“Lydia … There you are. Yes, I see you—thank you for raising your hand so high. You can put it down now. Oliver … Okay. Sean … Good—but please don’t lie on the floor. If you want to sleep, there’ll be plenty of opportunities to do so on the plane. Daisy … Daisy?” He squints at the students. “Is Daisy not here? Daisy? Chinese name—Daiyu? Speak up if you’re here.”

I glance around too, then spot her. The soft-faced girl from earlier looks like she actively wishes to sink into the limestone floor. She opens her mouth—not for the first time, judging from how red her face is—but her response is lost beneath the blare of the next flight announcement.

“Daisy’s here,” I say. My voice is loud enough that Wang Laoshi hears me right away.

Daisy shoots me a look of equal parts embarrassment and gratitude.

By the time the teacher has reached the end of his list, I have all the names and faces memorized, and the perfect plan for revenge devised. The best and fastest way to get under anyone’s skin is to grab hold of their heart. So I’ll make Cyrus lower his guard, make him think I’ve forgiven him at last, and when he finally wants me—wants, not loves, because there’s a chasm between those two things, one that I’ve never been able to cross with any boy—I’ll yank the rug out from under his feet.

I can see it play out in my head like a movie scene. We’ll be walking down an alley together and he’ll turn and gaze over at me, stars in his eyes, and confess that he likes me. I want a public confession, I’ll say, smiling coyly. Give me something dramatic, with chocolates and balloons and streamers, and then I’ll consider it. It’ll be exactly the kind of grand gesture he hates, based on his remarks at the wedding. But he’ll oblige, because he’s obsessed with me already, and make his declaration that same evening with everyone from our group watching, his features hopeful and earnest, arms filled with heart-shaped gift boxes. Then I’ll burst out laughing, long and loud, right in his face.

Why would I ever like you, Cyrus? You ruined my life, remember? And I’ll cite his long list of crimes, starting from when we were children, while the spectators shrink back from him in horror. He’ll finally come close to understanding how I felt on the staircase, except he’ll actually be guilty. He’ll deserve all the humiliation hurtling his way.

I almost want to laugh just picturing his expression when I ruthlessly reject him. Proud, composed Cyrus, his cheeks burning with color, his jaw dropping in confusion.