As I stride past, I hear one of the students ask in a dramatic whisper, their words swollen with a thick Beijing accent, “Dude, did you see that?”

“See what?” a girl replies.

I keep walking, face forward, doing my best to act like I can’t hear what they’re saying. Then again, they probably assume I don’t understand Chinese anyway; I’ve been told time and time again by locals that I have a foreigner’s air, or qizhi, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.

“She goes to that school. That’s where that Hong Kong singer—what’s her name again? Krystal Lam?—sends her daughter, and the CEO of SYS as well... Wait, let me just Baidu it to check...”

“Wokao!” the girl swears a few seconds later. I can practically feel her gaping at the back of my head. My face burns. “330,000 RMB for just one year? What are they teaching, how to seduce royalty?” Then she pauses. “But isn’t it an international school? I thought those were only for white people.”

“What do you know?” the first student scoffs. “Most international students just have foreign passports. It’s easy if you’re rich enough to be born overseas.”

This isn’t true at all: I was born right here in Beijing and didn’t move to California with my parents until I was seven. And as for being rich... No. Whatever. It’s not like I’m going to turn back and correct him. Besides, I’ve had to recount my entire life story to strangers enough times to know that sometimes it’s easier to just let them assume what they want.

Without waiting for the traffic lights to turn—no one here really follows them anyway—I cross the road, glad to put some distance between me and the rest of their conversation. Then I make a quick to-do list in my head.

It’s what works best whenever I’m overwhelmed or frustrated. Short-term goals. Small hurdles. Things within my control. Like:

One, make it through entire awards ceremony without pushing Henry Li off the stage.

Two, turn in Chinese essay early (last chance to get in Wei Laoshi’s good graces).

Three, read history course syllabus before lunch.

Four, research Maine and closest public schools in Beijing and figure out which place offers highest probability of future success—if any—without breaking down and/or hitting something.

See? All completely doable.

“Are you sure you’re a student here?”

The security guard furrows his bushy eyebrows and stares me down from the other side of the wrought iron school gates.

I swallow my exasperation. We go through this every single time, never mind that I’m wearing the school uniform or that I checked in only earlier this morning to move my stuff back into my dorm. Maybe it wouldn’t bother me so much if I hadn’t personally witnessed the guard waving Henry Li inside with a broad grin, no questions asked. People like Henry probably don’t even need to carry an ID around; his face and name alone are verification enough.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I say, wiping at the sweat coating my forehead with my blazer sleeve. “If you could please let me in, shushu—”