so hard to keep my lunch down, I might’ve laughed.

“Anyway,” I say, completing another lap around our tiny dorm room. My feet refuse to stay still. “I’m not withholding information this time because I don’t trust you. But the less people know, the less likely things will go horribly wrong—and the less liable you’ll be.”

“But Henry knows.”

I grimace. “Yeah, well. That’s because I need him for something. Speaking of which…” I glance up at the clock, and my heart seizes. 5:50 p.m. It’s time.

Oh my god. This is really happening.

When I speak again, my voice comes out as a squeak. “I—I should go find him now. Get this over with.”

I leave everything except my phone in the dorm and rush outside, barely catching Chanel’s quick “good luck!” as the door swings shut behind me.

Henry and I agreed to meet by the main entrance of the humanities building at 6:00 p.m. At exactly 5:59 p.m., we both arrive at the same time, and I have to give it to him—Henry might be unbearably pretentious, but at least he’s punctual.

He also happens to look especially put together today; his dark blazer freshly ironed, his tie straight, not a single hair out of place. I almost laugh. He looks like he’s about to deliver a speech to the school, rather than help me pull off a crime.

“Alice,” he says when he sees me, ever so polite.

“Henry.” I return his greeting with a mock salute, mimicking his formal tone.

Faint irritation flits over his face. Good. If Henry is in the mood to bicker with me, then at least I’ll have something to keep me distracted from my nerves—

“Are you nervous?” he asks.

Or not.

“Why would you think I’m nervous?” I snap, reaching over his shoulder to yank open the door.

“Well, you appear to be shaking.”

I follow his gaze, and hastily hide my trembling hands in my pockets, pushing past him into the building. “It’s cold,” I mutter.

“It’s twenty-two degrees right now.”

My jaw clenches. “What are you, the weatherman?”

“Really? The weatherman?” His voice is light, amused. “Not your best insult, Alice.”

I try to stab him to death with my eyes. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work.

I keep walking.

The corridor is almost completely empty, as it should be. No student wants to stay behind after class, especially when our dorms are only a courtyard away, or when they can take a Didi to the Village or Solana. But for the teachers, it’s a different story. Most of them bike to school, and like to hang back in the classrooms until after dark, when the streets outside aren’t as crowded and the probability of being run over by a car is significantly lower. Mr. Murphy is one of them.

Sure enough, the lights in the history classroom are still on. Through the small window in the door, I can make out his figure hunched over the teacher’s desk, stacks of papers laid out before him. It looks like he’ll be busy marking them for a while.

Perfect.

Now I just need to turn invisible.

“Sometime soon would be good,” Henry murmurs from close behind me, as if reading my mind.

I scowl but don’t reply right away, gesturing for him to follow me into one of the narrow adjoining corridors—far enough so that Mr. Murphy can’t hear us. The place smells like fresh printer ink and whiteboard markers. It smells like integrity, like academic success.

Another wave of nausea rolls over me.

“I’ve already told you,” I say as I resume my pacing. “I can’t control when exactly the invisible thing happens. It just does.”

Henry doesn’t move, though his eyes follow me as I walk, back and forth, back and forth. Someone once told me my stress was contagious, that it spilled right out of me. But maybe Henry is immune to it, untouchable, like he is with most things.

“In that case,” Henry says, “how can you be certain it’ll even happen tonight?”

“I mean, I’m not.” I sigh. “But it’s happened much more often in the evenings these past few weeks, and I can make a…a reasonable prediction based on the existing patterns. Like menstrual cycles.”

For a brief moment, Henry looks stunned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Menstrual cycles,” I repeat, very clearly, glad to see him squirm for once. “You know, like you can keep track of what time of the month it happens and know roughly when to expect it, but sometimes it still manages to catch you off guard. It’s like that.”

“Ah.” He nods, schooling his expression back into one of calm. “Right.”

And just like that, my momentary rush of satisfaction leaves, and the anxiety returns with double the intensity. I quicken my steps, wring my hands together. It’s a wonder Henry isn’t dizzy looking at me.

This is, without a doubt, the worst part of every mission: not the fear of getting caught, or even the guilt gnawing on my conscience, but the uncertainty. Never knowing when I’ll go invisible or when I’ll go back to normal.

Only a couple weeks ago, I’d spent an entire day standing around the school hall, waiting for my powers to kick in so I could finish what should’ve been a simple Beijing Ghost task. They never did. Henry had been surprisingly understanding about it, even though he’d chosen to wait with me too, but I can still taste the sharp, sour note of failure, still feel the heavy frustration of relying on something completely out of my control.

“Just relax,” Henry tells me, after I’ve paced the length of the corridor at least twenty times. If I were counting my steps, like Chanel does, I’m sure I’d have reached my daily goal by now. “Even if this task doesn’t go as we initially planned… What’s the worst that could happen?”

I make a little noise of disbelief. “Please, please tell me you’re joking.”

“I assure you I’m quite serious.”

“Oh my god,” I say. Shake my head. “The worst thing—I mean, there are literally so many worst-case scenarios I don’t even know where to—”

“Like what?”

“Um.” I pretend to think hard for an answer. “Like, getting expelled?”

“I highly doubt they would expel us. We’re the best students they have,” Henry says. States it, just like that, as if it’s an indisputable fact.

My heart snags on the we, the casual compliment in those words, but I push on.

“No? They could also involve the police, throw us into jail—”

“A few of my dad’s friends are lawyers,” he says breezily. “Amongst the best in the country. Even if the evidence was stacked up against us, we’d still win the case.”

I twist around so fast my shoes squeak against the polished floor. “See, this is why I can’t stand people like you,” I seethe, jabbing a finger in his direction. “You think that just because you’re all smart and wealthy and attractive you can just do whatever the hell you want—”

“Wait.” Something shifts in the black depths of his eyes. “You think I’m attractive?”

“Oh, come on, don’t act like that’s such a huge revelation,” I snap. “I’m pretty sure even the guys in our year level think so. I mean, really, when we had those diving lessons last year, everyone in the stands was straight-up gawking at you as if they’d never seen a shirtless guy before, and later, when you did that photoshoot for the school magazine, and they made you wear that ridiculous suit—I couldn’t even—you just…” I trail off, suddenly all too aware of the heat in my cheeks, the anger curled in my chest that no longer feels like anger, but something else.

Something worse.

“Just—whatever.” I clear my throat. “Anyway. What was I saying?”

Henry cocks his head to the side, a slow smile spreading across his lips. “You were telling me how much you hate me.”

I bite my tongue, quickly avert my gaze. Try to will the strange feeling in my stomach away. Eventually, when I decide it’s safe to look at him again without my skin bursting into flames, he says, “Do you feel better now?”

“Huh?”

“You tend to stop being so scared when you’re angry,” he explains.

Confusion bubbles inside me. “How—how do you know that?”

“I notice,” he says simply.

Another statement. Another phrase thrown into the air for me to decipher. But I can’t wrap my head around it. What does he mean, he notices? And how could he be aware of something about me that I wasn’t even aware of myself? It just doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense, because no one notices—

A sudden chill snakes down my spine, crawls along my legs, my wrists. A thousand pinpricks of ice. I go cold all over—painfully, unnaturally cold—and I understand what this means, at least.

It means it’s time to get to work.

“Henry! What are you still doing here?”

Mr. Murphy looks up from his desk as Henry and I walk in, his eyes sweeping right over me.

“I was hoping you’d still be in, Mr. Murphy,” Henry says with one of his rare, grossly persuasive smiles. Bright eyes. Shining teeth. Faint dimples in his cheeks. Even I’m almost tempted to believe what comes out of his mouth next. “Do you have a few minutes to spare? I was hoping to look at some of the primary sources from the Opium Wars—you know, since you said we’ll be learning about that next—but the librarian wouldn’t let me go near them without your approval…”

It’s perfect—the slight reluctance in his voice, like he’s afraid to inconvenience the teacher; the eagerness without appearing overeager; the sincerity in the way he holds Mr. Murphy’s gaze. And, of course, there’s the one factor others wouldn’t be able to replicate, no matter how great at lying they are: his reputation. He’s King Henry, every teacher’s favorite student, the one who always talks to them about extra course material, advanced readings, debates new theories with them just for fun.

I never thought I’d see the day where I was grateful for Henry being such a teacher’s pet, but here we are.

Mr. Murphy sets down the paper in his hands. His tone is friendly, slightly teasing, when he asks, “Primary sources, hmm? And this couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

Henry ducks his head, making quite the convincing show of looking sheepish. “Well, I was reading about the First Opium War this afternoon and it’s all just so interesting—terrible, obviously, but interesting—and when I remembered the library had some of the original texts… I suppose I got carried away.” He shoots Mr. Murphy another smile, softer this time, embarrassed, and my heart does a weird little somersault in my chest. “Sorry, you’re right. It’s not that important—”

“No, no, I didn’t mean that,” Mr. Murphy says quickly. He stands up, his chair rolling back a few feet and hitting the wall with a dull thud. “It’s great that you’re so passionate about your subjects, Henry. And I’m more than happy to go with you—right now, in fact.” As he says this, he tucks his laptop under his arm, and makes a motion for Henry to lead the way.

But Henry hesitates, his eyes falling on the laptop. For the first time, I sense a fissure in his mask of calm. “You don’t—you don’t have to bring that with you. It’ll be really quick.”

I swallow the lump of fear in my throat and step closer, studying Mr. Murphy’s reaction carefully, searching for any signs of suspicion, of confusion. But he just sighs and shakes his head.

“I know, but I think it’s for the best. I’ve heard a few funny reports lately…”

My stomach lurches.

“What reports?” Henry asks, tensing too.

“Oh, well, nothing to be overly concerned about, I’m sure,” Mr. Murphy says with a wave of his free hand. “Just stories of things disappearing here and there from lockers, phones and laptops being hacked. Stuff like that.” He nods toward the door. “You good to go?”

Henry straightens, but not before his gaze darts in my general direction. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He doesn’t ask Mr. Murphy about his laptop again, or persuade him to leave it behind, and I don’t blame him; if Mr. Murphy’s already on guard and vaguely aware of what’s been going on, it wouldn’t take much for him to suspect something was off.

But once Henry and Mr. Murphy have left the classroom, leaving me alone, invisible, the laptop I need gone, I can’t help feeling absolutely idiotic. My heart sinks all the way down, my head pounding. What am I supposed to do now? Follow them to the library, try to steal Mr. Murphy’s laptop when he’s not looking? Try again another day? But even with Henry’s reputation—even if Henry claimed to have found a never-before-seen primary source from the Daoguang Emperor himself—I doubt the teacher would be so trusting if Henry were to come find him two nights in a row.

No, there has to be some other way. Maybe I can access Mr. Murphy’s laptop from his phone or my phone, or maybe he has a copy of the exams sent to his email, or maybe—

Maybe he has a physical copy lying around somewhere.

Around here.

With a sudden, dizzying surge of hope, I remember the thick folder Mr. Murphy always carries with him, how he likes to print things out, says he finds it hard to read things on a screen.

I rush to his desk. It’s a complete mess, highlighters and half-marked papers scattered everywhere, one last bite of jianbing going cold on a dirty plate. But right there, buried beneath it, is the see-through folder I last saw Mr. Murphy with.

Slowly, inch by inch, I pull the folder free as if it’s a Jenga block, careful not to move anything else on the teacher’s desk. The folder’s been crammed full with worksheets, copies of the syllabus, past test rubrics, excerpts from the textbook readings…

There doesn’t seem to be any kind of organization system, not even a single colored tab. All I can do is flip page after page as the folder grows unbearably heavy in my clammy hands, my heart racing, terribly conscious of the ticking clock and how many minutes have passed since Mr. Murphy and Henry left.

My senses seem to have sharpened, too, like a rabbit’s when it fears it’s being hunted; every rustle of movement in the corridors outside startles me, every creak of the door or tap of the branches against the windows makes me freeze. I can smell the leftover food from the staff’s office upstairs—seafood, and something sour—and feel the sweat forming on my skin in cool, perfect beads.

And still I force myself to keep rifling through the giant folder, keep searching, scanning the blur of text for the words Year 12 Midterm or History Exam until—

Finally.

Finally. There it is.

Adrenaline floods my veins as I take out the exam and answer booklet with shaking fingers, holding them up under the fluorescent classroom lights. For a second I’m so stunned by what I’m about to do I almost drop them, but I steady myself. Grab my phone and snap a photo of the first page, then the second, the third.

I’m close to finishing when I hear it—

Voices.

“…difficult to believe the emperor really was so ignorant. If you read between the lines of that letter, it seemed more like one last, desperate attempt to avoid trouble,” Henry’s saying, his slow footsteps falling behind Mr. Murphy’s quick, noisy ones. He’s speaking louder than usual—no doubt to warn me they’re about to come in.

No. Not yet.

I’m on the very last page now, but my shadow keeps blocking the words—

Then realization hits me like a boulder, almost knocking the breath out of me: my shadow. If I have a shadow, then I must’ve turned visible again, and if I’m visible when Mr. Murphy walks in here… If Mr. Murphy sees me…

Shit.

Panic invades every cell in my body. I twist the paper around in the light and snap a photo, then stuff it back into the folder and shove everything under the dirty plate again in one rapid, frenzied movement. I don’t know if it’s in the exact same position as before, but there’s no time to check.

The doorknob creaks. Turns.

Mr. Murphy opens the door just as I throw myself onto the ground, squeezing into the gap under his desk. The space is tiny; I have to tuck my knees under my chin like a fetus, wrap my arms tight around myself like a vise.

My heart is pounding so hard I think I might die.

“Thanks again for everything, Mr. Murphy,” Henry says. He sounds less than ten feet away. “I know how busy you must be…”

“You’re too polite,” comes Mr. Murphy’s response from nearby. He’s walking, drawing closer and closer, and—

Oh god.

His worn, leather shoes suddenly appear in my line of vision, only a few inches from my leg.

I retract further, press up against the hard surface of the desk, fold into myself until I can barely breathe, but still he’s too close. He only needs to look down to know I’m here. He only needs to listen carefully to hear my furious heartbeats, my uneven gasps for air.

I’m trapped.

The thought sends a new jolt of hysteria through me. I’m trapped and I can’t see any way of getting out. Not undetected. Not without consequences. The inevitable begins to play in my mind like a horror film: Mr. Murphy accidentally dropping a pencil or paper and seeing me crouched here, hiding at his very feet; the shock flashing through his eyes, even more pronounced than when I broke down over my test in class, and the realization that’ll follow shortly afterward, that I must be here for a reason. Then he’ll look at his desk, notice how the folder is maybe two inches to the right from where he’d left it, how the corner of the exam booklet is bent, and put two and two together, and then—

“Is there something else you need, Henry?” Mr. Murphy asks. He lowers himself into his seat, and I watch in silent horror as the chair rolls forward…

There’s no room for me to retreat. The front wheels ram into my right foot, crushing my toes. A white-hot bolt of pain shoots through me, and I have to bite down on my tongue to keep from crying out.

Please let this stop, I pray, not even sure who I’m praying to. Please, please let him get an urgent call, or have to get up to use the bathroom, or let the fire alarm go off sometime soon…

But neither the chair nor Mr. Murphy moves.

“Well, actually…” Henry’s voice floats over from the other side of the room, and I can tell from the pause that he’s trying to stall. He must know I’m still here. We talked about this before, albeit briefly; I would text him once I was safe outside, and if not, he would create a distraction to buy me time. I just hadn’t counted on him to remember.

For a second, I allow myself to hope.

Then I hear his footsteps moving in the opposite direction, and my heart falls. Confusion clouds my mind. What the hell is he—

A crash breaks through my thoughts: the unmistakable sound of flesh slamming into cement, like someone’s body hitting the floor.

Then a gasp—

“Henry? Henry!”

The chair rolls back and in a flash of brown, Mr. Murphy’s shoes disappear from view. I hear him run toward where Henry must have fallen and I don’t think. I just move. Ignoring the pins and needles in my legs, I scramble out from under the desk, almost banging my head against the corner, and sprint for the back door.

In the dark of the corridor, I sink into the shadows, panting, catching snippets of Henry’s conversation with Mr. Murphy as I creep farther away from the classroom.

“…haven’t had much to eat. Don’t worry, this has happened before…”

“…to the school nurse? They might still be in—”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary. Really, it’s fine. I didn’t mean to startle you…”

The night air is cool when I step out. Sweet with the fragrance of begonias blooming in the school gardens. I close my eyes and inhale, hardly daring to believe what I just managed to get away with. What Henry just did. When he talked about creating a distraction, I never would’ve imagined he meant fake fainting.

It’s all so bizarre that a bubble of laughter bursts from my lips, and suddenly my whole body is shaking with hysteria, the much-needed release of tension. I don’t know long I stand there, waiting, light-headed and almost giddy with relief, but soon I hear voices. Henry and Mr. Murphy’s. Some of their words are muffled by the front door, but I can make out Henry’s continued insistence: “I’m fine, I’m fine. I can go see the nurse myself.”

Mr. Murphy must believe him—or maybe he simply knows better than to challenge Henry’s stubbornness—because there’s the squeak of shoes, of heavy footsteps moving away, while another set draws closer.

The door creaks open.

“Well, that was a thoroughly humiliating ordeal.”

I twist around.

Henry is standing behind me, his expression calm, hands in pockets, the collar of his shirt rumpled. A reddish-yellow bruise has started to bloom over the curve of his left cheekbone, a violation of his otherwise perfect skin.

Without thinking, I grab his face in one hand and tilt it up to the moonlight, inspecting the injury. It looks swollen. Painful.

“Holy crap, Henry,” I say, no longer laughing. “You didn’t have to go that far—I mean, I’m grateful, obviously—so grateful—but… Does it—does it hurt?”

He doesn’t answer me, but his eyes widen slightly. Flicker to the point of contact between us, where my hand is still cupping his cheek.

I let my hand drop and step back, mortified.

“Um, sorry. Really don’t know why I just did that…” I shake my head, hard, as if I can somehow shake the awkward moment away too. What is wrong with me? “Do you need a bandage though? Or ice? Or one of those cloth things they tie around…” I trail off when I see the corners of his lips twitch with ill-suppressed amusement. “Is this somehow funny to you? Because you could’ve been seriously—”

“I appreciate the concern,” he says. “But I’m honestly fine. I promise. I’ve done this before.”

I stare at him. “What? Why?”

He hesitates, and I can almost see the gears in his mind working, trying to decide how much information he can afford to disclose. Finally, he says, “It was a long time ago…when I was seven or eight. My father had signed me up for violin lessons and I really, really did not want to go…”

It takes me a minute to understand what he’s saying, to grasp the sheer absurdity of it. This is truly the last thing I’d expect from Henry Li. “Wait. So you’d fake faint just to get out of violin lessons?”

“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.