Thank you for all the reviews--I'm so sorry I didn't get this up sooner.
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When Shuqiao was growing up in Wuhan, she had been a witness to murder. The victim was a patient on the tenth floor of a neighborhood clinic—in trouble with the police for something or other, probably fraud. They’d grabbed his arms and thrust him through the picture window, and it was four, five seconds before he landed on the sidewalk below. He fell with limbs askew like a snowflake, and landed with a sound reminiscent of a wet towel being snapped—like her Nai-Nai doing laundry from the apartment balcony.
Her mother had taken her hand and they’d stepped gingerly around his feet. Death wasn’t something of importance for this man, nor was it something of importance for the people stepping around him on the sidewalk. The only person whose day the man's death truly impacted was the guy who had to come in and replace the window.
Shuqiao hoped that death was what she was feeling now—soft, with the low murmur of people talking in the background. Her eyes felt glued shut and she struggled to open them against the vacuum force of Heaven.
Heaven buzzed with fluorescent lights and heart rate monitors. There was a rubber clamp on her finger and a needle in her hand, held in place with a sheet of tape. Her hands felt limp and hot, and the blankets covering her legs radiated inhuman warmth.
When she rolled over, she knew why. She’d been tricked.
She was in Hell.
“Akshay?”
He was seated in one of the hospital’s plastic chairs, his back to one arm and his feet draped over the edge. The TV was on, mounted on the wall next to a twisted metal crucifix. Next to Jesus, an elderly man was dancing to light jazz music and shouting about erectile dysfunction.
“Oh! Hey, Shuqiao,” he said, swinging his legs over the edge of the chair and onto the floor. “You’re awake.”
No shit, Sherlock. She stared at the light above her head and willed herself to levitate toward it, to break free of her earthly tube-shaped bonds. “What are you doing here?”
“Zoe said we were supposed to go to Village Inn, but you weren’t there, and then she called me, and your mom wanted to stay with you but her boss was being a bitch. So I offered to drive you home.”
“Isn’t that…isn’t that illegal?”
He laughed. “I can drive, Shuqiao.”
“You’re not my legal guardian.”
“Your mom was fine with it.”
“My mother is an inherent racist,” Shuqiao said, clenching her unlacerated fist. “What did you say to her?” Akshay twiddled his thumbs, feigning innocence. She gasped. “In the name of God’s good Nancy Grace, you quoted Confucius?”
He whistled. There was a slight smirk on his lips—Shuqiao wanted to smack it away.
“Anyway. The doctor said you were fine—no concussion, just a bump on the head. Which is good, because you need your brain for State.”
“State…” she moaned to the ceiling. The bitter tang of defeat still sat heavy on her tongue—failsauce sprinkled with garlic, as Zoe liked to say. “Wait.” Panic rose in her throat. It was like a belch, but far more sinister. “How far away is State? I haven’t practiced! I haven’t done anything! I haven’t––”
“Well, considering yesterday was districts…”
“Yesterday? I’ve only been in a coma for…” She glanced at the clock. “Eleven hours?”
“Shuqiao, you weren’t in a coma. You just fell asleep.”
“I what?”
“Your mom said she said something to you about Chinese school and you fainted.”
“I––” She stopped. “You lie! You lied about everything. You didn’t talk to my mother!”
“What?”
“My mother doesn’t speak English!”
He shrugged. “I speak a little Pudonghua.”
She moaned and tugged at her hair with her hands. “Why? Why are you here?”
“We were supposed to go to Village Inn, but then you fell into a fountain. So I came to pick you up, but then I started watching the news…”
She looked up at the TV screen and folded her arms across her chest. “Anderson Cooper? Are you serious?”
“You want BBC?” He flipped through channels until Matt Frei appeared, shuffling papers behind his desk.
“Are you…is this some kind of freaky Muslim magic? It’s seven-thirty five! It is impossible to have Anderson––”
“Shuqiao, it’s called “cable TV”.”
“Oh. Well.” She glared at him. “My parents aren’t rich Taliban hit-men, so I wouldn’t know.”
He laughed. “Neither are mine. My dad owns a bank.”
“No wonder we’re recessing. He’s spent it all on…cable TV…”
Akshay sighed. “Shuqiao, why do you hate me?”
The question was abrupt. Shuqiao felt her jaw unhinge and hang open. The air conditioning was on full-blast, and recycled air began to dry out the inside of her mouth—she could feel her tongue shriveling up as he stared at her, waiting for an answer. “I..I..I don’t…hate you, per se.”
“Zoe said you hate me more than shots and Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
Shuqiao sniffed. “Well. She’s a liar.”
“So you wouldn’t mind accompanying me to Village Inn?”
“Well, I would, but––”
“Good. Let’s get out of this demand-driven hell-hole.” He reached over and pressed the nurse-call button.
“You communist.”
He stuck out his tongue.
