CHAPTER FIVE
I wake up to the world falling.
My eyes snap open, my hands instinctively gripping the armrests just as the cabin lights flicker on, illuminating the shaking scene: passengers rushing back to their seats, a businessman frowning down at his computer screen as it wobbles violently in an impressive attempt to continue working, others jolting out of their sleep the way I did seconds ago, eye masks sliding up, blankets slouching over onto the carpet. It feels as if a giant toddler’s fist has shot out from the clouds to shake the plane around like a rattle toy. I try to ignore the sour jump of nausea in my mouth as we swerve sharply to the left, then to the right again.
A serene male voice floats down from the speakers:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing some heavy turbulence … Please fasten your seat belts …”
A much less serene male voice sounds right beside my ear in a hoarse whisper:
“Good god.”
I turn. Cyrus is staring straight ahead, his face and knuckles white as he clasps his fists over his lap, his teeth clenched around a curse. His rigid spine is pressed so tight against the seat that it looks like he’s trying to physically meld himself with the backrest.
“You’re scared of flying,” I say. It’s not a question, but it is a revelation. I don’t remember Cyrus being scared of anything: not spiders, which he would kill without hesitation whenever we found one in the classroom; not tests, which he would always hand in half an hour before everyone else; not the dark, or the horror movie the teachers showed us thinking the animated art style automatically made it kid-friendly, or the receptionist who had earned the nickname Scary Carrie.
“I’m not—scared,” he says, even as a muscle twitches in his jaw. “I’m—”
The plane pitches forward again, fast enough to make my gut churn. I can hear all the heavy bags knocking against one another overhead, a woman fussing over her airsick daughter in the row behind us, the rustle and metallic click of seat belts being readjusted. A plastic cup rolls off someone’s tray and bounces down the aisle.
“Alert,” Cyrus finishes on a ragged breath, “seeing as we’re about to plummet down to earth.”
Finally: a weakness. Just what I need to start softening him up and reeling him in. And even though it should be physically nauseating to comfort a boy I hate, whatever my ulterior motive is, his eyes are wide with such raw, open fear that it feels almost natural to do so.
“That’s not going to happen,” I tell him, trying to talk loud enough to distract both him and myself from the creaking in the wings. “It’s only a bit of turbulence; it’ll be over soon. In the meantime, just imagine that we’re already on the ground.”
“Except we’re not,” he points out. “We’re most definitely in the air.”
“Sorry, are you unfamiliar with the concept of imagining ?”
“Consider my imagination limited,” he says, the words straining out through his lips, “by the very real possibility of death.”
“Then try to think about something else.”
“Think about what?”
“Something pleasant. Like strolling along a beach at dawn. Or coupon codes. Or dogs that can open doors. Or banana muffins—”
“Not the biggest fan of baked goods.”
I will my patience to stay put. “Or fresh daisies—”
“Allergic.”
My mouth drops open. “To flowers ? Seriously? But they’re, like, the symbol of romance.”
“Which allergies are famously known to care about.”
I ignore his sarcasm and focus on posing my next question as if it’s something I just thought of, and not a sneaky way to secure vital information for my revenge plan. “What do you do if you want to buy flowers for your girlfriend?” I’m ninety-nine percent sure he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Call it a woman’s sixth sense, or just plain common sense, because while his face might be fine (okay, a little better than fine), he does share a personality type with most supervillains, and there’s just something about his aura that screams, I go straight home after school to mope over the state of the world instead of planning out cute movie nights with the girl I like . Still, if I’m going to proceed, I need to first be one-hundred-percent sure I’m not seducing someone who’s already taken.
Cyrus fixes me with a long look. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
Perfect. I lean closer to him over the armrest and do my best to act surprised. “Really? Why not?”
He tips his head back and releases a quiet groan as more tremors grip the plane, his pulse beating visibly in his throat. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’d rather we discuss the dogs that can open doors.”
“Okay, fine. No more talking about your relationship status or lack thereof, or the flowers you’re allergic to, or highly skilled dogs.” I filter through my memory for inspiration, any conversation topic that won’t make him tense up like he’s getting his molars surgically removed. The first, unexpected thing that comes to mind is: “Do you still play piano?”
Even though the sky is swaying drunkenly outside the windows, the blue horizon tilting upward with sickening speed, he pauses for a moment, some of his fear dissolving into surprise. “You remember that?”
“Only because you were being such a show-off about the fact that you’d passed grade twenty when you were thirteen—”
“Leah, there is no grade twenty.”
“And,” I go on, skipping right over his correction, “as long as there was a piano in the general area, you would rush over to play it like it was your own private concert.”
At this, the muscles in his face relax enough for his mouth to twitch. “I had no idea that you watched me.”
“Like, once.” Or a dozen times. It was one of the only occasions when he wasn’t pestering me at school. When he wasn’t causing any trouble at all, but completely focused, his boyish features serious, his fingers elegant and swift over the black and white keys. He played piano like it was obvious, like every note belonged together in their exact arrangement the way stars belonged in constellations, and mistakes didn’t exist. He made it look so easy.
He made everything look easy.
“I do still play,” he tells me, his shoulders loosening a little too. “Do you? The cello? Or the flute?”
It’s been so long that at first I don’t even know what he’s talking about. Then, between the next dip and rise of the plane and my heart, his words register. There was a very short-lived period in my life when I watched a music video featuring a cellist and felt inspired to learn the cello myself. But five lessons in, I realized that I would have produced better music by throwing plates at a wall; even the music teacher, Ms. Torres, expressed her disappointment at my inability to pick up the basics, though she’d encouraged me not to quit. Just because you’re not naturally good at it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t continue.
But what’s the point in continuing something if you aren’t naturally good at it?
So I left my rented cello behind in the music room and never looked at it again. A few months later, I came down with the overoptimistic idea that maybe I wasn’t meant for the cello , but I was meant for the flute. I lasted a little longer with that one, progressing so far as to play a few shrill notes of “Ode to Joy,” but my practice sessions gave everyone—including myself—a headache. It was the same way with all the hobbies I tried out as a kid. I quit karate after just one day, because I injured my hand trying to chop a block of wood. I quit swimming because the chlorine made my skin itch. I quit dance because I couldn’t keep up with the choreography, and the teacher yelled at me in front of everybody. I quit basketball because I kept missing my shots and I hated feeling like I was slowing down the team.
I used to think that modeling was the one thing I would never give up. That all my failures and false starts before it were simply leading me to my true calling.
“I haven’t touched an instrument in years,” I say, in what I hope is a flippant tone. “It’s probably for the best that I stopped.”
“I’m sure Ms. Torres would be heartbroken if she found out.”
“Why?” I let out a huff of incredulity. “I was her worst student.”
“She liked you,” he insists.
“Yeah, right,” I say. “What could she have liked about me?” I meant for it to sound casual and self-deprecating, but it comes out dangerously close to self-pitying, which is never a good look.
Cyrus frowns, as if I’m asking a trick question. “Why wouldn’t she have liked you?” A pause. “Why wouldn’t everyone like you?”
Maybe because I have nothing of value to offer? Because I care too much about my appearance, and I overthink everything, and I can be annoying and dumb and indecisive, and I don’t have the slightest clue what I’m doing with my life? Because I have no personality outside of my flaws? But I’d rather the plane disintegrate right now than ever say any of that out loud, especially to him.
“I’m just saying,” I tell him, “I’d be surprised if she even remembered my name after I left the school.”
Guilt flashes across Cyrus’s face.
The past pushes its way into the sudden silence between us. Well, at least he knows to be guilty. But it’s a cheap comfort, like the thin, scratchy blanket covering my legs. If he really felt guilty, he would have apologized long ago. No, he wouldn’t have lied in the first place.
I’m so busy feeding my grudge that it takes me a minute to notice the shaking has stopped. The seat belt sign dims, and all around us, people relax in their seats, everyone’s relief palpable in the cabin air.
But it still feels like the world is careening in the wrong direction. It’s felt a little like that ever since the wedding. Ever since I saw Cyrus again.
***
It’s a relief to be back on solid ground.
After I fire off a quick text to the family group chat to let them know I’ve landed safely, I join my classmates in side-shuffling a couple steps at a time through the dense, jet-lagged crowds at the airport. What with the time difference, I don’t expect to hear from my parents until the next morning for them, but my mom’s reply comes before I’ve even left the customs line.
How was your flight? Did you get enough sleep? Did you eat on the plane? How’s Shanghai? When does your first activity start?
All of this in one overwhelming text box, like she might be charged for each new message she sends.
Smooth , I text back, which is an exaggeration at best, a straight-up lie at worst. Super smooth, if you take away the aggressive turbulence, and the fact that Cyrus fell asleep after my distraction services were no longer needed, only for his head to keep lolling against my shoulder for the remainder of the flight.
I slept well , I continue. Food was fine.
Shanghai’s—
I hold off on answering because I don’t actually see the city until we reach the shuttle bus outside the airport, where the teacher pairs us off according to our hotel rooms.
“Cyrus Sui—I saw your special request, but unfortunately this program does not allow for single rooms for any of the participating students,” Wang Laoshi calls over the rumbling engines, dabbing the sweat on his forehead with a folded plaid handkerchief.
I kind of wish I’d brought a handkerchief with me too, or at least a napkin. Though the afternoon sky is overcast, the skyscrapers disappearing into the gray clouds, the heat is closing in fast. We’ve only gone a few minutes without any air-conditioning, and I can already feel the humidity sticking to my cropped shirt and slicking my fingers. Even the wind is hot, simmering off the wide road.
“You’ll be sharing with … Oliver Kang,” Wang Laoshi continues, consulting the clipboard in his hand. “Don’t look so glum about it. This is as much an opportunity to make new friends as it is a chance to explore the city.”
Oliver hops up the bus steps first. He’s the only person here with the energy to hop anywhere right now; I caught him charming the flight attendants into sneaking him quality coffee straight out of business class. “Yeah, dude,” he says with a fully caffeinated grin, beckoning Cyrus over. “We’ll be bonding in no time. It’ll be like a sleepover—come on, I know that very deep down, you’re excited.”
I catch the look of dismay on Cyrus’s face before he follows Oliver into the bus.
“Leah, you’ll be with Daisy Yun,” the teacher continues.
More hot gusts of wind blow my bangs across my forehead as I shove my suitcase into the lower luggage compartment. I quickly flatten my hair back down and greet my new roommate.
“Hey,” I say, joining her at the bus door. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”
She seems somewhat startled, as if convinced I might be talking to someone else. “Um, hi.”
Inside, I drop into the window seat at the front, squeezing over for Daisy to sit down next to me. She does so very carefully, hugging her bag tight to her chest, tucking her dress around her legs. She doesn’t say another word until we’ve left the glass maze of the airport far behind us, the city rising tall on both sides of the highway.
I’m really here.
In Shanghai. On the other end of the world, thousands of miles from all I’ve ever known.
My eyes drink in the views as they rush by, my lips parted in awe. It’s a city made for movie screens, a city that’s stepped out of history, with one foot in the future. A city big enough to get lost in, or big enough to fit in. We speed past sparkling new subway stations, faded wonton restaurants, flower shops bursting with pink tulips and chrysanthemums, chairs stacked up beneath plastic awnings, stores illuminated by tiny LEDs spelling out advertisements in characters I can’t read. I try to commit it to memory, taking mental photos of everything I see: the twelve-story malls, the lush green of the parks breaking up the yards of steel and cement, the potted plants dangling from apartment windows, the groups of men playing mahjong in the alleyways, the woman walking her pet alpaca along the pedestrian crossing.
“Is this … your first time here?” Daisy asks. Her voice is quiet, almost hushed, like she’s scared of disturbing me.
I pull my gaze from the window, flushing when I realize that I must look like a typical wide-eyed tourist. “Yeah. Is it yours?”
She shakes her head. “My dad’s side of the family is from Shanghai. I come here basically every holiday.”
Her Chinese must be so much better than mine. The familiar insecurity prickles uncomfortably against my skin. Even though my mom insisted the program was perfect for people like me , I’m starting to fear that everyone on the bus is better at Chinese than I am, that I’m the only tourist here. Cyrus’s Chinese is perfect. Two of the girls filled out their customs declaration forms in Chinese. And Oliver was flirting in Chinese, which would require a particular command of the language. Luckily, my own flirting tricks are pretty universal, since they’re limited to squinting and smiling and twirling my hair in a semi-ironic way, and hoping the other party finds me attractive enough.
“So why did your parents sign you up for the program?” I ask Daisy.
“My parents didn’t,” she says, picking at a piece of lint on her dress. “Um, I did. People are always telling me to explore new things and be more social and push myself outside my comfort zone—and my comfort zone is the size of my bedroom, so …”
“Who’s people ?”
“Teachers. Relatives. The school librarian. Whoever writes the advice columns in magazines. My neighbors. My dentist.”
I bite back a laugh. “It’s nice that your dentist is so invested in your social life.”
“My dentist recommends that I ‘put myself out there’ more often than he recommends that I floss properly.” She sighs and looks at my ear, which is the closest she’s come to making eye contact with me so far. “It’d be so much easier if I were you.”
“Me?” I repeat.
She waves a hand in a general gesture toward my face like that’s answer enough. “You’re so confident and just, like, composed, you know? Like you’ve got everything figured out.”
It’s not the first time someone has called me composed in recent years , though my mom prefers the adjacent, less flattering Chinese term duanzhe. Literally speaking, it means “to hold” or “to carry,” which always conjures the image of someone balancing a bowl filled to the brim with water. One step out of line, one careless move, and everything will spill over.
I consider telling her that I’m not any of the things she thinks I am, but I don’t want to break the illusion. It would be like a magician showing the audience exactly where the rabbit is hidden.
I wouldn’t have the chance to, in either case. The bus rolls to a stop in the hotel parking lot, and we’re all ushered through the entrance in a mess of half-zipped jackets and straggling suitcases.
“Hurry up,” Wang Laoshi chides. “We have a whole evening planned out ahead of us.”
The lobby is larger and more impressive than any of the hotels I’ve stayed in before, with contemporary sculptures rising up to the highest floors and chandeliers lighting up the space. My attention skips from the pop-up stall near the elevators promoting pretty glass jars of tomato juice to the posters advertising the hotel’s afternoon tea service, before landing on the robots carrying bottles of water and clean towels and room service trays. I watch, fascinated, as they wheel themselves over to the concierge desks, their screens flashing. Nobody else even bats an eye at their presence, as if we’ve been living casually among robots since the beginning of time.
“We’ll be meeting down here in an hour to go on the night cruise,” Wang Laoshi says as he hands out our key cards. “Go take a quick shower if you must. Just don’t be late.”