I Hope This Doesn’t Find You

by Ann Liang

“You’re such a saint, Sadie. A true lifesaver.” The compliment goes down my throat like syrup, warming me up from within. It’s embarrassing how tight I latch on to these little pieces of validation, how much I want to be liked, to make everyone happy. Sometimes I think I would give them one of my own arms if they asked very nicely.

I finish underlining the date with my ruler so it’s perfectly straight. This is like my version of drugs.

The workload itself was stressful, yes, but I’m only calm when I’m ahead.

It’s from Julius. Just so you know, Ms. Rachel took a peek at our group project earlier and said it looked—and I quote—“phenomenal.” I’m saying this now so you’re not too shocked when our grades come back and mine’s higher than yours. I know how upset you get every time I win. Best regards, Julius Gong, School Captain

This is my last resort, my sanctuary, the antidote to my anger. Because I know better than anyone that I’m not really a saint. Nowhere close. I simply like to unleash all my rage in my email drafts, where I can be as harsh and petty and unforgiving as I want, because I also know that I’ll never have the nerve to send them out. When I write, I write anything and everything that comes to mind.

The textbook was wrong. The most beautiful arrangement of words to ever exist. It’s like someone’s injected sunlight directly into my veins. I’m so relieved, so euphoric, that I don’t even mind the mention of Julius.

When I take my seat again, I notice, dimly, that my laptop seems to be in a different position. I pause, frowning. I could have sworn I’d lowered the screen almost all the way down, not just halfway. But then Ms. Rachel returns with important information for our upcoming test, and I forget everything else. I’m too focused on planning out my next move to beat Julius.

uh oh...

There’s no point pretending anymore when he’s seen the worst of me. It’s almost liberating.

“You know what I think?” he murmurs, drawing so close his mouth skims my ear, his cruel face blurring in my vision. My breath catches. Goose bumps rise over my bare skin. “I think you’re obsessed with me, Sadie Wen.”

I’m like one of Pavlov’s dogs, except every time I hear the bell, my instinct is to find my desk and whip out my notebooks.

“Fine, but what I’m saying is, you didn’t do anything illegal. You were just being honest. If I were you, darling, I would own it. Let them fear you a little. Let them know that you have your own thoughts and feelings too.”

The projector flickers on, casting a slideshow onto the giant white screen behind her. I take one glance at the title—“The Digital Student: Online Etiquette and Cybersafety”—before my stomach plummets, my misery returning with full intensity.

the way i would be mortified

It’s giving me a headache, watching you run up and down the school, he had drawled, barely even looking in my direction. And this way, you won’t be able to make any weak excuses about being unprepared when I beat you. I wonder if he even remembers. I wonder if he keeps as clear a record of our every exchange as I do.

As I stare, my stomach sinking lower and lower, Julius moves closer and loosens the brush from my stiff fingers. Then he brings it down hard over the brick and begins scrubbing, using so much force the muscles in his shoulders flex beneath his damp shirt. Unlike his previous attempt, he erases all the marker in one go. “Done,” he says, letting his arm fall back to his side. “Simple as that.” But nothing about this moment feels simple. I open my mouth, though I’m not sure what I plan to tell him. Thanks? Please forget this ever happened? Do you think I’m a bitch too? Before I can make up my mind, he’s walking away. Not with his usual slow leopard’s stride, as if it’s a gift to mankind to simply see him in motion, but with purpose, like there’s somewhere he needs to be. Someone he needs to find.

youre comin home with me..

I’m so absorbed in my own thoughts that I’m almost late for history. I’m not the last one through the door, though—Danny Yao is. My blood freezes as he brushes past me. The image of the bike shed presses against my mind. I imagine him cursing my name, scribbling the words over the wall, laughing about it with his friends. But then my attention goes to his face, and I stifle a gasp. His entire left eye is swollen shut, the skin around it a vivid purplish-blue. The bruise wasn’t there yesterday afternoon.

OH MY GOSH AHAHHHAA

He holds his hand out for the phone, but as I pass it over, my gaze falls on his knuckles. They’re split open and raw red. My first impression is that it must be from scrubbing the shed yesterday, but that can’t be right. He’d been wearing those ridiculous gloves for the very purpose of protecting his skin. And this looks more unnatural, more deliberate, as if he’d slammed his fist into something hard . . . Like Danny’s face.

“Oh, I know you. You’re the other captain, right? My little brother talks about you all the time.”

“And he’s always going on about how intimidatingly smart you are. How hard he has to work to keep up with you.”

His real smiles are so rare that each one feels like a miracle, like you’ve won something.

“What do you want to know?” I want to know if Julius was afraid of the dark when he was younger. If he ever believed in ghosts or Santa or the Loch Ness monster. I want to know where he studies, whether it’s by the light of the living room window or alone in his bedroom, if he keeps the door wide open or closed. I want to know what he would dress up as for Halloween, what song he picks out at karaoke. How early he rises, how late he sleeps. What dishes their mother cooks for the Spring Festival, what he talks about on long car rides. I want to collect these pieces of information like ammunition. Part of me wants to embarrass him, and part of me is simply, overwhelmingly curious.

Hobbies are traded for more stable, lucrative, practical careers. Dreams are shattered once the mechanics of going to the bathroom in outer space are taken into greater consideration.

Fun is baking a new batch of egg tarts, or beating my previous record for the two-hundred-meter dash, or adding my grades to my academic spreadsheet.

why does this sound so much like me..

Because I was lying to myself before. Julius isn’t just a boy. He’s my enemy. My equal. My point of comparison. He’s the one I’m constantly trying to outrun, to outsmart, to impress. He’s the ever-moving target in my peripheral vision, the person I’ve mapped all my plans around, the start and finish line and everything in between. All my dreams and nightmares are about him and only him.

Every time I think about him I associate him with summer: salt air and warm sand and open waves. Nothing like Julius, with his cold glances and sharp edges. Julius is the dead of winter, ice on your tongue and white frost and the ghost of your breath in a dark hall.

“I mean, why do you think you have to make everyone forgive you? What is there to forgive? Not saying that you were right to write those emails,” he adds hastily, catching the look on my face. “But I read the one you sent Rosie. She stole your science fair idea. If we’re really talking about forgiveness, shouldn’t she also be asking you to forgive her?”

“I really can’t stand it when people are angry at me. Like, I know it might be simple for others, but I can’t focus on anything else. I can’t just forget about it and go on with my own life. It’s like there’s something hard wedged inside my chest. I’ll always feel guilty. I’ll always want to make amends.” He doesn’t reply, and I realize I’ve said way too much. “Forget it,” I mumble. “You won’t understand.” “I’m trying to.” My head jerks up, and when I meet his eyes, I experience a roaring rush of heat. “Why?” I fling the question back at him.

There’s a false assumption people tend to make about me: They believe that all I care about is being the best. That the closer I am to the top, the happier I am. That if it comes down to it, a 30 percent is better than a zero; that being mediocre is at least better than being bad. But I swing between extremes. If I can’t be the best, I would rather be the best at being the worst. If I’m going to fail, I would rather fail at it thoroughly than do a job halfway. And if I’m going to self-destruct, then why stop at kissing the enemy?

squint at him. Search his face. And maybe it’s because of this new warmth, this dreamy sensation—both like falling and like floating—that I find myself marveling at how well-defined his features are. Not handsome, like the princes in fairy tales. But beautiful and cold and deadly, like the villains we’re taught to fear.

“Be quiet.” I clamp both my hands over his mouth. “You’re prettier when you don’t talk.”

“You did. In your email.” And then with his eyes on me, without having to pause or think twice, he recites, “From the bottom of my heart, I really hope your comb breaks and you run out of whatever expensive hair products you’ve been using to make your hair appear deceptively soft when I’m sure it’s not, because there’s nothing soft about you, anywhere at all.”

DID HE MEMORIZE HER HATE LEYTERS TO HIM

“Because,” he says quietly, a curious expression on his face. I’ve never seen him so serious. So sincere. “You’re the only person worth paying attention to.”

“At mahjong?” comes my mom’s shrill reply. “You think I should be proud of you? Where did you even learn to play, huh? Have you been gambling when you’re supposed to be at school?” “No! Bro, I swear—” “I’m not your bro. Ni bu xiang huo le shi ba—” “Okay, then, dearest mother, maybe it’s just natural talent. Maybe this is my calling— Ow, stop hitting me—”

haaa

“I regret it,” I manage to say on a stuttering breath. I weep like I haven’t in ages, not since I was an infant. “Regret what?” Everything. I regret writing the emails, I regret throwing the party, I regret kissing Julius in a moment of impulsivity and giving him the power to humiliate me. I regret it so much it feels like my liver is bleeding dry. I regret it so much it feels more like hatred, a knife turned inward, nails squeezing into flesh. I hate myself for everything that’s happened, because every mistake is my own to bear. And it feels like fear too. Like pure, animal terror, the stomach-curdling moment in the horror film when you realize you made the wrong move, you unlocked the doors too soon, and the masked man with the chain saw is standing right behind you.

currently playibg mking thebed

She absorbs this for a moment. “Well, I doubt that’s true. And even if it is, it’s not the end of the world.” I let out a shaky laugh. Adults are always saying that. Other than If someone asked you to jump off a cliff, would you do it? (which simply doesn’t strike me as a realistic scenario; who would benefit from making somebody else hurl themselves off a cliff?) and You’ll understand when you have children of your own (even though I don’t plan on ever having children), this seems to be their favorite line. It’s not the end of the world. And maybe there’s some tiny grain of truth in it. Maybe I’ll grow up and change my mind a decade later. Except for now, this is my whole world.

“Oh, no, we weren’t happy. We weren’t in love with each other. We were simply polite,” she says, looking over my shoulder now, as if she can see her past projected onto the bare walls. “I almost wish that we had fought more, that we’d cared enough to challenge each other and bicker over the little things. Better that than just swallowing our resentment and staying quiet until we couldn’t take it anymore.” I feel like somebody has knocked me upside down. Like I might throw up at any moment. “That’s not possible,” I tell her. “I should have sensed it. I would have known—” “You were so young,” she says. “You’re still so young. And we didn’t want you to know.” She squeezes my wrist lightly. “But then . . . you’re not happy now,” I say, scanning her face, noting the familiar signs of fatigue in the faint purple around her eyes, the downward turn of her lips. “It’s because he’s gone, isn’t it?” She shakes her head. “If there’s any reason why I’d be unhappy, it’s because you’re not happy.”

“Yes, you help out a lot, and I’m very grateful for it; the bakery wouldn’t be running without you. But I’d much rather see you enjoying your teen years while you can. I worry that you’re going to look back when you’re twenty or forty and all you’ll remember is your desk and the dishes. Really, it would ease my guilt if you did.” Her smile is sad. “I never wanted you to have to grow up this fast.” My head buzzes. I can’t believe it. It’s like spending years of your life training for a game only to realize you understood the rules all wrong. “I’m going to make that soup now.” Mom stands up. “Stay here.” And then she heads into the kitchen, leaving me to reassemble all the pieces of my life I was once so certain of.

“You don’t get it, do you?” “Get what? What are you on about?” But he doesn’t answer the question. He’s talking faster and faster, the words spilling from his mouth. “It’s laughable, really. You’re always insistent on coming first in everything, but when it comes down to it, you’re ready to put yourself last just to please other people—” “The others need me to,” I protest, confused why we’re even having this conversation. “They didn’t want to race so—” “Screw the others,” he says fiercely. The heat in his voice shocks me. Burns me to the core. “I don’t care about them. I only care about—” He cuts himself off. Averts his gaze, stares out at the vivid blue sky stretching over the stadium.

“I believe it’s one of our key evolutionary features.” I don’t have the energy to argue with him. “I still have to race . . .” “The one thousand meters, right?” I blink at him. “I’ll run it for you.” “Wait—what?” I massage my throbbing temples, willing myself to concentrate. To make sense of this. “I’ll be faster anyway,” he says with his usual disdain, like I’m slowing him down right now. But the smugness doesn’t spread to his eyes. He’s watching me, tentative, intensely focused. “No. Julius, you don’t have to—” “I’ll give you the medal as a present,” he says, already turning around. “Just wait.”

“How do you even manage to drink that without sugar or cream?” “I find it bracing.” The corner of his mouth quirks, his eyes black and razor-sharp on me. “And perhaps I prefer the challenge.” “Sounds masochistic.” “It does, doesn’t it?” he says.

We move like two planets in orbit; both on the same trajectory, but never touching.

And just like that, the silence is back, a heavy curtain falling between us. It lasts for the rest of the class, then the rest of the day, then the rest of the week. Funny how quickly my definition of torture can change.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, grabbing the phone. As I do, I can’t help noticing that it’s still open to the girl’s account—but he’s unfollowed her already. A stone dislodges from my chest, the resulting rush of relief so strong it’s truly embarrassing. Totally irrational.

GREEB FLAG

don’t ever let her do anything,” Julius snaps, and even in the dim light, I can make out the shape of his knuckles when he clenches his fists. “She’s smart, okay? She’s a formidable force. She does everything she sets her mind to and nothing can stand in her way. Not even me.”

How can you even tell the difference between liking and loathing someone? Physically speaking. How do you know if your blood pressure is rising because of how annoying they are, or how attractive you find them? If your hands are shaking because you’re holding back from strangling them, or kissing them?”

But I also remember the softness of his blazer around my shoulders. The look on his face tonight, the quick violence in his voice when his brother spoke of me. His breathing, quiet beside me, as he swept confetti from the floor after the party. His hands, firm but warm around my wrists after the race. The shine of the medal, the light in his eyes, the curve of his lips. So beautiful and infuriating and confusing. So ready to split me open with a single word, stitch me up again with a fleeting touch.

“Where’s your confidence disappeared to?” “You realize that, according to the laws of physics, something can’t disappear if it never existed in the first place, right? Matter can’t be created or destroyed

“You look like you didn’t sleep at all last night,” she says, studying my face. I grimace. “I didn’t. I was busy strategizing my next move.” She almost spits out her drink with laughter. “My darling, you’re not planning to go to war here—you’re just telling a boy you like him—

It’s one of the many reasons I love being around Abigail. We can talk on the phone for five hours straight in the evenings, stopping only to grab our phone chargers or a glass of water, but we can also just sit together and watch the changing scenery through the window.

The hysteria fizzes on my tongue like alcohol, and when I turn around at one point, I catch Rosie’s eye. There’s no malice in her expression. We’re both doubled over, laughing at the absurdity of the whole situation, and for the first time in a while, I don’t feel like the year level’s number one villain. I don’t feel like the perfect student either; I’m just one of them.

Julius grins back at her. My nails dig into the soft flesh of my palms, my hurt hardening into rage. It’s not Rosie I’m angry at though. It’s him. It’s always him.