My first thought is not so much a thought as a word that begins with f.
My second thought is: How am I supposed to hand in my Chinese essay like this?
I’m starting to understand what Mama meant about needing to seriously reevaluate my priorities.
As I stare at the empty space in the glass—the space where I’m supposed to be—a thousand questions and possibilities stir up a frenzy inside my mind like the wild, flapping wings of startled birds, all force and no direction. It must be a dream, I tell myself. But even as I repeat the words again and again, I don’t believe it. My dreams are never this vivid; I can still smell the cooked spices and coconut curry from the school cafeteria, feel the cool, smooth fabric of my skirt against my thigh, the ends of my ponytail tickling my sweat-coated neck.
I push myself shakily off the ground. My knees sting like hell and I’m dimly aware of the small blood droplets oozing from my palms, but it’s the last of my worries at the moment. I try to breathe, to calm myself down.
It doesn’t work. There’s a faint buzzing sound in my ears and my breaths come out in quick and shallow puffs.
And through the cloud of panic, annoyance spikes inside me. I really don’t have time to be hyperventilating.
What I need are answers.
No, even better, what I need is another list. A clear course of action, like:
One, figure out why the hell I can’t see my own reflection like some kind of vampire in an early 2000s movie.
Two, rearrange afternoon homework plans depending on results.
Three…
As I rummage my brain for a third point, it occurs to me that I might just be hallucinating, that maybe this is some early onset psychological condition—it would also explain the strange cold spell earlier—and I should probably go to the school nurse’s office.
But on my way there, the sense of wrongness digs deeper into my bones. More students bump into me, their gazes gliding over my face like I’m not even there. After the fifth kid steps on my foot and reacts only by sending the ground a quizzical look, a bizarre, terrible thought enters my head.
Just to test it, I run up to the closest student in my line of view and wave a hand in front of his face.
Nothing.
Not even a blink.
My heart pounds so hard I think it might fly out of my ribcage.
I wave my hand again, hoping against hope that I’m somehow wrong about all of this, but he just stares straight ahead.
Which means either the whole school has banded together and manipulated every surface on campus to play the most elaborate prank of all time or—
Or I’m invisible.
This is a slightly bigger inconvenience than I’d imagined.
I twist out of the student’s path before he can knock me over and move to stand in the shelter of a nearby oak tree, my mind reeling. There’s no point going to the nurse now if they can’t even see me. But maybe—surely—someone else can help. Someone who’ll believe me, come up with a solution, and if not, then at least comfort me. Tell me everything’s going to be okay.
I do a quick mental scan of all the people I know, and what I end up with is a harsh, painful truth: I’m friendly with everybody…but I’m friends with nobody.
This sounds exactly like the sort of realization that should inspire a good hour of careful soul-searching. Under any other circumstance, it probably would. But the rush of fear and adrenaline pulsing through my veins won’t let me rest, and already I’m making more calculations, trying my best to strategize my next move.
So I don’t have any close relationships to rely on during a personal, potentially supernatural crisis. Fine. Whatever. I can be objective about this. Treat this like an extra-credit question on a test, where all that matters is getting the right answer.
Now, objectively speaking, there is a person here at school who might prove useful. A certain person who reads obscure academic journals for enjoyment and once interned at NASA and didn’t even blink that time a North Korean dignitary rocked up at our school. A certain person who might actually be calm and competent enough to figure this shit out.
And if he doesn’t have any idea what’s happening to me… Well, at least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing there’s a puzzle Henry Li can’t solve.
Before my pride can catch up to my logic and convince me why this is a terrible idea, I march toward the one building I never thought I’d go near, let alone seek out intentionally.
Minutes later, I’m staring up at the words painted over a set of vermillion double-doors in sweeping calligraphy:
Mencius
Hall.
I take a deep breath. Check to make sure no one’s watching. Then push open the doors and walk in.
All four of the dorm buildings on campus are named after ancient Chinese philosophers: Confucius, Mencius, Laozi, and Mozi. It sounds pretty classy and everything, until you stop and think about the number of horny teens who’ve hooked up in Confucius Hall.
Mencius is by far the fanciest building of them all. The corridors are wide and spotless, as if swept clean by the school ayis at hourly intervals, and the walls are a rich shade of ocean blue, decorated with framed ink paintings of birds and sprawling mountains. If it weren’t for the names printed over every door, the place could probably pass for a five-star hotel.
It doesn’t take long to find Henry’s room. His parents were the ones who donated this building, after all, so the school decided it was more than fair to assign him the only single room at the end of the hall.
To my surprise, his door has been left half-open—I’d always pegged him as the type to be super private about his personal space. I take a tentative step forward and pause in the doorway, overcome by a sudden, inexplicable urge to smooth out my hair.
Then I remember why I’m here in the first place, and a bubble of hysterical laughter rises up inside me.
Before I can lose my nerve or comprehend the true absurdity of what I’m about to do, I slip inside.
And freeze.
I’m not sure what, exactly, I expected to see. Maybe Henry reclining on giant piles of money, or polishing one of his many shiny trophies, or exfoliating his ridiculously clear skin with crushed diamonds and the blood of migrant workers. That sort of thing.
Instead, he’s seated at his desk, his dark brows furrowed slightly in concentration as he types away on his laptop. The top button of his white school shirt is undone, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the lean muscles in his arms. Soft afternoon sunlight streams through the open window beside him, bathing his perfect features in gold, and as if the whole scene isn’t dramatic enough, a light breeze drifts in and runs its fingers through his hair like this is some goddamn K-pop music video.
As I watch on with a mixture of fascination and disgust, Henry reaches for the jar of White Rabbit milk candy next to his laptop. Peels off the white-and-blue wrapper with his slender fingers. Pops it in his mouth, his eyes fluttering closed for an instant.
Then a small voice in the back of my head reminds me that I did not come all the way here to watch Henry Li chew a piece of candy.
Unsure how else to proceed, I clear my throat and say, “Henry.”
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look up.
Panic floods through my veins, and I’m starting to wonder if maybe people can’t hear me either—as if being invisible wasn’t already hard enough—when I notice he’s got his AirPods in. I sneak a peek at his Spotify playlist, half certain it’ll be all just white noise or classic orchestral music, only to find Taylor Swift’s latest album playing instead.
I’m about to make a comment on it, but then my eyes fall on the laminated photo taped to his desk, and the significance of Henry Li secretly jamming out to Tay Tay pales in comparison.
It’s a photo of us.
I remember it floating around in a couple of school advertisements; it was taken at the awards ceremony three years ago, back when I still had those ridiculous side bangs that covered half my face. In it, Henry’s wearing his signature expression—that look of polite interest I find so infuriating, as if he has better things to do than stand around and receive more applause and prestigious awards (what makes me angrier is the fact that he probably does). Beside him, I’m staring straight at the camera, shoulders tensed, arms held stiff at my sides. My smile looks so forced it’s a wonder the photographer didn’t make us retake the photo.
I have no idea why Henry would keep this lying around, other than as visible proof of my clear inability to look better than him in photos.
Suddenly Henry tenses. Tugs his AirPods out. Spins around in his seat, eyes sweeping the room. It takes me a second to realize I’ve leaned too far forward, accidentally brushing against his shoulder as a result.
Well, I guess that’s one way to get his attention.
“Okay,” I say, and he starts, swiveling his head at the sound of my voice. “Okay, please don’t freak out or anything but…it’s Alice. You just, um. Can’t see me right now—I promise I’ll explain—but I’m right here.” I pinch the fabric of his left sleeve between two fingers and pull it once, lightly, just to show what I mean.
He goes completely, utterly still.
“Alice?” he repeats, and I hate how much posher my name sounds on his tongue. How elegant. “Is this a joke of some sort?”
In response, I tug at his sleeve harder, and watch the series of emotions flicker over his face like shadows: shock, uncertainty, fear, skepticism, even a hint of annoyance. A muscle spasms in his jaw.
Then, unbelievably, his usual mask of calm falls back into place.
“How…strange,” he says after a long silence.
I roll my eyes at this severe understatement, then remember that of course, he can’t see me.
Great. Now I can’t even spite him properly.
“It’s more than strange,” I say aloud. “It should be—I mean, this should be impossible.”
Henry takes a deep breath. Shakes his head. His eyes search for me again, only to end up falling on some random spot above my collarbone. “But I saw you less than half an hour ago…”
Heat spikes through me at the memory of our last exchange. I will it away. “Well, a lot can change in half an hour.”
“Right,” he says, drawing the word out. Then he shakes his head again. “So how exactly did”—he makes a motion in my general direction—“happen?”
To be honest, I thought he’d give me a much harder time about this—at least demand to know why I came here, out of all places. But he simply snaps his laptop shut, pushing it back so that, whether on purpose or by accident, it’s covering the old photo of us, and waits for me to speak.
So I do.
I go over everything, from the brief cold spell to Andrew She knocking me over, careful not to leave out any detail that might serve as a clue to what the hell is going on. Well, everything except for my little meeting with my parents before the assembly; no one at school really knows about my family’s situation, and I intend to keep it that way.
When I’m done, Henry suddenly leans forward, his hands clasped over his lap, dark eyes thoughtful. “You know what?”
“What?” I say, trying not to sound too hopeful. I’m expecting something profound, scientific, maybe a reference to some recent social phenomenon I haven’t read about yet, but what comes out of his mouth instead is—
“This is an awful lot like The Lord of the Rings.”
“What?”
“The part with the invisibility—”
“Yeah, no, I got that,” I splutter. “But how—why—okay. Wait a second. Since when were you into high fantasy?”
He straightens in his seat. “In a few years,” he begins, which sounds like a very long-winded way of answering a straightforward question, “I’ll be the CEO of the biggest tech start-up in all of China—”
“Second biggest,” I correct automatically. “Don’t lie. The Wall Street Journal said so just a week ago.”
He shoots me an odd look, and it occurs to me a second too late that I definitely should not know this much about his father’s company. “As of now, yes,” he says after a short pause. Then the corner of his mouth lifts up in an expression so smug I have to resist the urge to punch him. “But not once I take over. Anyway,” he continues, as if he hasn’t just made the most arrogant statement in the history of mankind, “considering the role that awaits me, it’s important that I’m well-informed on a range of subjects, including commercially successful media franchises. Also makes it easier to connect with clients.”
“Right,” I mutter. “Forget I asked.”
“But back to your new power—”
“It’s not a power,” I cut him off. “It’s an—an affliction—a difficulty, a very major inconvenience—”
“Everything’s a form of power,” he says simply.
“Yeah, well, power implies some level of control,” I protest, even though a small part of my brain—the part not clouded by panic and my four-year grudge against him—agrees with the statement. In theory. “And I can’t control anything about my current situation.”
“Really?” He rests his cheek on one hand. Cocks his head to the side, just as another lazy breeze flutters in and ruffles his hair. “Have you tried?”
“Of course I’ve—”
“Have you tried harder?”
There’s something so patronizing about the question or the way he says it that the last thread of composure inside me—already pulled taut in his presence—snaps.
I grab the back of his chair and pull him closer toward me in one abrupt movement, an all-too-familiar rage bubbling under my skin. To my immense satisfaction, his eyes widen slightly. “Henry Li, if you’re suggesting this is about a lack of willpower, I swear to god—”
“I was only asking—”
“As if you could handle this shit any better—”
“That’s not what I’m saying—just calm down—”
“Do not tell me to calm—”
Two sharp raps on the half-open door make the rest of my sentence freeze in my throat. Henry goes even quieter, his entire body motionless beside me, as if carved out of ice.
Someone snorts on the other side of the door, and a second later, a lightly accented male voice drifts in through the gap—
“Dude, you got a girl in there or something?”
It takes me a moment to identify it as Jake Nguyen’s: star athlete, Harvard-bound, and, if the rumors are true, the cousin of a famous male porn star. I remember seeing his name a few doors down on my way here.
“Not at all,” Henry says smoothly, despite the brief delay in his response. “I’m on the phone with someone.”
“With your girlfriend?” Jake persists, and I can almost imagine the smirk on his broad-jawed face as he says it.
“No.” Henry pauses. “It’s just my grandma.”
I snap my head around and shoot him a withering glare—then, realizing the effort is wasted in my current state, hiss loud enough for only him to hear, “Seriously? Your grandma?”
The asshole doesn’t even have the decency to look apologetic about it.
And as if everything isn’t terrible enough, Jake says, “Dude. No offense or anything, but why does your grandma sound like Alice Sun? Like all shrill and aggressive and shit?”
“You think?” Henry replies, keeping his tone carefully neutral. “I never noticed.”
Jake laughs his usual hyena laugh, taps the door once more, then says, “All right my man. I’ll leave you to it then—Oh, and if you ever do get a girl or two in your room—”
“I assure you the probability is quite low,” Henry interrupts.
But Jake doesn’t even falter. “Just feel free to invite me in, yeah?”
Henry frowns, looking for a moment as if he’s fighting himself on whether or not to answer. Then, with a sigh, he says, “What about your girlfriend?”
“What?” Jake sounds genuinely confused.
“You know. Rainie Lam?”
“Oh, her.” Another loud laugh. “Dude, where’ve you been? We broke up ages ago—like, almost a whole ass month ago. I’m super available now.”
“Right,” Henry mutters. “Good to know.”
Please just go, I beg Jake in my head. But the universe must really not be in a cooperative mood today, because Jake continues—
“Wait a second. You’re not asking because you’re interested in Rainie, are you? I mean, I’d be totally cool with that. Hell, I’d even set you two up if you—”
“No,” Henry interrupts, with surprising force. His gaze darts to some spot near my chin, as if he’s looking for me. As if I’m suddenly an important part of this conversation. “I have no interest whatsoever.”
“Okay, okay,” Jake says hastily. “Just putting it out there. But if you ever are—”
“I’m not.”
“But if you ever are, we can do, like, a trade. You know what I’m saying?”
Henry makes a noncommittal sound with the back of his throat, and finally, Jake seems to take the cue to leave. I listen to the heavy thumps of Jake’s footsteps echoing down the corridor—it’s a humiliating testament to how loud I was talking that I didn’t hear them before—and count to ten in my head to calm myself.
Or try to, at least; I haven’t even reached seven when Henry turns to me.
“Er,” he says, in a very un-Henry-like way. His eyes lift up to meet mine, and with the sun hitting them at just the right angle, I can almost make out the curve of every individual eyelash. It’s ridiculous. “I—I can see you again.”
I can see you again.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard such beautiful words in my life.
But my relief is quickly cut short by the realization that I’m standing far too close to him. I scramble backward, nearly banging my leg on the corner of his bed.
He makes a movement as if to help me, then seems to think better of it. “Are…you all right?”
I straighten. Fold my arms tight across my chest, trying to shake the feeling that I’ve just woken up from some disorientating dream. “Yeah. Perfect.”
There’s an awkward silence. Now that the immediate issue of my invisibility is resolved, neither of us knows what to do next.
After a few more seconds, Henry rakes a hand through his hair and says, “Well, that was interesting.”
I focus on the pale expanse of sky stretching beyond his window, on anything but him, and nod. “Mm-hmm.”
“I’m sure it was a one-time event,” he continues, now adopting that voice he always uses when answering a question in class, his accent coming in thicker and every word enunciated to make him sound smarter, more convincing. I doubt he’s even aware it’s something he does. “An oddity. The equivalent of a freak storm, only made possible under a very specific set of circumstances. I’m sure,” he says, with all the confidence of someone who’s rarely ever contradicted, who has a place in this world and knows it, “everything will go back to normal after this.”
For what might be the first time in his life, Henry Li is wrong—and I can’t even gloat about it.
Because despite all my prayers, everything most definitely does not go back to normal.
I’m in Chinese class when it happens again, just two days after the awards ceremony. Wei Laoshi is drinking from his giant thermos of hot tea at the front of the room while everyone around me is groaning about the in-class essay we’ve just been assigned: five hundred words on an animal of choice.
From what I’ve heard, the advanced First Language class—mostly for the mainland kids who attended local schools before coming here—have to dissect the Chinese equivalent of Shakespeare and write short stories on weirdly specific topics like “A Memorable Pair of Shoes.” But my class is full of Westernized Malaysians, Singaporeans, ABCs and people like me, who can speak and understand Mandarin just fine but don’t know many idioms besides renshan renhai: people mountain people sea.
So what we get instead are essays about animals. Sometimes seasons, too, if the teacher’s feeling particularly sentimental.
I stare down at my gridded notebook, then up at the classroom walls, hoping they might offer some form of inspiration. There are the couplets we wrote up for Chinese New Year, the characters peace and fortune wobbling over the crimson banners; the intricate paper cuttings and fans pasted over the round windows; and a series of Polaroids from last year’s Experiencing China trip, featuring what seems like way too many shots of Rainie and not nearly enough of the actual Terra Cotta Warriors—nor of any animals.
Frustration bubbles up inside me. It’s not as if the task itself is hard; I’m willing to bet most people will just pick the panda or one of the twelve zodiacs. But that means I need to do something different.
Something better.
I rub my temples, trying to ignore the sound of Wei Laoshi’s tea sipping and Henry’s furious scribbling three seats away. This is to be expected—Henry’s always the first to start and first to finish for all our assignments—but it still makes me want to stab a hole through the desk.
After five more torturous minutes of me racking my brain for something full-marks worthy, I finally write down the rough beginnings of a first line: The sparrow and the eagle both can hunt, can fly, can sing, but while one soars free, the other…
Then I pause. Stare down at my wonky Chinese handwriting. Read the line over and over again until I decide it’s pretty much the worst combination of words anyone has ever come up with since the dawn of time.
A low hiss escapes my gritted teeth.
God, if this were English, I’d be flying through the second page already, all the right words pouring out of me. I’d probably be done.
I’m about to scrap the whole thing and make a new essay outline when that terrible, unshakeable cold I first felt in the auditorium begins to creep under my skin.
My pen freezes over the page.
Not again, I beg silently in my head. Please not again.
But the cold deepens, sharpens, pours into every pore of my body as if my clothes have been soaked in freezing water, and through it all my brain registers the alarming fact that either I’m running a high fever, or I’m about to turn invisible before a class of twenty-two people.
I stand up so abruptly that Wei Laoshi jumps, almost spilling his tea. Twenty-two pairs of eyes snap to me, all while the cold continues seeping, growing like some terrible rash, and any second now—
“I—um—I have to go the bathroom,” I blurt out, and bolt out of the room before Wei Laoshi can even respond. Humiliation floods through me as I sprint down the corridor, my old leather shoes pounding over the gleaming floors. Now everyone in my Chinese class probably thinks I have chronic diarrhea or something.
But better that than the truth. Whatever the hell the truth is meant to be.
By the time I reach the closest bathrooms on the second floor, I’ve already turned invisible. There’s no shadow attached to my feet, and the reflection in the floor-length mirrors doesn’t change when I step in front of them, only showing the faded pink door swinging wide open on its own. If anyone else were in here, they’d likely think this place was haunted by ghosts.
I lock myself in the last stall with trembling fingers, wincing as the sharp smell of disinfectant assaults my nose. Then I sit down on the closed toilet lid. Try to think.
And all that pops into my head is:
Once is an accident. Twice is a coincidence. Thrice is a pattern.
So.
It’s happened twice already; it could still mean nothing.
Or maybe it’s an even more common affliction than I realize, and the people suffering from it just tend to keep it to themselves—like irritable bowel syndrome, or herpes.
On that inspiring note, I pull my phone out of my inner blazer pocket. It’s an old Xiaomi, which is pretty much a smartphone for elderly people, but it works, and it’s cheap, so no complaints there.
It takes a few minutes for the home page to load onto the cracked screen, and another few minutes for me to get my VPN working so I can head over to Google.
Finally, I manage to type into the search bar: Have you ever turned invisible before?
And wait, holding my breath.
The results show up almost immediately, and disappointment settles deep in my stomach. It’s all just chicken-soup-for-the-soul advice and anecdotes about being metaphorically invisible, plus a bunch of memes I’m in no mood to scroll through.
But then a related search result catches my eye.
What would you do if you were invisible for a day?
It’s got over two million views already, and thousands of answers. After I’ve filtered through more than a few creepy comments, I’m surprised by the range of answers, and the whiff of eagerness—even desperation—to them. There’s everything from suggestions of espionage and robbery to deleting emails accidentally sent to bosses and taking back old love letters from exes, the kind of things people would normally be too embarrassed to do.
And as I read on, Henry’s words drift back to me: Everything’s a form of power.
Of course, it’s hard to feel very powerful when you’re hiding on top of a toilet. But maybe, just maybe…
Before I can finish the thought, I see another comment buried at the end of the thread, dated back years ago. Some anonymous user had written: Descartes was wrong when he said “To live well, you must live unseen”; Trust me, actually being invisible isn’t anywhere near as fun as y’all think.
I stare down, unblinking, at my cracked screen until my vision blurs. Until the sentence begins to dance around in my head. Trust me… Being invisible…
Then I lean back against the toilet, my heart pounding.
It should be a joke. That’s all. Everyone else in the forum clearly seems to think so—the comment only got six likes, and four dislikes. Plus, the first thing we learned in history was how to separate reliable from unreliable sources, and a now-deactivated, anonymous account’s comment on a website best known for its shitposts is basically the definition of unreliable.
But if, hypothetically speaking, they meant every word—
What would that mean for me?
The bathroom door slams open, breaking through my thoughts, followed by a series of sharp, staggered breaths, like…muffled sobs. I freeze. There’s a rustle of footsteps. The tap turning on. Then a voice speaking over the steady rush of water, low and choked with tears:
“…just want to fucking kill him. This is just—it’s so bad. It’s so fucking bad, and once they get out…”
My mouth falls open.
I almost don’t recognize the voice at first; Rainie always sounds like she’s gushing over some new sponsored hair product on Instagram—which, given her 500K followers, probably isn’t too far from the truth. But there’s still that distinct raspy quality to it, the very quality which made her mother rise to fame, so when she speaks again, I’m certain it’s her.
“No—no—listen, I get that you’re trying to comfort me, and I love you, but you…you don’t understand.” She draws a long, shaky breath. The taps squeak and the water pumps out louder. “This is like, a big fucking deal. If someone leaks it onto Weibo or some shit like that—it’s going to be a witch hunt. It doesn’t matter if it’s technically illegal, they’re all going to blame me anyway, you know they are, they always do and—Oh god, I’m such a fucking idiot. I don’t even know what I was thinking and now—now it’s all over—” Her voice cracks on the last word, and she’s crying again, her sobs rising in pitch and intensity until they barely sound human anymore, more like some wounded animal’s keening.
Guilt stabs at my stomach. The last thing I want is to sit here and listen in on what are clearly some pretty serious private issues, but there’s no way for me to step out now. Not without giving Rainie a heart attack.
I’m still trying to figure out what to do next when I realize the bathroom has gone quiet again, save for the splash of water hitting the sink.
“Is—is someone there?” Rainie calls out.
My heart falters a beat. How could she know—?
Then I look down and see my own shadow spilling around my feet, black and firmly outlined against the light pink floor. My form must’ve returned some moments ago without me knowing.
I grit my teeth. This whole invisibility thing seems about as predictable as Beijing’s pollution—here one second, gone the next.
“Uh, hello?” Rainie tries again, and it’s clear I can’t keep hiding in here any longer.
Bracing myself, I unlock the toilet door and step out.
The instant she sees me, Rainie’s expression changes with unnerving speed, the crease between her long, defined brows smoothing out, the corners of her full lips lifting into an easy smile. If it weren’t for the puffiness around her eyes and the faint red patches rising up to her cheeks, I might’ve thought I’d imagined her whole breakdown.
“Oh, hey girl!”
Rainie and I haven’t had a single proper conversation since she started school here in Year Seven—unless you count that time I helped her with her history homework—but from the way she’s greeting me now, you’d think we were best friends.
As I try to come up with an appropriate response, she slides her phone into her skirt pocket, then cranes her neck toward the stall I just came out from. Frowns slightly. “Were you…in there long? I didn’t see you when I came in.”
“Yeah, no,” I babble. “I mean—yes. A…relatively long while.”
She studies me for a beat. Then she grabs my wrist, her eyes wide with sympathy. “Girl, do you have cramps or something?” Before I can protest, she continues on, “Because I just got the best scented heat pack to help with that—like, I know they sponsored me, but I’d never recommend anything I haven’t tried myself, you feel?”
“Right. I, uh, feel you.”
She smiles at me with such warmth I almost return it. “Okay well, if you want, you can just go to the link in my bio—you follow me on Instagram right?”
“Right,” I repeat. I don’t add that she never followed me back. Now is not the time to be petty.
“Cool cool cool,” she says, bouncing her head in beat with every word. “There’s also a little discount if you use my code, INTHERAINIE. It’s the same as my handle—”
“Sorry,” I interrupt, unable to help myself and my irrational need to care about people who very likely don’t care much about me. “But it’s just—earlier, I couldn’t help overhearing… Are you—is everything okay?”
Rainie stills for a moment, her expression inscrutable. Then she tilts her lovely head back and laughs, long and loud and breathless. “Oh my god, that. Girl, I was only practicing my lines for this role I’m auditioning for. My agent wants me to like, branch out, give acting a shot—all the idols are doing it these days, you know—and it’s meant to be a secret but”—she leans in and drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“I hear Xiao Zhan is up for the male lead.” She steps back, her grin widening. “I mean, how great would that be?”
“Oh,” is all I can think to say, confusion and embarrassment swirling inside me. Could she be telling the truth? Yet her sobs earlier sounded so real—and what she said on the phone…
Maybe Rainie sees the uncertainty flicker over my expression, because she gives my arm a squeeze and says, with another laugh, “Trust me, my life is not that dramatic. You’re sweet for being concerned, though. I mean, now that I think of it, it’s so weird we don’t hang out more, you know? I bet we’d have a great time.”
And suddenly I understand why everyone at our school loves Rainie Lam so much. It’s not just that she’s gorgeous, since basically all the girls in my year level are pretty in one way or another (Mama always says there are no ugly women, only lazy women—but from what I’ve gathered, it’s more like there are no ugly women, only broke women); it’s how she makes you feel when you’re around her, like you’re someone who matters. Like you have a special bond with her even if you’ve never exchanged more than a few sentences before. It’s a rare talent, the kind you can’t acquire through sheer determination and hard work.
Jealousy wraps its cold claws around my throat and squeezes, hard. And I find myself wishing, not for the first time, that I wasn’t always so acutely aware of the things I lack.
“Um, Alice?” Rainie peers at me. “You okay?”
If Rainie is a convincing actress, then I’m a terrible one. My thoughts are probably written all over my face.
“Of course,” I say, forcing myself to smile. The effort is close to painful. “But anyway, yeah, that all sounds good. As long as you’re—it’s great.” I angle my body toward the door, more than ready to leave this strange conversation and the stench of disinfectant behind me. “I should probably get back to class, though. Good luck with your auditions and everything.”
“Thanks, girl.” Rainie flashes me another one of her perfect Insta-model grins, then adds, almost as an afterthought, “Oh, and don’t tell anyone about the auditions, yeah? Just in case I don’t get the part—wouldn’t want people to get excited over nothing, you know what I’m saying?”
Her voice is light and airy, but there’s an odd tension simmering beneath her words, the slightest waver at the end of her sentence, like a news anchor trying to keep their cool while a volcano literally erupts behind them.
Or maybe I’m just imagining it.
Either way, I mime zipping my lips before I turn to leave, wondering what she would say if she knew of all the other secrets I’m keeping locked up inside me.
The rest of the school week passes by in a nauseating, anxiety-inducing blur.
I feel that same telltale chill on Thursday, forcing me to sprint out of history class before I’ve written down a word of Mr. Murphy’s lecture on the Taiping Rebellion, and watch my shadow disappear halfway down the corridor. Then it happens again during Friday lunchtime, effectively snuffing out any last hopes I had about this all being some kind of spontaneous occurrence.
So when I find myself hiding in a locked bathroom stall for the third time since school started, my choked, uneven breaths audible over the sounds of the toilet flushing in the neighboring stall, I’m forced to admit the truth:
This is an issue.
For obvious reasons, involuntarily turning invisible at random is an issue, but it’s an even bigger issue because of all the classes I’m missing; the very thought of the red marks on my once-perfect attendance record makes my stomach twist like those braided, deep-fried mahua snacks they sell at the school café. If this continues much longer, the teachers are surely going to start asking questions, maybe even start emailing the principal and—Oh god, what if they tell my parents?
They’ll probably think I’ve been worrying myself sick about the whole leaving-Airington-situation. Then they’ll be worried sick and want to have another talk about Maine and Chinese public schools and insufficient scholarships and my future…
As a fresh tide of panic sweeps over me, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
It’s a WeChat message from my aunt.
I click onto the app, expecting another one of those articles about treating excessive internal heat with herbs, but instead it’s just one line of text, written in simplified Chinese:
Is everything okay?
I frown at the screen, my pulse quickening. It’s not the first time my aunt has sent me a perfectly timed message out of the blue; just last month, she wished me luck on a test I hadn’t even told her about. I’ve always attributed it to one of those inexplicable sixth senses only adults develop, like how teachers somehow always manage to set important assignment deadlines on the exact same day without discussing it beforehand.
But this time it feels different, somehow.
Like a sign.
As an unwelcome chill snakes down my spine, I text back slowly, my fingers fumbling over the correct pinyin:
why wouldn’t it be?
She shoots back a message within seconds:
I don’t know. Just had a bad feeling—and the thread on my handkerchief snapped earlier this morning, which is never good omen in those palace dramas. You will tell me if something is wrong at school, won’t you?
My heart pounds faster, the bass-like beat rattling my skull. The rational part of me wants to dismiss her messages, to simply say everything’s fine and tease her for taking her Chinese soap operas way too seriously.
But instead what I type is:
can i visit you this weekend?
