More waiters soon step forward bearing trays of popular local dishes: deep-fried fish glazed with a thick tomato sauce, the meat so tender it slides off naturally from the bones; delicate red date paste cakes cut into the shape of diamonds; round wontons floating in bowls of golden broth.

It’s all mouthwatering, but across the table, Julie Walsh wrinkles her nose at the fish and asks, very slowly, “What...is that?”

A pause. No one seems to want to answer, but when the silence drags on too long, Chanel rolls her eyes and says, “It’s Mandarin Squirrel Fish.”

Julie’s hand flies to her chest. “Squirrel—”

“Not actual squirrel,” I can’t help interrupting. “It’s just the name.”

“Oh. Well, good,” Julie says, though she still makes no move to touch the dish. Instead, to my utter disbelief, she retrieves a packet of trail mix from her handbag and dumps the contents out onto her plate.

Irritation flares up inside me, and I realize that Henry was right the other day: my anger does make me brave.

“Excuse me, Dr. Walsh,” I say, raising my voice a little. “I thought this was an Experiencing China trip?”

Julie blinks at me, a salted almond half lifted to her painted lips. “Yes?”

“Then surely eating the local cuisine is part of the experience, is it not? Especially when the teachers are expected to lead by example?” Without giving her a chance to protest, I go on, “And weren’t you saying just the other day, in our social ethics class, that world harmony could be achieved if only people were willing to practice empathy and explore new cultures?”

The almond drops soundlessly and rolls over the tablecloth. Julie doesn’t pick it up; she’s too busy staring at me like I’m a bug she wants to squash.

I don’t think a teacher has ever looked at me with anything other than affection or concern before. Then again, I can’t recall ever talking to a teacher like this before either.

Then Mr. Murphy stands up at the next table and claps twice to get everyone’s attention, snapping the thread of tension—and conveniently saving Julie from having to respond.

“Listen up, guys,” he booms, using his presenter-at-assembly voice. “Since we have a very full afternoon planned out, and won’t be in the Autumn Dragon Hotel until late evening, we’ve decided to save some hassle and give you your hotel room numbers and cards now, all right?” He peers around at us as if we’re really all sitting down before a stage. “Is that something I can trust you guys to keep safe for eight hours?”

He receives only a few lackluster nods in response, but seems to deem this good enough.

“Great.” He takes out a crumpled paper folder not unlike the one I stole the history exam answers from. Guilt lifts its head, and I quickly stomp it back down. “I’ll call your names one by one, and if you or your roommate can just come up in an orderly fashion... Let’s see... Scott An.”