But the same scandals that shocked me this time last year now seem so small, so trivial. So normal.

Compared to what I’m meant to pull off in the days ahead, they feel almost like a joke.

“This should be our compartment,” Chanel tells me when we reach the middle of the carriage, shoving her giant suitcase through the opened doors with surprising ease. “I travel alone a lot,” she explains, catching the look on my face, and without another word, helps me roll my suitcase inside as well.

“Oh—thank you.”

I wonder if it’s obvious to Chanel that I don’t travel a lot at all. In fact, apart from my plane ride in and out of America, and the previous Experiencing China trips—and only because the school fees cover them—I haven’t gone anywhere outside of Beijing.

So it’s with fascination that I take in our tiny train compartment: the kettle set out on a folded table, the identical bunk beds sticking out from the walls, the space in between them so narrow only one person could possibly stand there at a time.

“Not a great place for the claustrophobic,” Chanel remarks as she squeezes her way through behind me, plopping down on one of the lower beds. “Or for anyone, really.”

It’s still bigger than my parents’ bedroom. A faint pang twists through my stomach at the thought, but I just smile and nod. I was prepared for this to happen, after all; within the Airington school gates, it’s still fairly easy to pretend that everyone’s the same. But out here, well...

“Qiqi! Guolai, kuai guolai—zai zhe’er!”

The loud, rapid Mandarin exclamations cut through my thoughts, and I turn toward the noise.

A short, middle-aged woman is wheeling two suitcases into our compartment, one of which is covered in a bright pink Barbie design that makes Chanel’s eyes twitch.

Seconds later, a little girl no older than six comes skipping into the compartment, a doll clutched to her chest, her high pigtails bouncing with her every step. This, I assume is the Qiqi the woman was yelling for.

“Oh!” The little girl stops short at the sight of me and Chanel. Then she breaks into a wide grin, pointing at us with her free hand. “Jiejie! Da jiejie!”

The woman glances in our direction for the first time and pauses too. I wait for the flash of surprise that usually arises when strangers see our uniforms, but then I remember we’re in casual clothes: Chanel, wearing a lacy blouse that rises just above her pale, flat midriff, and me, in a faded sweater and jeans Mama bought at Yaxiu Market a few years ago.

Instead of surprise, a crinkle appears between the woman’s drawn-on brows, like she’s not sure if Chanel and I are traveling together or not.

“Jiejie hao,” Chanel greets politely, and only then do the woman’s features smooth out, her lips lifting into a smile at the subtle flattery; being called jiejie, older sister, instead of ayi, for older women.