“Do we have a deal, then?” I press, hoping to walk away from this conversation with something concrete to hold on to, to plan around, at the very least.

But ever the experienced negotiator, all Henry says in response is, “I’ll think about it.”

Henry and I don’t speak a single word to each other for the next three days.

Not for lack of trying on my end; every time I try to make eye contact with him from across the classroom, he’s distracted, a distant, faraway look on his face, or he’s busy working on something on his laptop, his long fingers flying over the keys. Then as soon as the bell rings, he’s gone, striding out the doors without even a glance back. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was the one with the invisibility problem.

Soon I’m starting to regret everything—seeking him out in his dorm, revealing the details of my plan, believing we might actually make some kind of partnership work between us—and with the regret comes a fast-brewing anger, like a gathering storm. This is my nightmare scenario; Henry Li knowing he has something I want, and having every right to withhold it from me. I imagine him mocking me in his head—I can’t believe what Alice Sun asked me to do the other day—and resentment fills my mouth like spit.

But then Thursday rolls around, and Henry hurries into our social ethics class ten minutes late.

This is unprecedented.

Everyone turns to stare at him, whispers flying across the room as we take in his appearance. He looks—well, not disheveled, exactly, since Henry at his very worst still looks better than every other guy at their most polished. But his normally immaculate school shirt is creased at the sides, the top two buttons undone, exposing his sharp collarbones. His hair falls in wild waves over his brows, rumpled and uncombed, and his perfect porcelain skin is a shade paler than usual, the area under his eyes stamped with dark circles.

If he notices the stares, he doesn’t show it. He simply takes off his fancy pollution mask, folds it into his blazer pocket, and makes his way over to the teacher’s desk.

“Sorry I’m late, Dr. Walsh,” Henry says to our social ethics teacher. Her full name is Julie Marshall Walsh, and she insists on being addressed as Dr., but everyone just calls her Julie behind her back.

Julie purses her lips, her white-blond Anna Wintour bob bouncing past her ears as she shakes her head. “I must say, I expected better of you, Henry. You missed ten minutes of a very important lecture.”

Someone makes an abrupt coughing sound that sounds suspiciously like a snort. The very important lecture in question is, in fact, a slideshow on “poor kids in Asia.” We’ve spent the entire class looking through high-resolution photos of matchstick-boned children covered in mud or eating scorpions, all while Julie sighs and gasps—at one point, I swear I see her pale blue eyes fill with tears—and dramatically whispers things like, “Can you imagine?” and “Oh, it really makes you realize how very lucky you are, doesn’t it?”