If You Could See the Sun

For the first time in forty years of Airington school history, our Experiencing China trip is cut short.

All because of me.

Well, technically speaking, Vanessa Liu is responsible for the abrupt change in schedule too. Of all the guys in our year level, it turns out she’d been harbouring a secret crush on Peter, so when she’d gone to his room to confess—only to find Jake half-asleep and Peter’s bed empty—she’d feared the worst and notified Mr. Murphy.

The timing couldn’t have been worse, really. If Vanessa hadn’t been so drunk, she would never have stumbled into Peter’s room after I’d already kidnapped him, nor would Mr. Murphy have shown up in a bathrobe to search for him the exact moment Peter and I hurtled up the stairs.

Everything unraveled pretty quickly after that.

Mr. Murphy had taken one look at my expression, then Peter’s stunned face and the thin trail of blood trickling from his hairline, and sent him to the hospital for a suspected concussion. Then he’d informed Peter’s parents, who’d screamed so loud into the phone I could hear the whole conversation from six feet away. After they finished threatening to sue the school and the hotel for gross negligence, they’d sent out a private jet to bring Peter home—presumably to be treated at a better hospital.

The rest of the year level was ordered to pack their bags and check out before sunrise, so we could catch the earliest train back to Beijing. No explanation was provided.

But by now, I’m sure everyone’s come up with their own theories on what happened; the cause behind Mr. Murphy’s frantic calls at 4:00 a.m., the shriek of the ambulance siren cutting through the night, the terrible look on Wei Laoshi’s face ever since…

And, of course, the reason I’ve been separated from my cohort, forbidden from speaking to anyone and forced to sit in the teachers’ train compartment instead. I haven’t even had a chance to check on Henry. To see if he’s okay. None of the teachers have brought up his name so far, which means he’s at least evaded suspicion, but I can’t stop thinking about the fight last night: all his potential injuries, the thin cut on his fist.

I can’t stop worrying about him.

“Alice, I’d like to give you a chance to explain,” Mr. Murphy says. He’s sitting directly across from me, hunched over awkwardly to avoid bumping his head on the upper bunk.

I’m hunched over too, but it’s fear that keeps my spine bent, my eyes down, rather than a lack of space.

“Explain what?” I mumble, stalling for time.

“I spoke with Peter before he was taken to the hospital, and he said you were there in the hotel room with him.”

I clench my teeth. It’s too hot in here, the walls threatening to close in, the low ceiling lights blinding like a policeman’s torch. A drop of sweat rolls down my neck.

“He also said,” Mr. Murphy continues, with some uncertainty, “that you almost seemed to…appear out of nowhere. That he isn’t sure how you got into the room in the first place.” He pauses. “Does that sound right?”

A choked, gurgling noise escapes my lips when I open my mouth to protest. I swallow, try again. “He was concussed, Mr. Murphy,” I say finally. “He couldn’t—I mean, have you ever heard of anyone appearing out of thin air before? Outside of movies and comic books? It—it’s ridiculous.”

Mr. Murphy shakes his head. “While the idea itself does appear far-fetched, and quite obviously defies the basic laws of physics, I’m afraid to say that the other parts of his story do add up.” His expression grows stern, and my heart seizes. “For example, when I asked Vanessa Liu about you, she recalls you being in Henry Li’s room at around midnight. But Mina Huang tells me you left shortly after Vanessa—at a time that coincides with a mysterious knock Jake Nguyen received on his door—and did not return at any point. As another example,” he goes on, listing each point off with his fingers, “I’ve contacted the hotel for security footage, and they noticed something rather…peculiar. That is, there’s no record of you entering Room 2005 at all, yet somehow, you were seen leaving the room with Peter.”

If I wasn’t so concerned about being expelled or sent to jail, I might actually be impressed by Mr. Murphy’s detective work right now.

He sighs. “See, I don’t believe in supernatural abilities, Alice, and I don’t want to believe that you would be the type of person to commit such a crime. There is also something to be said about the fact that, regardless of what happened prior, you did help Peter escape in the end…”

There’s a but in his tone. I can sense it.

I steel myself.

“…but the evidence we have so far doesn’t look good. Even if we were to ignore the anomalies, the fact stands that Peter was taken against his will, injured, and—judging from the marks on his wrists—tied up, and you were missing the same time he was. If Peter’s parents decide to investigate further, to file a lawsuit…”

I was prepared for this. But still, my throat constricts. A loud ringing fills my ears.

“Of course,” Mr. Murphy adds, “it would be a different matter if someone had set you up for the ta—”

“No,” I blurt out. Too quickly.

His eyebrows draw together. “Are you sure, Alice?”

“I—I’m sure.”

And I am. I’d weighed out the pros and cons of telling the teachers or police about Andrew all night, and it became clear, even in my distressed state, that the cost would simply be too great. I can’t offer them any proof of correspondence without exposing Beijing Ghost, and everything that comes with it—Henry’s involvement, my classmates’ secrets, the private bank account, the stolen exam answers.

If anything, confessing would only increase my chances of being punished by law.

Not to mention all the questions it would raise about a power I can’t even explain myself.

In my prolonged silence, Mr. Murphy’s face sags with disappointment. He seems to sink deeper in his seat.

“Very well,” he says, rubbing a weary hand over his eyes. “I suppose we’ll discuss this in more depth when I meet your parents—”

“Wait. My parents?”

He stares at me like I’ve missed something obvious. “Yes. I called them as soon as I got off the phone with Peter’s father. I told them to wait for us in my office.”

And just like that, all the air leaves my lungs. Whatever semblance of composure I’ve managed to maintain cracks down the middle like an egg, my anxiety spilling out in an uncontrollable, ugly mess.

“You—you called—” My voice cracks too, and I have trouble finishing my sentence. “You called—”

“I had to, Alice,” Mr. Murphy says. Another sigh. “It’s important that they know. You’re only a kid, after all.”

The words sound oddly familiar, and it takes me a moment to recall the last time I heard them: Mr. Chen, after praising my English exam, telling me with such sincerity that I deserved to dream, to carve out a future of my own.

Now the memory feels a million years old.

Apart from orientation and my scholarship interview, my parents have never set foot on school campus before. They always say it’s because the public transport is too inconvenient, which is true—most students have private drivers, so the school has never bothered to invest in anything more accessible—but I suspect it’s really because they’re afraid of embarrassing me. Because they don’t want to stand out for all the wrong reasons when they appear beside the typical Airington parental crowd of company owners, IT executives, and national stars.

Whatever the reason, I can’t imagine them navigating their way through the five floors of the humanities building, to the tiny office at the very end of the hall, having never even come close to the place before.

So when I race out of the bus, past the other students taking their time to unload their bags in the courtyard and waiting for their drivers to pick them up, and into Mr. Murphy’s office, I’m not entirely surprised to find it empty.

But that doesn’t stop me from panicking.

“They—they must’ve gotten lost,” I babble to Mr. Murphy, my chest tightening at the thought of my parents wandering around campus in a daze, looking for me. “I have to go find them—they don’t know English that well—”

God, it’s like America all over again.

“They’re grown adults, Alice,” Mr. Murphy says with a confused look, like I’m overreacting for no reason. He doesn’t understand. “I’m sure they don’t need a tour guide just to find—”

Someone knocks on the door, and I whip around.

My mouth goes dry.

A senior student I recognize but have never spoken to before is leaning against the door frame, my parents standing close behind him, their expressions equally pinched and closed off. With a pang, I notice that Baba’s wearing his blue work overalls, that Mama’s wearing the same faded floral shirt I last saw her in at the restaurant.

Both of them look older than I remember. Frailer.

“Found these folks walking around the primary school. Say they’re looking for a Sun Yan in Mr. Murphy’s office,” the boy tells us, shooting me a glance that’s at once pitying and curious.

“Great. Thanks for bringing them here, Chen.” Mr. Murphy smiles.

“No probs.”

The boy glances at me one last time before disappearing behind the door.

The second we’re alone, Baba stalks over.

I’m still holding on to one last straw of hope that he and Mama won’t react as badly as I feared—not without hearing my side of the story first, at least—but then I see the fury in his eyes.

“What were you thinking?” Baba shouts, spittle flying from his lips, a dark vein bulging at his temple. He’s shaking, he’s so mad. I’ve never seen him this angry before, not even that time I accidentally spilled water over the laptop he’d spent years saving up for. His voice is deafening in the closed space, and I know from the sudden hush that falls over the courtyard outside that everyone must be listening. That all my classmates and teachers can hear every single word. Chanel. Mr. Chen. Rainie. Vanessa.

Henry.

For the first time I find myself praying that I can turn invisible permanently. Disappear right this instant, sink into a void deep beneath the hideous office carpet and never resurface again.

“Are you trying to rebel?” Baba continues, his voice getting louder and louder. “How could you even—Your Mama and I don’t believe it at first when the school call us, not for award, but say you’re a criminal—”

Mr. Murphy keeps his gaze leveled at a random spot on the wall, looking terribly uncomfortable. When Baba takes a short break from his yelling to breathe, I muster all the courage I have left and whisper, “Baba, can we please—please—talk about this somewhere else? Everyone’s listening—”

But this is the wrong thing to say.

An awful, unforgiving look flashes over Baba’s face. “Do you only live for other people?” he demands. “Why do you care so much what they think?”

I don’t know how to reply without enraging him further, so I keep quiet. Pray this will all be over soon.

“Sun Yan. I’m talking to you.”

Then he reaches down for his shoe, and I recoil, certain it’s going to come flying my way, but Mama quickly intervenes.

“Laogong, now’s probably not the best time for this,” she murmurs to Baba in Mandarin, with a pointed look at Mr. Murphy.

“Fine.” Baba grabs my wrist—not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough to hurt. “Let’s go.”

I dig my heels in, wrenching my arm away with difficulty. “W-Where are you taking me?” I blurt out. There’s a low buzz building in my ears, a painful pressure rising up my chest and throat like bile. “I still have class—”

Baba barks out a laugh. “Class?” Without warning, he slams his hand down on the desk with a hard thud. Everyone jumps, including Mr. Murphy. Then Baba switches abruptly to English, and his already-disjointed words jumble together further in his rage. “Do you know what education for, huh? Why school charge 350,000 RMB—”

Mr. Murphy clears his throat. “Well, actually, it’s 360,000 RMB now—a reasonable price, if you consider our new state-of-the-art facilities—”

Baba ignores him. “It help you grow, form connection, see the world, one day give back to society. Not worship money. What your Mama always say? If you not good person, you’re nothing. Nothing.”

Heavy silence falls in the wake of his words like the drop of an axe. I’m trembling uncontrollably, my teeth chattering in a loud staccato. I think I’m going to die, or throw up, or both.

Then Baba shakes his head, eyes fluttering closed. Heaves a sigh. When he looks back up at me, he seems to have aged ten years in the span of ten seconds. It’s in Mandarin that he says, “No matter what happened, your Mama and I always felt so proud to have raised a daughter like you. But now…” He trails off.

My skin burns with shame.

“I—I’m sorry,” I choke out, and once the words have left my lips, I can’t stop repeating them. “I’m so, so sorry, Baba—I really am—I didn’t want it to be like this either…”

But Baba’s expression doesn’t soften. “We are leaving.”

Mr. Murphy chooses this moment to speak up. “Actually, given the current circumstances…a short break from school may be best for Alice.” He catches my look of horror, and quickly adds, “Not saying that she’s expelled, of course—it’ll likely be a while until Peter’s parents and the school board reach a decision. But until then…well.” His eyes flicker to the window, as if he, too, knows the entire Year Twelve cohort is eavesdropping on our conversation. He sighs. “I believe some distance would be beneficial. Give us all time to reflect and potentially make amends. What do you think, Alice?”

All three adults turn to me, and I realize it doesn’t matter what I think. The decision has already been made.

I swallow. “Can I at least go grab my stuff? From the dorm?”

Mr. Murphy looks visibly relieved. I guess it’d cause him a lot of trouble if I were to resist. Or maybe he just doesn’t want Baba to start yelling again.

It’s Mama who answers first.

“Yes,” she says quietly. Her voice is so distant she could be talking to a complete stranger—and just when I thought I couldn’t possibly feel any worse. “Go. Be quick.” She folds her hands together, the white scar peeking out from under her fingertips. “We still have to catch the subway.”

The short walk from Mr. Murphy’s office to my dorm is torture.

Everyone scatters the second I step outside, but I still sense their eyes trained on the back of my head, glimpse the suspicion and worry and judgment written all over their faces. My stomach squeezes. I’ve always hated negative attention.

I wonder how many of the people watching have pieced together that last night had something to do with Beijing Ghost. And how many more of them figured out that Beijing Ghost is me.

The walk starts to feel like a death march.

My eyes ache with tears as I climb up the steps to Confucius Hall, but I refuse to cry. To show weakness. I hold my head up high and throw back my shoulders, staring straight ahead, as if I’m not one wrong move away from breaking down in front of the whole year level.

A bitter wind picks up, howling in my ears, and over the noise I hear a faint voice—

“Alice!” someone calls after me.

I ignore them and move faster. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now, whether they’re well-intentioned or not. I have no idea what I’d say.

When I reach my dorm room, I stuff everything I own into a sad-looking duffel bag. There’s not much for me to pack, really; a stack of certificates and a few trophies, some toiletries, and a school uniform I might never have the chance to wear again…

“Oh my god. Alice.”

I jump and look up. It’s Chanel, her eyes wide as she takes in the opened wardrobe, the unzipped bag lying at my feet.

Then, without another word, she crosses the room and pulls me into a crushing hug. I stiffen at first, taken aback by the sudden gesture of affection, then rest my head tentatively on her bony shoulder, letting her hair tickle my cheek. For a moment, all the terror and uncertainty and guilt of the past few days catch up to me.

You can’t cry, I remind myself, as hot tears threaten to spill over.

“Dude. I was so worried,” Chanel whispers. She steps back to look me in the eyes. “What happened? I thought you were with Henry last night, but then—then I heard the ambulance sirens, and Mr. Murphy started calling all of us to pack at like, four, and he sounded scared shitless, and the teachers wouldn’t let any of us speak to you on the train… And now this?” She jerks a finger toward the duffel bag, its meager contents exposed. “What the hell is going on?”

“I’m leaving,” I say numbly.

She stares at me. “Leaving? Where? How long?”

All I can do is shake my head. If I speak another word, I’m scared I’ll fall apart.

But Chanel won’t let it rest. “Is the school making you leave?” she demands, angry now, two spots of color rising to her cheeks. “Because whatever you did, it can’t be that bad. And besides, you’re one of the best students they have. No—they can’t. I won’t let them.” She spins away from me, already reaching for her phone.

With enormous effort, I manage to find my voice again. “What—what are you doing?” I croak.

“I’m telling my dad,” she says. Her mouth twists into a grimace that’s half bitter, half smug. “He’s been extra nice to me ever since I found out about—you know.” The corners of her lips pull down further, but she continues, “I bet if I ask, he can pull some strings, get the school to reconsider—”

“No.” I grab her by the shoulders, force her to put her phone away. “No—Chanel, don’t. Please. I mean, I’m so grateful you’d even want to—but it’s not the school. Well, not only the school. I just. I can’t be here right now.” My voice cracks on the last word, and Chanel’s eyes darken with concern.

We’re both silent for a while: me trying to breathe through clenched teeth and shove my emotions down; her standing completely still, gaze trained on the ground.

Then she sighs. “God, this sucks.”

The massive understatement draws a shaky, slightly hysterical laugh from my lips, and I nod.

“Can I help you pack, at least?” she asks, glancing at my bag again. “Or I could help you get a Didi? My driver’s probably coming soon, too—he could give you and your parents a lift.”

Her kindness is overwhelming, like the fierce blast of a heater in winter. I give her hand a light squeeze, too choked up to speak for a minute. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m pretty much done anyway,” I finally manage, gathering the last of my things. “And my house is almost a two-hour drive from here. It’d be too far for your driver.”

Before she can protest, I throw my arms around her small frame, hoping it can convey everything—all the guilt and gratitude—I don’t know how to say.

Then I turn and walk out the door, pushing aside the awful thought that this may be the last time I’ll ever see these halls.

Mama and Baba do not speak a single word to me the whole subway ride home. It’s better, I suppose, than being screamed at in public again. But not by much.

When we finally reach their flat—our flat, I keep reminding myself—it’s even smaller than I remember. The ceilings scrape Baba’s head. The walls are stained yellow. There’s barely enough room for all of us to stand in the living room without bumping into the dinner table or the cabinets.

Silently, Mama picks up my bag and suitcase, and for one terrible second I think she’s going to throw them and me out of the house. Force me to go live on the streets. Disown me for good.

But then she dumps my stuff in her and Baba’s bedroom—the only bedroom in the flat.

“You sleep there,” she instructs, without looking at me.

“Where will you and Baba sleep?” I ask.

“On couch.”

“But—”

“Not for discussion,” she says firmly, such finality in her tone that I can only swallow my protests and comply.

“Thank you, Mama,” I whisper, but she’s already turned away. If she heard me, she doesn’t show it.

I swallow the lump in my throat. All I want is for her to hug me, reassure me the way she did when I was a child, but I know that’s impossible. For now, at least. So instead I unpack my bags, change the sheets, shower, going through all the motions like a machine. Disciplined. Unfeeling.

And only when I’m alone in their bedroom, the door shut tight, do I pull the thin covers over my head and let myself cry.