If You Could See the Sun

The next week, a teacher asks me to stay behind after class, but it’s not Mr. Murphy, as I feared—it’s Mr. Chen.

His expression is stern as I approach his desk, a faint wrinkle appearing in his forehead, the way it does when he’s going over a particularly difficult passage in our texts. Fear pulses through me.

“I wanted to talk to you about your English essay, Alice,” he says.

“My essay?” I repeat, like an idiot.

“Yes. From your midterms.”

“Why? Was it—was it bad?” The words tumble out of my lips before I can stop them, like water gushing from a broken dam. I hate that this is always my first instinct: self-doubt, anxiety, the nagging feeling that I did something wrong.

But Mr. Chen puts my worries to rest with a firm shake of his head. “On the contrary—yours was one of the most well-written essays I’ve read in years. And I don’t say that lightly.”

“Oh,” is all I can think to say as the compliment sinks in. One of the most well-written essays I’ve read. And that’s coming from Mr. Chen, the same teacher who was invited to speak at Peking University only weeks earlier, who received his education at Harvard. I’ve never had drugs before—never plan to in my life—but I imagine this is what the high must feel like. “Wow.”

“Wow indeed,” he says, but he doesn’t smile. “That’s not the main reason I asked you to stay behind, though.” He taps a finger absentmindedly on his desk like a pen, as if deciding how best to phrase his next question. “Do you remember your main contention for the essay?”

I try not to look too taken aback. “Um, roughly.”

“So you remember how you positioned yourself in…support of Macbeth and his actions?”

Now I see where this is going.

“It was only for the exam,” I say quickly. “To make an interesting argument. I obviously don’t believe you should go around killing people to gain power—or for any reason, really, unless the person you’re killing is about to wipe out the human species or something, but that’s a whole different topic. And I wasn’t saying that he was right either. Just—sympathetic.”

“Just sympathetic.” Somehow, when Mr. Chen repeats something, he sounds all wise and philosophical.

“I mean his ambition,” I say, feeling the need to clarify further, especially as his contemplative silence drags on a beat too long. “The fact that he goes after what he wants.”

“Well then, Alice.” Mr. Chen clasps his hands in front of him, peers at me across his desk. I feel vaguely as if he’s about to give me a test of some kind. “Since we’re on the topic—tell me. What is it that you want?”

“What do I want?” I echo.

He nods, expectant.

But the open-endedness of the question catches me off guard, knocks the air out my lungs as a million answers surge up to meet it—

I want to be respected. I want to be rich. I want to become an acclaimed civil rights attorney or a business director at a Fortune 500 company or a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist; I want to be a professor at Harvard or Oxford or Yale, to walk those gleaming lecture halls with my head held high and know that I belong; I want to inherit a giant multimillion-dollar company, like Henry, or be bold and gifted and innovative enough to pave my own path in some niche field, like Peter, or to have endless opportunities to stand before thousands of people and be seen, like Rainie; I want my name to be spoken at Airington long after I’ve left, for all my teachers to be proud that they once taught me, to say to future students, “you heard of that Alice Sun? I always knew she would make it”; I want glory, recognition, attention, praise; I want to buy my parents a brand-new apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows and a balcony that overlooks a glittering green lake, to earn enough money to treat them to roast duck and fresh fish every day; I want to be great at what I do, no matter what I do; I want, I want, I want—

Yet just as quickly as it balloons, the wild longing in my chest deflates.

With a sharp jolt I feel all the way down to my bones, as if I’ve fallen from a great height, I remember who I am, and who I am not. I can’t afford to think so far ahead into the future, to be so frivolous with my plans. I should only be focusing on making enough money to cover my school fees and bills for this year, then next year, then the year after that…

Maybe I was lying just now about why I find Macbeth so sympathetic. Maybe it’s because I understand what it’s like to want things that do not belong to you.

But of course, I don’t tell Mr. Chen any of this.

“I want to get good grades. Graduate. Get a job in whichever field my strengths lie.”

His brows furrow, like he doesn’t quite believe me. “Not what you’re passionate about?” he asks delicately.

I lift my chin. “I’m passionate about being good at things.”

There’s a defensive edge in my voice, and Mr. Chen must hear it. He drops the subject.

“Well, all right then. I suppose I should let you go to lunch…”

“Thanks, Mr. Chen.”

But as I turn to leave, he adds, very quietly, “You’re still a kid, you know.”

I falter. “What?”

His eyes are kind, almost sad when he looks at me. “Even if it doesn’t feel that way now, you’re still only a kid.” He shakes his head. “You’re too young to be this…hardened by the world. You should be free to dream. To hope.”

My conversation with Mr. Chen plays over and over again in my head as I make my way over to the cafeteria. Most people have eaten and left already, and only the Chinese cuisine bar is still open, so I grab a tray of rice and braised pork ribs that have already gone cold and nibble at my food half-heartedly, the chopsticks held loose in my hands.

You’re still a kid, you know.

Coming from any other adult, the words would’ve seemed condescending, easy to laugh at and brush off, but I could tell Mr. Chen really meant them. Which is almost worse, somehow. It makes me feel too vulnerable.

Exposed.

It’s like that time I wrote a poem about my family in Year Eight, thinking it was only for an English assignment, but the teacher insisted on reading it aloud to the whole school at assembly, her voice reaching an emotional crescendo as she described the old callouses on Mama’s hands, her own hands rising and falling in exaggerated movements. People approached me about it afterward, kind and gushing and sympathetic, and part of me basked in the positive attention, while the other part—a bigger part—wanted nothing more than to flee.

I guess that’s the thing: I’ve spent my whole life longing to be seen, but I’ve also come to realize that when people look too closely, they inevitably notice the ugly parts too, like how the tiny cracks on a polished vase only become visible under scrutiny. Like Mama’s callouses, hidden from the world until the teacher had to go and read my poem into the microphone, into the silence of the giant, filled auditorium.

You’re still a kid, you know.

The back of my neck prickles. Something sharp and hard lodges in my throat, like a shard of bone, even though the pork ribs on my tray are still untouched. I give up trying to eat.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

Mr. Chen had said my Macbeth essay was one of the most well-written essays he’d read in years, which is the kind of praise I usually live for, lap up like a starved dog, but he hadn’t looked impressed at all.

Only concerned.

“Alice! Hey, girl!”

I jerk my head up and spot Rainie making a beeline for me from the other end of the cafeteria table, a wide grin on her face. Her glossy hair has been tied up in a high ponytail, and it bounces elegantly over her shoulders as she sits down beside me. Another thing I wasn’t expecting to happen today.

“So. What class is next?” she asks cheerily.

“You have art for fifth period,” I inform her, thinking this must be why she came here. Since I’ve long fallen into the habit of memorizing Henry’s timetable every school year, I know pretty much everyone’s class schedules by heart. But she just shakes her head and laughs.

“Oh my god, Alice,” she says, in that fond, exasperated tone people tend to use around close relatives. “Girl. I know what my class is. I’m asking about yours.”

I blink at her. “Um… I have a spare period. Why?”

“Because. I’m trying to be your friend.” She makes this sound like it’s the most natural and obvious thing in the world, when I could easily name at least two thousand other reasons for someone of her social standing to seek out someone like me. But as she continues smiling, not budging from her seat, I realize that more people have been approaching me lately, sometimes waving in the corridors or striking up conversations out of the blue.

I guess hanging around Henry and Chanel so much in public is the real-life equivalent of getting the verified check mark on social media: it sends a clear signal to the world that you’re someone worth paying attention to.

Or maybe it’s also because of Beijing Ghost. Even if no one here knows I’m the one behind the app, I’ve still spent these past months learning about all their secrets, their greatest fears and desires and insecurities, from Rainie’s photos to Evie’s test scores. Maybe that’s the kind of thing you feel, instinctively, that draws people together like an invisible string, even if they’re not aware of the full truth.

In theory, this should make me proud. This is what I’ve always wanted, after all: to be noticed, to be approached. But just like Mr. Chen’s remark, it somehow feels wrong.

If Rainie notices my mini existential crisis, the way I’m gripping my chopsticks too tight, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she leans back and starts scrolling through what has to be at least a hundred new notifications on her phone, pausing and rolling her thick-lashed eyes when she gets to the latest one.

“Still can’t believe they’re raising the prices again,” she says with a snort. “The sheer nerve.”

My heart seizes. “Wait. What?”

“The school fees,” she says casually. “Didn’t you know? They sent out an email about it a few months back.”

“I—I don’t…” All the school’s emails go straight to Mama and Baba, but between their long work hours and old phones and the crappy connection in their little flat, sometimes things slip through the cracks. Important things. My heart starts pounding faster.

“Here. This is just a reminder for the upcoming deadline. The original email’s down below.” She scoots closer, holding her screen up for me to see. I can’t read anything at first—can only stare at the tiny black numbers, the harsh white light, my stomach writhing. Then the figure comes into painful focus. 360,000 RMB.

No.

That’s a 30,000 RMB jump from what it used to be, and that’s only for one school year. It’s too much. It’s more than what I have, what I could possibly earn before the fee deadline in seven days, even if I were to complete another Beijing Ghost task—

I’m only dimly aware of what Rainie is saying. “…first heard about it. Apparently a bunch of the other international schools have raised their prices too, beginning from next semester—such a rip-off. My dad’s company had like, a mini fit when he sent them the receipt.”

“Right,” I manage. The cafeteria suddenly feels too small, or maybe it’s just my lungs that have shrunk. 360,000 RMB. It’s the kind of number that should be overwhelming, apocalyptic, illegal, that should send everyone at this school into mass panic, but Rainie looks mildly annoyed, at best.

Then again, of course she is. Most of my classmates have their parents’ companies covering their school fees, their private drivers, their giant condos. Everything. That would explain why I never heard about the raised prices until now, too; this is nothing more than a minor inconvenience to them, hardly worth dwelling on for longer than a few seconds.

Case in point: Rainie’s already launched into another conversation topic—this time about the midterm exams, and how they should be graded on a curve, and wasn’t that English essay question so vague, and—

“Oh yeah, did you hear about Evie?” she asks.

If I wasn’t already on edge, I most certainly am now. My spine goes rigid, half my thoughts still stuck on the school fees, trying desperately to calculate how much more money I need to make in the next week. “What—what about Evie?”

“Apparently, she smashed her history midterms—for her standards anyway. Got like, eighty percent or something. Pretty impressive, huh?”

I search Rainie’s body language for any hidden, darker meaning behind her words, but she just tightens her ponytail, flips it over her shoulder, and sighs.

“I’m happy for her, honestly,” she continues. “She’s gone through at least ten different tutors in the past year, and none of them helped. Guess she finally found the right one.”

“Mm,” is all I reply, terrified that my voice will break and give me away if I try to speak. What could I possibly say? Yes, I, too, am so glad she found the right tutor. Her final score was definitely because of that, and not because she received the literal answers to memorize days in advance. For sure.

Then my phone buzzes, the vibration almost violent against the thin fabric of my skirt, and all thoughts of Mr. Chen and Evie and the raised school fees are driven away as I read the new message on Beijing Ghost.

“Repeat what you just said.”

Henry is staring at me from the other end of his dorm room, his expression the closest thing to shock I’ve ever witnessed on him. He runs an agitated hand through his hair, shakes his head. Sits down on the edge of his bed, which is perfectly made, as usual. Sometimes I wonder if he even sleeps on it.

“Which part?” I ask.

He doesn’t reply, but his eyes dart to the door. He’s been doing this a lot—ever since I ran in here and shut the door firmly behind me, afraid that people in the hall might overhear our conversation and call the police on us. He’d flinched as if I were trapping us inside a prison, looking almost…nervous. Tense. His back too straight, his fingers restless. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was more upset about the closed door than what I just said.

“Which part?” I say again, when it becomes clear he hasn’t heard me.

“All of it.”

“Are you serious?”

“It’s a fair lot to take in, don’t you think?”

I roll my eyes, but he’s right. It is a lot to handle; I wouldn’t have come here straight after school otherwise.

So I repeat it all. Everything from the latest Beijing Ghost message.

I tell him about Andrew She and Peter Oh, how their parents’ rivalry at the same company has been escalating in recent weeks, how one of them is meant to be promoted soon, but the company hasn’t reached a decision yet on who is the best pick. All Andrew knows is that whoever gets promoted will be the marketing director for every branch in Eurasia and receive a seven-figure salary each year, and it’s everything his father has been working for since his early twenties, but his father isn’t so confident about his chances at winning.

In fact, his father is so uncertain about his chances that he’s willing to use other methods. Simpler, crueler methods that are sure to produce results.

Like kidnapping the other guy’s son.

The Experiencing China trip will be the perfect opportunity, Andrew She had written. He hadn’t mentioned his own name, only Peter’s, but I’d known about them and their parents’ feud long enough to guess just from the context. We’ll all be staying at the Autumn Dragon Hotel for four nights in a row, and you know how these trips go—the teachers will have trouble supervising us all at night. The whole process should be smooth. Easy for someone like you. My father will send some of his men over, keep them hidden in a room on a separate floor. All you have to do is ensure Peter makes his way to them, and take his phone. It’s essential, however, that you create no disturbance whatsoever, so that by the time anyone even notices he’s gone, it’ll be too late.

Then, as if he could sense my horror through the phone, he’d added, Don’t worry. We won’t cause him physical harm in any way, and when the time comes, we’ll release him on our own. What we need is merely for Mr. Oh’s son to go missing during a vital time in his campaign, long enough to distract him, upset him, severely affect his everyday performance. Then the promotions will be announced, and Mr. Oh will have lost but miraculously won his son back, and everyone will be happy.

“Did he actually say that?” Henry asks, incredulity lifting his brows. “That everyone will be happy?”

I nod.

“Good god,” he says on a drawn breath. He’s silent for a while, processing, though his eyes still flicker to the door every few seconds. “Was there anything else?”

“No. Nothing,” I lie quickly. What I don’t tell him is that by some awful coincidence, or maybe some twisted sign from the universe, Mama had messaged me right after Andrew did. She’d received Airington’s reminder email about the change in prices too, having missed the first one.

Have you made your decision yet? she’d asked, then attached three brochures for cheap, low-tier local schools near our compound, as well as one for a school in Maine. If not, it’s time to start thinking about next step. Airington’s fee deadline is in one week. After that, you’ll automatically be un-enrolled from school.

In other words: I need to somehow make over 100,000 RMB in the next seven days, or accept that I’m screwed and start cleaning out my school lockers. But where am I supposed to get that sort of money? Where else, if not from Andrew?

As I fight off another wave of panic, Henry’s voice breaks through my thoughts.

“You know, I always figured Andrew She was a bit of a snake.”

I frown at him. “Really? But the guy’s so…so nice and scared of everything all the time. He looked close to wetting himself when Mr. Chen called on him in class the other day.”

Henry just nods as if I’m helping him prove a point. “Makes sense. It’s usually the cowards who resort to such crude, extreme tactics.”

Or the desperate, I add in my head, but don’t say.

“Well, coward or not, he’s definitely not messing around.” I walk over to his bed and show him the last message Andrew sent me. “He’s offering us one million RMB for this task alone.” When I first saw it, the number didn’t even seem real. It still doesn’t. “One million.”

“Wait.” Henry turns his full attention to me, and I can’t help but shift under the weight of it. “You’re not really considering this, are you? The plan is absurd. And we both know Andrew isn’t very bright.”

But he’s rich, which is what matters.

“I mean, I’m not saying I’d be thrilled to get involved in a toxic decade-long intercompany rivalry and kidnap a minor—”

“That’s a really great way to start a sentence,” Henry says drily.

I glare at him and continue, “But if you think about it, this one large crime pays the same amount as ten or eleven medium-sized crimes, so we’re actually just…just maximizing profit and minimizing sin.”

He makes a sound caught halfway between a laugh and a scoff. “So what’s next, then? Actual murder?”

“Obviously not—I’d never—”

“Really? Never?”

“No,” I snap. “How could you even think that? Andrew said himself that Peter wouldn’t be harmed. That’s completely different from—from taking someone’s life.”

“I don’t know, Alice,” he says, his dark gaze unreadable, pinning me in place. “A few months ago, I wouldn’t have thought it possible for you to consider kidnapping your classmate either.”

Anger surges up inside me, hot and sharp and sudden, cutting my words into blades. “Oh my god, Henry, don’t be such a hypocrite. You didn’t say anything when I told you about the exam mission—”

“Well, it was clear you’d already made up your mind—”

“Then it’s all my fault. Is that it?”

“No.” His voice is infuriatingly calm. It makes my skin itch. “No, that’s obviously not what I’m saying—”

“Or do you regret it?”

“Regret what?”

“This.” I point to him, to me. “Because I made it pretty clear from the beginning that this wasn’t going to be a fun charity project—”

“If my memory serves me correctly, I signed up for an app, not a criminal organization—”

“Then quit.”

The words come out harsher than I intended, and my mouth goes dry as they shoot forth to meet their target. It’s too late to retract them.

A muscle strains in Henry’s jaw; a rare sign of emotion.

“Do you not know me at all?” he says after a long pause. “I never quit anything.”

You quit violin, I almost counter, but the memory of him confiding in me about his lessons, his lovely features illuminated by moonlight, the mottled bruise stretching over his cheek like a shadow, suddenly threatens to overwhelm me. Softens the acid on my tongue.

Even now, I can still make out the faint outline of the bruise on his face.

“I never quit anything either,” is what I say instead. “Which is why I think—I need to see this task through. I’m so close to…”

To earning enough money for me and my family. To feeling safe for once in my life. To never having to worry about those awful school brochures again. One million RMB. Do you have any idea what that means to me?

But the question sounds ridiculous, even in my head. How could he? He’s Henry Li.

“I’m just so close.”

“Close to what?” He sounds genuinely confused.

“You wouldn’t get it,” I mutter. I look away before he can question me again, and the vestiges of my anger turn heavy in my stomach, draining all the fight out of me. “I know you think I’m a bad person,” I say quietly, and without meaning to, I leave an opening at the end of the sentence, room for him to step in and say, that’s not true.

But he takes a beat too long to respond. “…I don’t—”

“Whatever.” I straighten, stride over to the window. The sky hangs gray and heavy with unshed rain, and from afar, the pale, bare branches of the wutong trees planted around the playground look like bones. “It’s fine if you think that. Really. I”—for a fraction of a second, my voice cracks, and I force it to harden—“I was never trying to be a hero anyway.”

“You could be, though,” Henry says quietly.

“Don’t be naive.”

“Why no—”

“Because,” I snap. “Because this isn’t a Marvel movie. It’s not about good versus evil—it’s just about survival. And even if it were,” I add, dragging a finger down the cold pane of glass, “I’d rather be the villain who lives to the end than the hero who winds up dead.”

I turn back around, just in time to catch the look on Henry’s face. It’s not disgust, as I expected, or even shock. His lips are set in a tight, unyielding line, but his eyes are soft. Strangely tender.

As if I’ve given away something about myself without realizing it.

“Look, I don’t need your approval, Henry,” I say, determined to ignore that expression, the way it makes my chest ache like a pressed bruise. “I just need to know if you’re fully prepared to do this mission with me.”

Seconds tick by.

Minutes.

A century of him sitting there, not saying anything, killing me with his silence. But just when I’m about to give up and walk out the door and pretend all of this never happened, he nods, yes.

“Good,” I say, and it’s not until the word leaves my lips that I realize the extent of my relief. It startles me. Unsettles me. Maybe I care about this partnership more than I want to admit.

I quickly push the thought aside.

“All right then. Let’s start brainstorming how we’re going to do this whole kidnapping thing now, hmm?” I retrieve a pen from my pocket, and point at the calendar hung up over his desk, a colored sticky note marking every important event. Written in his handwriting, so neat it looks as if it’s been typed up and printed, are the words Experiencing China trip. Only three days away. “We don’t have much time to waste.”