I Hope This Doesn’t Find You

by Ann Liang

Instead, a terribly familiar face comes into view, and out of habit, all the muscles in my body tense. Black eyes, sharp angles, a smile like a blade. That single, ridiculous strand of dark hair falling over his forehead. The school blazer draped around his shoulders like he’s posing for a high-fashion magazine. Julius Gong. My cocaptain, and the most prominent source of pain in my life.

As of now, Julius is at 490 points. I’m at 495, thanks to the history test I came first in last week. Still, I can’t be complacent. Complacency is for losers.

From that point on, Julius Gong became the bane of my existence.

To the rest of the world, he might be an angel, a perfect student with a pretty face. But I know what he really is, what he’s like.

“Did you come in with Julius?” She peers over at him with what feels like unnecessary appreciation, then adds, “He’s so great, isn’t he?” I don’t know whether to laugh or cough up blood.

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.

I take another deep breath, though it sounds strained to my own ears, and a little frantic, like someone who’s been underwater too long coming up for air right before diving down again. No big deal at all.

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

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

As he laughs, I’m gripped by the visceral urge to march up there and shake him by the shoulders, dig my nails into his smooth skin. I want to leave a permanent mark. I want him to feel it, to hurt. I want to destroy him.

But something’s different. Something’s changed.

“That’s not what I’m saying.” He laughs, a cold, hard sound. “You never say what you mean anyway.”

“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.”

Everywhere I go, whispers follow. From the way people are acting, you’d think I was caught murdering a man with my bare hands or something, but I guess this is a kind of murder. As of today, Sadie the Model Student, the Perfect School Captain, is effectively dead.

“Please, I beg of you, don’t mention him.” I don’t want to ever hear his name again or see him or be reminded in any way of his existence. I don’t want to remember the heat of his lips near my skin, the glint in his eyes, the malice dripping from his voice.

“Oh my god, shut up.” He falters briefly, then gives me an odd sort of smile, like he’s caught me doing something I shouldn’t, like he knows me better than I want him to.

Turns out I always want to be wanted, even by the boy I loathe.

Forget Julius. I would force myself to work with the devil if it meant I could keep my future plans intact. I’m supposed to be the reliable child in the family, the person most likely to succeed and turn our lives around. My mom and my brother are counting on me.

On him, it’s a perfect fit, practically tailored to his frame, the lines straight and sharp at the shoulders. But when I drape it over myself, it falls around me like a cape. I don’t mind it though. It’s warm and dry and it smells like him: like mint and cedar and the beginnings of something sweet, familiar, something that reminds me of summer when we were fourteen years old. Then I catch myself inhaling, hugging the soft fabric closer to my shivering body, and freeze. There must be water lodged in my brain for me to be acting this way.

“What is it?” Julius asks, coming over. Dread churns through me. He can’t see. I can’t bear the thought of him reading it, of him laughing at me or agreeing or rubbing it in. It’s too humiliating. I’ll die from it. “Nothing,” I say. I block it with my hand, but his eyes fall on my face first, and he glimpses something there that changes his demeanor at once. His gaze sharpens. His shoulders tense. “What is it, Sadie?” he asks again, but in a different way. Lower, more serious. Urgent. I just shake my head, my fingers splayed over the words. But even with them concealed, I can see them as if they’ve been etched into my own skin. Sadie Wen is a bitch. How long has the message been here? How many people have walked past it already? Did someone write it right after my emails were sent? “Show me,” Julius says. “No—” My voice comes out small, shaky. “Don’t—” His long fingers wrap around my wrist, pulling it down, and then the words are there, exposed, starkly visible to the both of us. Shame stings my skin like acid, roils deep inside my gut. For a long time, he doesn’t say anything. The quiet is maddening.

I can sense him watching me. My eyes burn, and I stare up at the violet sky, forcing the tears to recede before they can spill. I haven’t cried since I was seven, since the day my dad left and I found my mom weeping quietly into her hands, curled up on the couch in the empty living room. The air in the house was so heavy it threatened to crush me. I had sworn then that I wouldn’t cry, ever. I wouldn’t add to her sadness, wouldn’t drag her even further down. I would be the good daughter, the strong one, the one who kept everyone afloat.

Sadie Wen is a bitch. It looks so ugly. Like a bloodstain. 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.

It would be far too arrogant to believe this is some sort of karma, that the universe has kindly overlooked all my mistakes and taken pity on me and stepped in on my behalf. But the timing also seems a little too perfect to be a pure coincidence . . .

And it’s irrational, because I’ve seen him almost every day for the past ten years. I should be used to it by now—to him.

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.

“Hi,” I say, my mind spinning, struggling to place it. “I’m Sadie Wen, calling from Woodvale—” To my surprise, he laughs. “Oh, I know you. You’re the other captain, right? My little brother talks about you all the time.” I falter. Beside me, Julius has gone very still, his complexion pale. “Your . . . little brother?” “Yeah,” James says breezily. “My brother, Julius Gong.”

“You must be Sadie Wen. You’re practically a household name.”

“And he’s always going on about how intimidatingly smart you are. How hard he has to work to keep up with you.” Intimidatingly smart. I hold on to those words, examine them up close. I’ve never thought of myself as intimidating or scary, yet it feels like the greatest compliment. A confirmation of my wildest hopes. Julius Gong takes me seriously. He isn’t just competing because he thinks it’d be embarrassing to lose. He’s afraid of losing to me.

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.

But I think I’m starting to get it. The vicious look on his face when I’d beaten him in that class debate. Why he’s never mentioned his brother before. Why he’s so ruthlessly determined to be first all the time. Why he’s scowling now, the lines of his shoulder tight.

I lean against the doorframe, my heart speeding. Had I imagined it? Struck some invisible nerve? Was it something I said? But when I assess his face, his gaze is cold as stone; it seems impossible he could feel any human emotion at all.

He hesitates. Runs a slow, self-conscious hand through his hair. “Do they . . . really look bad? My clothes, I mean.” I’m dumbfounded—as much by the question as the fact that he’s asking me. “You look how you always look, Julius,” I manage. His eyes are wary. “And how is that?” “Completely pretentious,” I say. I shouldn’t elaborate any further, but something about the stiffness of his posture, the rare vulnerability in his face, makes me add: “In a nice way though.” Then I bite down on my tongue and make a quick exit before I can say anything else I’ll regret.

Rosie’s friend giggles. Peers at him under her long lashes. “Okay, then . . . Do you like anyone?” It has nothing to do with me, but my heart seizes as if I’ve just been electrocuted. I’m blinking too fast, sitting up too straight. I can’t control my body, can’t control the weird, nervous feeling fluttering through my veins. Can’t stop myself from looking at him as if I can find the answer written over his face. For the briefest second, he looks back at me. Then he frowns and shakes his head, once. “No.” His voice is firm. The girl’s face swiftly crumples in obvious disappointment. Inexplicably I feel a pang of it echo through my own chest.

Julius touches a finger to his lips like he can’t quite believe it either. Then he straightens. Cocks his head, his eyes black with cool amusement. “You call that a kiss?” he says on a scoff. His voice comes out lower than usual, and I can see the effort in the movement of his throat. “That was barely anything.” The heat inside me flares higher, incinerating all logic and reservation. I want to slap that smug look off his face, but then I think of something even better. “What about this, then?” I challenge, and before he can reply, I grab the collar of his shirt and pull him to me. This time, when our lips meet, I don’t back away. I deepen the kiss, letting my fingers slide up his neck, curl into his hair. For one moment, I can feel his shock, the tension running through his frame like a heated wire, and I think: I’ve won. I’ve proven him wrong. Then he kisses me back, presses me closer, and something inside me slides off-balance. It’s not meant to be like this. The thought is hazy, distant, lost to the sensation of his mouth on mine. 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. I can’t concentrate. The most terrible part of this is t...

It’s funny, thinking about it now. Because Julius has also accused me of plenty of things in the past, but he’s never faulted me for being intense. For being too much of anything. For wanting to win. He’s part of the reason why winning is worth it.

“I would rather die than kiss you again.”

This is a nightmare. And this is entirely my fault.

I’d thought that everyone had left, but when I spin around, Julius is there. He’s stayed. There’s an unfamiliar expression on his face, something conflicted, something almost soft, like there’s an ache in him.

And I know, even as the present is unfolding, that I’ll always remember this. The gleam of confetti on the hardwood floor. The night falling around us. The dark strand of hair falling over Julius’s eyes. The quiet that feels like a truce, a reprieve from the war, something more.

“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. He holds my gaze for a second. Two. Three. I count each one as it passes, the way I count my own staggered breaths. The silence stretches out like a string—then he sets down the half-filled plastic bag in his hand, the crushed cans and containers rattling inside, and the silence snaps. “I don’t know.”

This is something else I know I’ll always remember, no matter how hard I try to scrub it from my memory, to pretend otherwise. That I had kissed Julius Gong. That I’d kissed him, and wanted it.

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?

“Be quiet.” I clamp both my hands over his mouth. “You’re prettier when you don’t talk.” He makes a faint, incredulous sound that’s muffled by my palm, his breath tickling my skin. His expression doesn’t change much, but I can sense his surprise, how it flickers beneath the surface. “Did you just call me pretty?” “When you don’t talk,” I emphasize. “Which you’re doing at present.” “So you admit it.” “What?” I’ve already lost track of our conversation. Maybe I am drunk. Or maybe my memory is declining. That’s a terrifying thought. But then my attention shifts to the stray strand of hair tumbling over his forehead. I want to reach for him, brush it back. Don’t do it, that same voice whispers, but it sounds more and more distant by the second. Inconsequential. So I give in to the impulse and lean forward, smoothing his hair. “It’s so soft. Even softer than it looks,” I murmur, playing with a dark lock of it between two fingers. He’s gone very still before me, his pupils black and dilated. I can feel the air ripple with his next expelled breath, almost a pained sigh. “I always did like your hair.” “I thought you hated it,” he says. His voice is scratchy, like he’s swallowed sand. I frown. Tug absently at the strand. “Did I say that?” “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 ...

“Well, Julius Gong. It sounds like you’re the one obsessed with me.”

“Why is it me?” The words come out slurred, swollen on my tongue. I wave my hands around with growing frustration. “Why do you . . . Why do you put all your energy into making my life difficult? What did I ever do to you to make you . . . hate me so much? It’s been happening since the day we met each other. With dodgeball. With the spelling quiz in year six. With our history project. With everything. Why do you always single me out?” “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.”

“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. There’s nothing I want more than for time to be a physical thing, something I can split into two with my own hands, so I can turn it around, shatter it, undo all the consequences.

“I never wanted you to have to grow up this fast.”

I wouldn’t under normal circumstances, but after the party, I figure I can’t be any less popular than I already am.

“Are you trying to kill yourself?” he demands. His eyes cut through me as he speaks, splitting me open from head to toe. “You look like you’re about to faint, Sadie. It’s not a very pretty image.” My lungs are functioning well enough now that I manage to pant out a reply. “What are you getting so worked up for? I’m the one gasping for air over here.” He makes a small, angry sound with the back of his throat, like a scoff and a sigh at the same time. “You don’t get it, do you?” “Get what? What are you on about?” But he doesn’t answer the question.

“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—”