After we arrive in Suzhou, sleep deprived and starving from the long train ride, the first thing the teachers do is take us out to eat.
It’s warmer here in the south, humid, like the inside of a sauna, and most of us are sweating by the time our rented bus pulls up outside some fancy restaurant that ranked first on Dazhong Dianping. As the only teacher here who can speak Chinese, Wei Laoshi quickly assumes the role of tour guide. We watch through the tinted windows as he approaches the waitress out front, gesturing to his school ID and then to us (a few students in the front seats wave; the waitress frowns).
Then the waitress and Wei Laoshi seem to get into a heated argument, both of them shaking their heads and fanning their faces, and even though we can’t hear a single word they’re saying, the message is clear: there aren’t enough tables in the restaurant for all of us.
“Well, fuck me,” Jake Nguyen grumbles from the row behind me. “I’m starving.”
“Language, Mr. Nguyen,” Julie Walsh says sharply.
“Shit—my bad,” Jake says.
“Language!”
“Right, got it, Mrs. Walsh.”
“It’s Dr. Walsh.”
“Yeah, whatever,” he mutters.
Someone snorts.
“Didn’t the school think to reserve us a few baojian?” Vanessa demands, standing up suddenly in her seat. Her long French braid almost whacks me in the face.
“Not all restaurants have private rooms, you know,” someone else—it sounds like Peter Oh—points out.
“What?” Vanessa whips her head around with a look of genuine shock. Even her cheeks go pink. “You’re kidding.”
“Don’t be such a snob.”
“I’m not—”
Beside me, Henry sighs. It’s a soft sound, barely audible over Vanessa’s complaints and Jake’s cursing, but—I kid you not—everyone quietens down at once.
Then Henry asks, “The restaurant’s name is Dijunhao, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, squinting at the golden calligraphy written backward over the restaurant’s double door. “Why?”
But Henry doesn’t respond; he’s already on the phone. I listen to him greet whoever he’s calling in flawless Chinese, ask politely if they’ve eaten lunch yet, rattle off his father’s name, two other names I don’t recognize, confirm the location of the restaurant, and hang up.
A few minutes later, the manager himself comes out to greet us with a smile so wide it looks physically painful.
“Of course there’s space for you! You’re our most honored guests,” he says, when Wei Laoshi questions the sudden change. He shoots the waitress a pointed look, and the waitress scurries off as if her life depends on it, returning with menus and five more waitresses who ask to help carry our bags.
We’re given the best tables with the fancy chopstick holders and red tablecloth and stunning window view of the lakes outside, and offered free jasmine tea (handpicked from the mountains, the manager tells us) and prawn crackers, and even the teachers are looking at Henry in openmouthed awe, like he’s glowing.
“I wonder how that feels,” I murmur, when Henry comes over to sit down beside me and Chanel.
“Pardon?” Henry says.
“Nothing.” I take a long swig of tea, letting the hot liquid scorch my tongue. “Never mind.”
Chanel, who doesn’t look quite as impressed as the others—probably because she’s used to receiving similar treatment herself—pokes her head between us and asks, “How was the train ride Henry? Did you sleep well?”
“I did, thank you,” Henry replies mildly, with a stiff half smile. I’m so used to seeing the side of Henry that laughs aloud, that teases me and challenges me and listens to Taylor Swift on repeat that I keep forgetting how distant he is with everyone else, even people he knows.
“Mmm, that’s what I figured,” Chanel says. There’s a glint in her eyes. “Since Alice never returned to our compartment.”
I almost choke on my tea.
“We didn’t—I wasn’t—” I splutter, so loud that the conversation at the neighboring table stalls, and the waiters stop setting down dishes to look at me. I flush and continue in a whisper, “We were only going over business details. Seriously.”
Chanel just winks at me, while Henry stares down with extreme focus at the single sesame bun on his plate, the tips of his ears pink.
More waiters soon step forward bearing trays of popular local dishes: deep-fried fish glazed with a thick tomato sauce, the meat so tender it slides off naturally from the bones; delicate red date paste cakes cut into the shape of diamonds; round wontons floating in bowls of golden broth.
It’s all mouthwatering, but across the table, Julie Walsh wrinkles her nose at the fish and asks, very slowly, “What…is that?”
A pause. No one seems to want to answer, but when the silence drags on too long, Chanel rolls her eyes and says, “It’s Mandarin Squirrel Fish.”
Julie’s hand flies to her chest. “Squirrel—”
“Not actual squirrel,” I can’t help interrupting. “It’s just the name.”
“Oh. Well, good,” Julie says, though she still makes no move to touch the dish. Instead, to my utter disbelief, she retrieves a packet of trail mix from her handbag and dumps the contents out onto her plate.
Irritation flares up inside me, and I realize that Henry was right the other day: my anger does make me brave.
“Excuse me, Dr. Walsh,” I say, raising my voice a little. “I thought this was an Experiencing China trip?”
Julie blinks at me, a salted almond half lifted to her painted lips. “Yes?”
“Then surely eating the local cuisine is part of the experience, is it not? Especially when the teachers are expected to lead by example?” Without giving her a chance to protest, I go on, “And weren’t you saying just the other day, in our social ethics class, that world harmony could be achieved if only people were willing to practice empathy and explore new cultures?”
The almond drops soundlessly and rolls over the tablecloth. Julie doesn’t pick it up; she’s too busy staring at me like I’m a bug she wants to squash.
I don’t think a teacher has ever looked at me with anything other than affection or concern before. Then again, I can’t recall ever talking to a teacher like this before either.
Then Mr. Murphy stands up at the next table and claps twice to get everyone’s attention, snapping the thread of tension—and conveniently saving Julie from having to respond.
“Listen up, guys,” he booms, using his presenter-at-assembly voice. “Since we have a very full afternoon planned out, and won’t be in the Autumn Dragon Hotel until late evening, we’ve decided to save some hassle and give you your hotel room numbers and cards now, all right?” He peers around at us as if we’re really all sitting down before a stage. “Is that something I can trust you guys to keep safe for eight hours?”
He receives only a few lackluster nods in response, but seems to deem this good enough.
“Great.” He takes out a crumpled paper folder not unlike the one I stole the history exam answers from. Guilt lifts its head, and I quickly stomp it back down. “I’ll call your names one by one, and if you or your roommate can just come up in an orderly fashion… Let’s see… Scott An.”
There’s an evident discrepancy between Mr. Murphy’s idea of “orderly fashion” and our interpretation of the words, because soon everyone’s standing up and jostling each other trying to get to the front.
“Orderly!” Mr. Murphy cries over the squeak of chairs and the countless voices talking at the same time. “I said orderly!”
In the chaos, I manage to squeeze close enough to get a view of the paper in Mr. Murphy’s outstretched hand, the tens of names printed in tidy rows across it. But it’s not my name I’m searching for.
Peter Oh and Kevin Nguyen: Room 902.
I carve the number into my memory. If everything goes well, this is the room I’ll end up in tonight.
Once we’re all back in our seats and our plates are scraped clean, Wei Laoshi takes over, leading us out to the bus again. I think he’s really starting to embrace his tourist guide role, because he puts on a red bucket hat, waves a little flag with the school logo on it high over his head and says, with sincere enthusiasm, “Now—who’s ready for some sightseeing?”
The old districts of Suzhou are beautiful.
Like a magical secret kept safe and hidden from the outside world. A soft, milky fog spills across the winding waterways, the crooked, crowded alleys and faded white houses, blurring the lines between land and sky. There are women wringing out their laundry by the banks, leathery-skinned men hauling nets of fish from the murky green canals, college-aged girls posing and snapping photos by the willow trees, pretty oil paper umbrellas rested over their shoulders.
“Oh—oh, it’s like the Chinese version of Venice!” Julie Walsh gasps when we step out of the bus, her high heels clacking against the century-old pavement.
But the place doesn’t look like Venice to me. It doesn’t look like anywhere else in the world.
We start walking down the side of a canal, with Wei Laoshi leading the way. Every now and then, he stops to point at things—a statue of a solemn-looking official, a slanted inn, a boat drifting atop the waters—and call out random facts, saying how the Qianlong emperor once stayed in Suzhou for ten days and couldn’t bear to leave, even reciting a few lines of the emperor’s poetry.
I’m sure Qianlong’s poem is great, but all I can get out of it is something about a bird and a mountain and blood—no, snow—no—
“Wait, Wei Laoshi,” Chanel ventures. “I keep forgetting—which one was Qianlong and which one was Qin Shihuang again? Like, who was the dude that buried scholars alive?”
Wei Laoshi halts in his tracks and turns, fixing Chanel with a look that quite clearly implies: you uncultured swine.
“What?” Chanel says, defensive. “I used to go to school in Australia. It’s not like they teach you much about Chinese history there.”
Wei Laoshi just sighs and casts his eyes heavenward, like he might be apologizing to the spirit of the Qianlong emperor himself.
The bus ride took twice as long as the teachers predicted, thanks to peak-time traffic, and soon everyone’s hungry again. Wei Laoshi’s tour is cut short as a result, and with another long-suffering look, he abandons his lecture on the history of paper umbrellas to take us all on a spontaneous trip to the night market.
The market teems with life, and everything feels sharper here. Brighter.
Children chase each other over the steep steps and arched bridges, skirt around the canal edge, flirting with the danger and thrill of it all while their parents yell at them to be careful. A woman lifts the lid off a giant wok, white steam rising from the braised meats and sizzling fried buns. Neon lights flicker over endless displays of food, some laid out in bamboo baskets and others in deep, sauce-filled trays: grilled lamb and quail egg skewers, green sticky rice cake stuffed with sweet bean paste and glazed, flaking mooncakes stamped with red characters. Little discount labels and QR codes are printed beneath them, likely for people using WeChat Pay.
“Pe-ter, what are you doing?”
Wei Laoshi’s voice cuts through the vendors’ calls and the distant splash of oars in water.
I whirl around.
A beggar who looks at least seventy years old has latched onto Peter Oh, her wrinkled hands seizing the fabric of his new Supreme hoodie. I would’ve expected Peter to shake her off—Baba’s always warning me about how some beggars are really just scammers hiding iPhones under their rags—but to my surprise, he’s holding out a crisp 100 RMB note. I search his expression; there’s no trace of mockery or malice in his eyes, only sincerity. Even a hint of shyness.
The old woman’s eyes widen, like she can’t believe what she’s seeing either. It makes my heart hurt. But before she can take the money from him, Wei Laoshi steps in between them and drags Peter away by the sleeve, ignoring his spluttered protests.
“Don’t be so naive,” Wei Laoshi scolds, grabbing the shiny pink note and tucking it firmly into Peter’s pocket.
“It’s not naive,” Vanessa says as she paces forward suddenly, matching her steps to Peter’s. Somehow, that girl manages to appear everywhere. Or maybe I’ve just been noticing her a lot more ever since the art scandal. “He was just being nice. Right, Peter?”
I don’t stick around to hear the rest of their conversation. I don’t want to hear it, to start thinking of Peter as the nice boy who trusts strangers and gives money to those who need it. He is a target for tonight, and nothing else.
My heart cannot soften.
“You all right?” Henry asks, slowing down near a small bridge. I realize then that the whole time I was watching Peter and Wei Laoshi, Henry was watching me.
“Sure,” I say. Try to smile. “I guess… I just want to get it over with, you know?”
There’s no need to elaborate; he nods.
Wei Laoshi calls for everyone to stop, tells us we’re free to wander around and buy whatever snacks we want, but we’ll be meeting back here in two hours so please be punctual and don’t get kidnapped in the meantime. Everyone laughs at that, but my throat seizes up, and it takes three attempts before I can remember how to swallow again.
When the crowd disperses, Henry and I stay near the bridge, eventually finding an old bench to sit on. For a while, we simply look out at the canals and crowded alleys in silence. Then he shifts closer toward me—only by an inch, maybe less, yet it somehow makes all the difference in the world—and the silence changes, crackles with electricity, demanding to be filled. His lashes lower. His eyes flicker to my lips…
I panic and blurt out the first thing I can think of: “Your dad.”
He pulls back with a frown. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your dad,” I repeat slowly. Too late to go back now. “Um…you never finished your story. On the train. About how things turned out with him.”
Even as I’m saying the words, I want to kick myself. What kind of person ruins a potentially romantic moment by bringing up childhood trauma?
But Henry looks more surprised than offended. “You really want to know?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, and even though this isn’t the conversation I expected to have with him tonight, I mean it.
He doesn’t reply at first. His gaze travels to a rowboat gliding out from under the bridge, a family of four huddled together on the seats, the youngest child squealing every time they bounce over a small wave. Then he sighs. Says, “I told you about how things were when I was around five. But shortly after I turned ten, during another long study session, I sort of…” He tilts his head, like he’s recalling vocabulary from a foreign language. “What’s that term again? When your emotions overpower rational thought and all regard for etiquette?”
“Exploded?” I offer, struggling to picture Henry doing such a thing. “Snapped? Totally lost your shit?”
He gives me a small, sheepish smile that makes my heartbeat spike. “Well, yes. Something to that effect. My father was shocked, of course, but he actually ended up apologizing. Promised he would never use such…extreme measures again.” He glances back down at the family in the boat, their faces bright with moonshine and laughter. “And he never did.”
“Wow.” I shake my head. “Just like that?”
“It probably helped that I was doing so well at school, and that I already showed interest in running the company. But I also imagine that he simply hadn’t realized there were alternative ways of effective parenting. His father had been even stricter with him about his studies, and so when he got into Harvard and founded SYS and became successful—”
“The results seemed to validate the process,” I finish for him, remembering our earlier conversation.
“Exactly.”
Henry rubs his eyes, and for one bizarre moment, I think he’s crying. But then he lets his hands fall back down in his lap, the lantern light from the shops around us throwing his features into sharp relief, and the truth dawns on me, so simple I almost laugh—he’s tired.
He had been lying today, when Chanel asked him if he’d slept well. Neither of us had slept at all on the train; we’d stayed up finalizing our plans, then the backup plans, and then one of us—I can’t remember who—got sidetracked and we just…talked. About school, about his brief time in England, about the games his sister used to invent when they were kids, the Shanghainese dishes his mother made him whenever he was sick. About everything and nothing all at once, laughter and half-coherent thoughts spilling out of my lips before I could stop them. I don’t think either of us had been expecting the night to go as it did.
“You can sleep now, you know,” I tell Henry.
“What?” Bemusement draws his eyebrows together, and he juts his chin out—a familiar movement I’d once mistaken for arrogance, but have come to recognize as only a trick to mask his confusion.
“I mean it—you should get some rest,” I say. “You’re obviously exhausted, and who knows when we’ll be able to sleep at the hotel?” If we can fall asleep at all, I add silently, a bolt of guilt striking through me.
Henry searches my face for a beat, his eyes narrowed. “You’re being too nice,” he says finally. “It’s suspicious.”
“I’m being practical. I need you alert and awake for the job tonight.”
Still, he hesitates. “You’re absolutely certain this is not part of some elaborate scheme to take unflattering photos of me sleeping and blackmail me with them?”
“If I wanted to do that,” I point out, “I could literally just sneak into your bedroom when I’m invisible and snap as many photos of you as I want.”
“That’s very comforting.”
But he does close his eyes, though his head remains propped up in such an uncomfortable position I offer him my shoulder as a pillow. Within only a few minutes, his breathing slows. The muscles in his body relax.
I smile and look up. Streaks of dark, wet pink and glistening blue seep through the sky like spilled watercolor, while floating lanterns rise gently over the horizon like ghosts. A soft breeze drifts over my skin, carrying with it the fragrance of chrysanthemums and fresh-baked pastries from the snack stalls below.
Then there’s Henry.
Henry, whose head is resting against my shoulder, the soft curls of his hair brushing my cheek, his features smooth and unguarded in sleep. And everything about this moment is so lovely and so fragile in its loveliness that I’m almost afraid to hold it. Afraid that the spell will break.
If not for the kidnapping, I think to myself, today might’ve been a perfect day.
