If You Could See the Sun

I barely remember the car ride from Airington to my apartment. I’d let Henry’s chauffeur drive us, partly because I wanted to be around Henry as long as time would allow, and partly because I wasn’t sure I could trust myself to take the subway without getting lost. My mind felt numb, hot, like it’d been set aflame. I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t even breathe properly.

Worse still, I couldn’t stop glancing at Henry’s lips, even as he walked me to my front door and waved goodbye. This, I suppose, is one of those unexpected side effects of kissing that no one ever warned me about: after you kiss someone once, the possibilities of kissing them again are endless.

But now, sitting back down inside my cluttered living room, the idea of making out with Henry Li is the last thing on my mind.

Both Xiaoyi and Mama went out while I was still at school—Xiaoyi, to get a foot massage, and Mama, to handle something at the hospital—leaving only Baba and me in the flat.

“I just got call from your school,” Baba tells me as he enters the room.

I watch him carefully from the couch, assessing his expression, his tone. I wasn’t exaggerating when I told Henry that Baba and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms these days; he only addresses me when necessary, and always with a heavy air of disappointment. But the near-permanent furrow between his brows appears to have smoothed out a little, and he’s approaching me directly. Good signs.

“A call?” I say, feigning surprise.

“Yes.” He moves to sit on the opposite end of the couch, the springs creaking under his weight. “They told me about app… What’s the name… China Ghoul?”

My pulse speeds up.

“Beijing Ghost, you mean?”

He nods slowly, and continues in Mandarin, “Why didn’t you tell me or the teachers earlier you were part of the study group?”

“I guess…” I fumble for the right words, for an answer as close to the truth as possible without giving everything away. “I was scared it’d seem suspicious. I mean, I did make a lot of money off the app—just through tutoring. Over one hundred thousand RMB. I was worried you or the school would make me give it back.”

Baba’s eyes widen a fraction with shock. “One hundred thousand RMB?”

“Yeah,” I reply. “It’s a lot, I know. Hence why I was worried…”

“And you earned that much only by helping your classmates study? Nothing else?”

I have to laugh, though nothing about the question is really funny. Just ironic. “Well, you and Mama spend almost all your income on my school fees,” I point out. “Is it so surprising that other kids would want to invest in their education, too?”

“Hmph,” is all he says, but I can tell he believes me.

“Anyway,” I continue, more quietly. Sincerely. “I’m really sorry things turned out the way they did. I just… When Andrew offered me the money, all I could think of was how you and Mama were struggling to pay for school—how you were struggling because of me. At the time, his offer seemed like the quickest solution to everything. Like completing the task might somehow allow me to pay you guys back.” I swallow and press my hands together to keep from fidgeting. Every word feels like pulling teeth. “But I was being irrational, and greedy, and just…incredibly dumb. And I understand if—if you can’t forgive me, or if you plan on being disappointed in me for all of eternity, but… I wanted to say I’m sorry, Baba. That’s all.”

Baba takes a deep breath, and I hold mine, anticipating yet another lecture. But it doesn’t come.

Instead, he places a gentle hand on my head, briefly, the way he used to when I was a kid, whenever I was scared or injured or couldn’t fall asleep at night. When I look up in surprise, all the anger is gone from his eyes.

“Alice,” he says. “Your Mama and I don’t work hard for you to repay us. We work hard so that you can have a better life. An easier life. And sending you to Airington—that was our choice. Spending our income on your school fees—that was also our choice. In no way should you feel obligated to take on the burden of our decisions for us. Is that clear?”

To my embarrassment, my throat constricts, the basin of my heart overflowing, spilling into hope. There is so much stubborn hope.

I manage a small nod, and Baba smiles at me.

Maybe everything will be okay, I think.

“Speaking of Airington…” Baba pulls his hand back. Rests it on his lap. “They’ve already passed on the new information to Peter Oh’s parents. Since you apparently play a more minor role in the incident than they initially thought, they’ve chosen not to press charges.”

“But?” I press, sensing the shift in his tone.

“Peter’s parents are not pressing charges…but they are pressuring the school to make you leave once this semester is over. And based on my call with them earlier, I believe the school would like that as well.”

Oh.

I bite the inside of my cheek, waiting for the anger and panic to hit with full force, the questions to go off in my brain like a string of firecrackers: What will I do next? Who will I be without Airington?

And while I do feel all those things, dully, an unexpected calm washes over me. A kind of resignation. Deep down, I’d suspected something like this was coming; there was no way I could walk away from a crime of this magnitude completely unscathed.

“I understand,” I say, and the steadiness of my own voice surprises me. I sound calm, confident like Chanel or Henry. In a weird way, after hitting rock bottom and confronting Andrew and standing up to a representative of the school board, I feel ready to take on anything. Or survive anything, at least. “We’ll work something out.”

“What will you work out?”

Baba and I both turn at the faint rattle of keys, the low click of the front door shutting behind Mama. She’s wearing the old coat she bought on sale in America, her hair pulled back into a tight bun that emphasizes the sharpness of her eyes and chin.

“It’s…nothing to worry about. I’ll explain over dinner,” I say as she heads into the kitchen for her usual after-work routine: washing her face and scrubbing her hands for twenty seconds. After a moment’s deliberation, I get up too.

When Mama reemerges, I’ve already laid the small paper box out on the couch, the white of the package almost blinding in contrast to the old mustard cushions. It’s a silly little gift, probably a basic necessity for other families—but since gifts are so rare in our house, I’d been wondering when to give it to Mama. In light of Baba’s news, now seems like as good a time as any.

“What’s this?” Mama asks, eyeing the box.

“I bought it for you. With my own money, of course,” I add hastily.

Mama opens the box very carefully, as if afraid she might break it with one wrong move, and a bottle of expensive hand cream falls out into her open palm. She doesn’t say anything, just stares at the pretty bottle, at the delicate flower print snaking up its side, the recognizable brand name printed on top.

“I… I know your hands are always super dry from work,” I explain, more because the silence makes me nervous than anything. Will she think it’s a waste of money? “And when we were at the store the other day, I just thought, I might as well… It’s apparently supposed to help heal scars too.” I wring my hands together. “But if you don’t like it, I could always return it—”

Mama throws her arms around me, pulling me close. “Sha haizi,” she whispers into my hair. Silly child.

And as I lean against her, breathing in her familiar scent, I think, Maybe I was right earlier.

Maybe everything really will be okay.

Three long phone calls and countless rounds of emails later (all of which are ominously titled: Re: Alice Incident), I’m standing back outside the Airington school gates, a light bag in my hands.

After some negotiating, the school and Peter’s parents and I came to an agreement: I’m to leave Airington this December, but I get to spend my last few days here, finishing up my coursework for the semester and saying goodbye to my friends and teachers.

“Name?”

The security guard stares at me through the iron bars, and I’m struck by a sudden, overwhelming sense of déjà vu.

“Alice Sun,” I tell him, and offer a small smile. It’s weird how much I’ll miss everything about this place, now that I know I’m leaving—even this guy who can never seem to remember my name.

And who’s now watching me suspiciously.

“Why are you smiling?”

“Nothing, just…” I gesture to the deep blue sky above us, not a single winter cloud in sight. “It’s a nice day, that’s all.”

He glances up, then back at me, then up again, confusion shadowing his features. He looks young, maybe somewhere in his midtwenties. I wonder if he’s just graduated from college, how long he’s been living in Beijing, why he chose to work here. I hate that I’m only noticing these things now. “Uh, yeah, I guess it is…” He clears his throat. “Your year level?”

“Twelve.”

But I’m not the one who answers.

“Hi, Mr. Chen,” I greet as he draws closer to the gates, hoping he can’t detect the nervous wobble in my voice. He’s always been the teacher I respect the most—and the one I’m most afraid of disappointing.

Judging from his expression, the way his eyes dart to my bag and understanding flickers over them, he’s well up-to-date with the whole Alice Incident. Yet he doesn’t appear angry, exactly.

“Well, don’t just stand there like a stranger,” he says, waving me forward. “Come in. There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

“If I asked you about the main point of Macbeth now, what would you say?” Mr. Chen asks as we enter his office.

It’s quiet here. Clean. The bookshelves stacked but tidy, the walls almost hidden beneath rows of plaques and certificates from Harvard, Peking University, TED. I’m so busy staring I almost forget he’s asked me a question.

“Um…” I scramble to collect my thoughts. There’s a double meaning in there, I’m sure of it. “That…no action is without consequence? That ambition should not go unchecked?”

He nods, satisfied, and motions for me to take a seat. “Good, good. Just wanted to set my conscience at ease first—but so long as you’ve learned your lesson…”

“I have,” I say quickly. “Really.”

He nods again, then says, “I heard you’ll be leaving Airington after this semester. Have you decided which school to attend next year?”

“Not yet, no. There are certain…limitations I have to work through.”

Mr. Chen doesn’t look surprised. After my parents visited the school, I guess most people have realized I don’t come from one of the wealthier families.

“Well then.” He claps his hands together suddenly, startling me from my thoughts. “I might have just the solution.”

I stare at him. “You—you do?”

“Now, I probably should’ve checked with you beforehand about this but… A friend of mine, Dr. Alexandra Xiao, recently opened up her own international school in Chaoyang District. It’s much smaller than this, of course, and they don’t have student housing, so you’d have to figure out the accommodations. The environment isn’t the best either—there’s a fish market right next to campus, though Alex promises you get used to the smell after a while…” He laughs a little, and I get the sense I should be laughing too, except I can’t. I can’t do anything but grip the edge of the seat and pray he’s saying what I think he’s saying.

“Anyway, they still have a few spots open, and I mentioned your family situation, showed them your report card and some of your recent coursework, and told them you’re one of my best students—”

My eyes widen. “You did?”

“I did, because it’s true,” he says simply. “And since Alex knows I never exaggerate, she might potentially be able to offer you a scholarship. You’d still have to take an entrance exam first, of course, but I’m sure you’ll do well.” He pauses, gives me time to let this all sink in. “So. What do you think?”

I almost trip over my own tongue to answer him. “O-of course, that’s—When are the exams? Are there practice exams available? Do I need to prepare references, or—” Then I calm down a little, and a more obvious question occurs to me: “Why… Why are you helping me?”

Mr. Chen looks out the window of his office, at the students throwing their heads back in laughter, books tucked under arms, walking in groups from one class to another. Carefree. Happy. Sunlight spills everywhere around them, over them, flooding through the wutong trees. Slowly, Mr. Chen says, “You know, I was the first person in my entire village in Henan to attend college, and then I moved to the States with my mother. My father never came with us—he didn’t speak a word of English, but he tried to fund my education as best as he could by selling sweet potatoes every morning…” He shakes his head. “I get it, how hard it is. And while it’s important to know how to fight your way to the top… It’s always nice when there are others to help lift us up, don’t you think?”

Thank you, I try to say, but gratitude swells in my chest, up my throat, stealing my voice away.

He seems to get it, though.

“It’s strange,” he adds, his gaze drifting to the certificates on his wall. “There was once a time when no one really noticed me at all. When I was invisible to the world…” He smiles faintly, as if sharing a private joke with himself. As if recalling some distant memory that makes sense to him alone.

My heart stutters. Stops. Could it be…?

“So what changed?” My voice is hardly more than a whisper. “Getting into a good uni? Getting recognized?”

He shakes his head. “No. No, on the contrary, after I got into Harvard and started winning all these awards… I felt more invisible than ever. People were complimenting me, congratulating me left and right, saying my name over and over again, but none of that really mattered. It was only when I left to teach English—to do something I genuinely cared about, that made me feel like myself—that everything started getting better.” He looks over at me, his eyes crinkling. “Descartes was wrong, you know, when he said, ‘To live well, you must live unseen.’ To live well, you must learn to see yourself first. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

And I do. I do.

Henry and I meet by the koi ponds before dawn.

I study him as he makes his way over in quick, purposeful strides. His hair is still slightly damp from the shower, hanging in dark waves over his forehead. His cheeks are pink from the early morning chill. He looks good. Familiar. Vulnerable, in the best way.

I’ll miss you, I think.

“Punctual as ever,” I say, closing the distance between us.

He offers me one of his rare Henry Li smiles: soft and beautiful and so startlingly sincere it takes your goddamn breath away. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to miss it.”

For a second, I imagine he’s read my mind. “Miss what?”

He raises an eyebrow. “The midyear awards ceremony?”

“Oh.” A small, surprised laugh escapes my lips. In what now feels like another lifetime, the ceremony alone would’ve been the highlight of my day. Maybe even one of the highlights of my life. “I guess I forgot.”

“That’s understandable,” he says, his smile widening. “Since I’ll be getting all the awards anyw—”

I elbow him, hard, and he laughs.

“Don’t get too cocky,” I warn him. “Just because I’m going to a different school, doesn’t mean I won’t beat you in our IB exams.”

“We’ll see,” is all he says, the challenge clear in his tone.

I suppress a smile of my own. Challenge accepted.

We start walking around the frozen pond, breaking the easy silence with our footsteps, breathing in the crisp winter air. I bury my hands into the warmth of my blazer pockets and look toward the empty courtyard to our left, remembering the first time I turned invisible there. It’s funny, but I haven’t felt cold in a long time now. I’m not sure if I ever will again.

“So,” I say, as we approach a stone bench and sit, his shoulder bumping lightly against mine. “Did you get my business proposal?”

“Yes. All seventy-five pages of it.” His eyes gleam. “And the summary. And the summary of the summary. And the annotated diagram. And the table of contents—”

“Excuse me for being thorough,” I huff. “I really want this app to be good, you know?”

“I know,” he says, no longer teasing. He hesitates, then laces his slender fingers through mine, and I have to focus very hard on remembering how to breathe. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to his proximity, or the way he’s currently looking at me, like he’s in as much awe as I am that we can just do this now. Just sit and hold hands in the near dark and say what we mean. “Trust me, it will be. With the two of us working behind the scenes, your promotional strategy, and the template ready… It’ll be perfect.”

This time, I can’t hold back the grin that stretches across my face.

The idea came to me around a week ago, when we first transformed Beijing Ghost into a fake study app. My plan is to make the app a legit one—one that helps connect rich, privileged kids from private international schools with low-income students like me. It’s meant to work both ways; tutoring and homework help starts from a minimum rate of 400 RMB per session for those from wealthier demographics, but it’s completely free for working-class students. Then there’s the added bonus of allowing kids from disadvantaged backgrounds to form connections with Beijing’s elite.

I’ve also decided to keep the point system in; the three highest-ranking working-class users at the end of each year will get a full scholarship to any school they wish, sponsored by Henry’s company.

“Oh yeah—I sent the business proposal to Chanel, too,” I tell Henry.

He doesn’t look surprised. “Of course you did. What does she think?”

“She’s in,” I say, which is a massive understatement. When I pitched the idea to Chanel over WeChat three nights ago, she’d squealed and started brainstorming slogans and making calls to her fuerdai friends right away. “I mean, her exact words were: fuck yeah! She also thinks the three of us should have weekly meetings to sort this out, starting with hot pot tonight. Her treat.”

The corner of Henry’s lips tugs up, briefly. “I suppose we’ll be seeing each other quite often then. Even after you leave.”

“Even after I leave,” I echo, and the gravity of these words, this reality, pulls both of us back into silence once more. I don’t know what else to say, so I move to nestle my head against the strong curve of his shoulder. He lets me.

“What do you imagine you’ll do?” he asks, a few beats later. “In the future?”

“I don’t know. I want…”

I trail off, my mind whirring. I still want so much, so badly. My heart still aches for all the bright things beyond my reach. I want to be smarter and richer and stronger and just…better.

But honestly? I also want to be happy. To invest in something meaningful and fulfilling, even if it is difficult, and maybe not the most practical option in the world. To spend more time with Baba and Mama and Xiaoyi, and finally hang out with Chanel, and go out on a proper date with Henry. I want to laugh until my stomach hurts, and write until I’ve crafted something that delights me, and learn to bask in my small, private victories. Learn to accept that these things, too, are worth wanting.

“For a start, I think I want to focus on English more,” I muse, and just saying it aloud feels…right. Like my heart has been waiting for my mind to catch up this entire time. “Maybe sign up for a journalism course over the break. I’ve compiled a list of suitable options already—ones that offer full merit-based scholarships…”

“That sounds great,” he says, with full sincerity.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a deal then,” I say, angling my head to look up at him. “You’ll become the head of the number one tech start-up in all of China, and I’ll be a renowned, award-winning journalist or English professor. Together, we’ll—”

“Be the nation’s greatest power couple?” he offers.

“I was going to say conquer the world,” I admit. “But sure. I guess we can start small.”

He laughs, and the sound is like bottled magic. Like birdsong.

I turn my gaze toward the sky, my fingers still intertwined with his. In the distance, the darkness has started to lift like a veil, the first light of dawn spilling over the Beijing skyline, a promise of all the beautiful and terrible and sun-soaked days to come.