More messages pop up:

sorry, i didn’t mean to spam u...i get u must be busy & there’s probably lots of ppl messaging u rn...

i’d be happy to pay u early if that speeds things up

would 50,000 RMB be enough?

I’ll admit—it does feel wrong to capitalize on her desperation like this, to charge money for the kind of help I should be offering for free, even if 50,000 RMB might mean nothing to her and her family.

But I would also be lying if I said my heart didn’t skip a beat at the number.

50,000 RMB. That’s more than what Mama makes in a whole year.

I glance at the time on my phone. It’s still half past five in the morning, giving me enough time to sign the NDA, revise for my Chinese tingxie quiz, and—ideally—come up with a game plan before first period.

I shoot back:

Ok. I’ll try my best.

Then I yank my uniform over my head, grab my school bag, and slide out the door, keeping my steps as light as possible so as to not wake Chanel up. After everything she went through last night, it’s the least I can do.

Henry and I are the first people to enter the English classroom.

Well, technically, that’s a lie—our teacher, Mr. Chen, is already seated behind his desk. He’s busy shuffling around piles of marked papers when I walk in, a Styrofoam coffee cup dangling from his mouth, his oil-black, shoulder-length hair combed back in a low ponytail. Out of all the teachers at Airington, Mr. Chen is probably the most talked about, and by far the most respected; he’s written for the New York Times, had lunch with the Obamas, published a poetry collection on the Asian diaspora experience which was later nominated for a Nobel Prize, and got his law degree from Harvard before he’d even turned twenty, then gave up a six-figure job at a prestigious New York law firm on a whim to teach all around the globe.

He is, in short, everything I want to be.

“Ah. Alice.” Mr. Chen smiles widely when he sees me. He smiles a lot, Mr. Chen, despite the fact that there’s very little to smile about at eight o’clock on a Thursday morning. Then again, if I were a successful, award-winning Harvard law grad-slash-poet, I’d probably be grinning like an idiot even at my own funeral.

“Morning, Mr. Chen,” I say, smiling back and forcing as much enthusiasm into my voice as I can. This is a strategic move, on my part. When it comes time for the teachers to help us write letters of recommendation, I want to be remembered as someone “upbeat” and “positive,” with “excellent people skills”—never mind if that’s the complete opposite of my actual personality.

Of course, now that I might be leaving, all my efforts could be for nothing...

No. I crush the thought before it can fully form. I have Beijing Ghost now. A source of income. People who want to pay me 50,000 RMB for a single job.