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Chapter no 10

I Hope This Doesn't Find You

โ€Œโ€œI canโ€™t believe I didnโ€™t know you had a brother,โ€ I tell Julius.โ€Œ

He makes the same face heโ€™s been making all afternoonโ€”a kind of pained grimace, like thereโ€™s something sharp stuck to the sole of his leather shoes. โ€œYeah, well, most people donโ€™t.โ€ With one hand, he pulls open the

glass door to the bookstore and follows me inside. โ€œWe donโ€™t share the same family name, and he graduated six years ago. So.โ€

โ€œRight,โ€ I say, lowering my voice.

Itโ€™s very quiet inside the store; you can hear the blaze of the fireplace,

the sound of rustling paper, the soft thud of a book being placed back onto a shelf. The displays at the front are lined with the most recent bestsellersโ€”a mix of politiciansโ€™ memoirs, brick-sized fantasy novels, and self-help books that contain expletives in the titleโ€”and handwritten notes from the staff, gushing over their favorite picks for the season. The cream-colored walls

are decorated with recommendations too, as well as posters advertising a debut authorโ€™s launch tomorrow.

At the back of the bookstore, past the Mystery and Thrillers section, the aisles open up to a mini cafรฉ. The aroma of fresh-ground coffee seeps through the air, layered over the distinct, smoky book scent Iโ€™m used to smelling in our school library. There are only two tables available, and an elderly woman has already taken the one closest to the window, a plate of half-eaten raspberry cheesecake set down before her.

I sling my schoolbag over the chair by the other table and tug out my phone and laptop to take notes for the interview. Then I sit and cross my legs. And uncross them again.

โ€œWhat?โ€ Julius asks as he sits down across from me. I stare back at him. โ€œI literally didnโ€™t say anything.โ€

โ€œI know you want to say something though,โ€ he presses. โ€œYouโ€™ve been all weird and fidgety since lunch. Just get it out already.โ€

My lips purse. The truth is that I am a little, kind of, just somewhat extremely curiousโ€”or maybeย bewilderedย is the better word for it. Iโ€™ve

always conceived of Julius as a singular, self-sufficient entity, a lone force. I wouldnโ€™t expect him to be aย brotherย to someone else, the same way I wouldnโ€™t expect the mahogany table to have a sibling. Because that cracks open the door to thousands of other bizarre possibilities: of Julius as a young child, of Julius as a boy who goes on summer vacations and has

movie nights and family dinners, who wrestles his brother for the remote control or sulks in his room after a fight or goes on a hunt around the house for his favorite shirt. It makes him feel too real, too human.

But thatโ€™s not the only strange thing about this discovery.

โ€œWhy . . . are your surnames different?โ€ I ask, then wonder if this is a

sensitive topic. Maybe their parents are divorced. Maybe he comes from an incredibly complicated background, where his mom isnโ€™t really his mom or his dad is his brotherโ€™s dad but not actually his dad or something. That would explain whyย heโ€™sย been moody ever since his brother agreed to do the interview with us after school.

โ€œMy mother didnโ€™t think it was fair for us to both take my fatherโ€™s last name,โ€ he says with a shrug. โ€œSo when I was born, she gave me hers.โ€

โ€œI kind of love that, actually.โ€

He gives me a long, almost defensive look. โ€œAre you being sarcastic?โ€ โ€œNo,โ€ I say, annoyed. โ€œNot all of us are incapable of expressing

sincerely positive sentiments, Julius.โ€

โ€œIt can be hard to tell, with your usual tone.โ€ โ€œWhatโ€™s wrong with my tone?โ€

He raises his brows. โ€œMost of the time when youโ€™re talking to peopleโ€” teachers, especiallyโ€”you sound like youโ€™re in an advertisement for organic fruit juice. Itโ€™s overly cheery.โ€

โ€œYouโ€™re accusing me of beingย too happy?โ€ I forget to lower my voice this time, and the elderly woman shoots me a glare over the top of her

historical romance novel. I mouth an apology and continue in a fierce whisper, โ€œThatโ€™s ridiculous. Thereโ€™s no such thing.โ€

โ€œActing too happy,โ€ he corrects me, his gaze piercing. โ€œWhen I donโ€™t really think you are.โ€

My chest burns, like the words have squeezed their way inside and peeled the flesh from my heart. But I canโ€™t let it show. โ€œYou donโ€™t know me that well,โ€ I mutter.

I expect a sharp retort, a kick to follow the punch, but he sits back.

Clears his throat. โ€œSorry,โ€ he says, looking uncomfortable. โ€œI . . . That was unnecessary. Iโ€™m justโ€”โ€ A sigh drags out between his teeth. โ€œNot particularly looking forward to this.โ€

And that makes two things I didnโ€™t know Julius had before: an older brother and the ability to apologize. The bitter emotion clenched inside me loosens slightly. โ€œThe interview, you mean?โ€ I ask. โ€œWhy? Heโ€™s your own brother.โ€

โ€œI know.โ€

โ€œAnd he sounds really accomplished. Like,ย really,โ€ I say, opening up my phone to my research notes.

James Luo is so accomplished that he has his own Wikipedia page. It goes through all his major milestones and achievements so far, including

how he graduated from Woodvale as valedictorian at the age of sixteen and received a full scholarship to study at Harvard, where he wrote his literary debut within a month โ€œon a whimโ€ and sold it for seven figures before heโ€™d even turned twenty. Or how he won some kind of huge international debating tournament three years in a row but then made the unprecedented move of quitting last minute, because he didnโ€™t find it โ€œintellectually stimulating in a way that was meaningfulโ€ anymore.

The most recent update was about his sophomore novel,ย Blue Crescent Blade. It doesnโ€™t even come out for another three months, but itโ€™s already received countless glowing reviews, an exclusive profile inย O, The Oprah

Magazine, and is being hailed as a โ€œtour de force,โ€ an โ€œutter triumph,โ€ and a

โ€œreckoningโ€โ€”with what, Iโ€™m not sure.ย Some big celebrity called it one of their two favorite books ever, the other being the Bible.

โ€œLook.โ€ I pull up another article, featuring a glossy, professional black- and-white photo of James in a plain turtleneck. Heโ€™s staring out the window with a pensive expression on his face, and the resemblance to Julius is striking. They have the same sculpted lips, the same thick black hair and

fine angles. But James is broader jawed, and heโ€™s wearing these square

frame glasses that emphasize the hollows in his cheekbones. โ€œIt says here his book is the breakout book of the decade.โ€

โ€œWho says that?โ€ Julius asks without glancing at the article.

I scan through the page, but even though a dozen other celebrities are name-dropped, the quote isnโ€™t attributed to anyone. โ€œIt, um, just does.โ€

โ€œOne can only assume itโ€™s universally true, then.โ€ He says it in a brisk, offhand manner, but his tone is sour.

Then he catches sight of someone over my shoulder, and his grimace

twists deeper, as if the sharp thing in his shoe has transformed into a lethal scorpion.

โ€œHello.โ€

I spin around to find James Luo striding up to us, his palms spread out, his mouth stretched into a wide grin. He looks exactly like he does in his author photo, with his slicked-back dark hair and square glasses; heโ€™s even wearing what appears to be the same turtleneck. But heโ€™s taller than I expected. When Julius stands up, a few inches of distance remain between them.

โ€œI canโ€™t believe you didnโ€™t ask me about the interview right away,โ€

James is saying as he thumps Julius on the back so hard youโ€™d think Julius was choking. โ€œYou know how happy I always am to help you out with your cute school projects, even when my schedule is packed.โ€

Juliusโ€™s expression darkens. โ€œItโ€™s not really a school project. The principal signed us up for this.โ€

โ€œYouโ€™re right.โ€ James nods sagely, his eyes sweeping the room. I swear they light up when they land on a pyramid of his books placed right in the

middle of the shelves. โ€œSchool projects are very important.โ€ Julius scowls but doesnโ€™t say anything.

โ€œAnd you.โ€ James suddenly turns his attention to me. โ€œYou must be Sadie Wen. Youโ€™re practically a household name.โ€

I conceal my surprise. Iโ€™d thought he was grossly exaggerating when he told me on the phone that hisย little brother talks about me all the time. But then I notice the crimson color creeping up Juliusโ€™s neck, and the only logical explanation for it is that whatever heโ€™s said is either terrible or wonderful. โ€œWhat has he said about me?โ€

Julius looks horrified. James, however, looks delighted.

โ€œOh, you know. When you beat him in that biology test last month he wouldnโ€™t shut up about it forย daysโ€”โ€

โ€œStop,โ€ Julius mutters out of the side of his mouth. He refuses to meet my gaze.

But James continues with good cheer, โ€œAnd heโ€™s always going on about how intimidatingly smart you are. How hard he has to work to keep up with you.โ€

Intimidatingly smart.ย I hold on to those words, examine them up close.

Iโ€™ve never thought of myself as intimidating or scary, yet it feels like the greatest compliment. A confirmation of my wildest hopes. Julius Gong

takes me seriously. He isnโ€™t just competing because he thinks itโ€™d be embarrassing to lose. Heโ€™sย afraidย of losing to me.

โ€œYou know,โ€ James says, โ€œhe got really sick last summer, but he wouldnโ€™t even rest. He brought all his textbooks back to his bed because he could barely stand and insisted that, like, if he didnโ€™t study hard every

single day youโ€™d pull aheadโ€”โ€

โ€œWait.โ€ My gaze swivels to Julius. โ€œYou were sick?โ€

That doesnโ€™t make senseโ€”Iย rememberย last summer. On the very first day, heโ€™d sent me an incredibly difficult equation from some kind of advanced university paper as a challenge. Iโ€™d solved it just to spite him, and dug through all the papers available online to find something even trickier, and sent that back. Weโ€™d then fallen into the habit of exchanging questions

every morning. We never said anything else. Just the screenshot and the answer. One blow traded for another. He would respond each time without fail, and weโ€™d kept it up all the way until school started again.

How could he have been ill?

โ€œIt wasnโ€™t that serious,โ€ Julius says, running a hand through his hair. โ€œAnd even with a fever, my brain still works better than the average personโ€™s.โ€

โ€œThatโ€™s not how you acted.โ€ James raises his brows at me. Iโ€™ve seen

Julius make that exact expression so many times itโ€™s like looking at a mirror image of him. โ€œWhen he wasnโ€™t studying, he was sulking.ย Kept asking our mother to make him his favorite soup, luo song tangโ€”โ€

โ€œI thought you said you only had twenty minutes to do the interview?โ€ Julius interrupts loudly. He sits back down and pulls out the Moleskine notebook he always uses to take notes. โ€œShouldnโ€™t we be getting started?โ€

โ€œAh, of course.โ€ James beams, and I find myself thinking,ย Their smiles are different.ย James smiles like he has an infinite number of them, like it

costs him nothing. But Juliusโ€™s smiles are sharp, sudden, sometimes ledged with mockery or laced with poison. His real smiles are so rare that each one feels like a miracle, like youโ€™ve won something. โ€œWhat do you want to

know?โ€

I want to know if Julius was afraid of the dark when he was younger. If he ever believed in ghosts or Santa or the Loch Ness monster. I want to

know where he studies, whether itโ€™s by the light of the living room window or alone in his bedroom, if he keeps the door wide open or closed. I want to know what he would dress up as for Halloween, what song he picks out at karaoke. How early he rises, how late he sleeps. What dishes their mother

cooks for the Spring Festival, what he talks about on long car rides. I want to collect these pieces of information like ammunition. Part of me wants to embarrass him, and part of me is simply, overwhelmingly curious.

But weโ€™re here to interview James about his career, not his brother, so I restrain myself and ask him instead about where he draws his inspiration,

how much time he devotes to writing each day, what the drafting process is like.

โ€œFor me, you see, the words are like sparrows,โ€ he says, rubbing his eyes. I blink hard, but Iโ€™m not imagining it. His glasses are, apparently,

frames only; his fingers pass right through them. โ€œI could spend the whole day chasing them, but theyโ€™d only startle and fly away from me. Itโ€™s more important to stay still, and let the sparrows come on their own.โ€

โ€œMm,โ€ I say, hastily tearing my gaze away from his fake glasses to write down his response. โ€œThatโ€™s very interesting.โ€

โ€œNow, obviously, there are days when you do have to coax the sparrows down with a bit of birdseed,โ€ he continues. โ€œCertain types of birdseed work better than others. And sometimes you think you need the premium brand, but itโ€™s in fact the organic brands, or not even a particular brand at allโ€”only the berries you pluck in the wildโ€”that are the most effective.โ€

โ€œUm. Sorry.โ€ I pause. โ€œIโ€™m sort of getting lost with this analogy.

What . . . are the birdseeds meant to be?โ€ โ€œNothing,โ€ he says.

โ€œOh, okayโ€”โ€

โ€œAnd everything,โ€ he goes on. โ€œI will leave that to your interpretation.

Interpretation is crucial, you see. Itโ€™s what this is all about.โ€

Julius either rolls his eyes or finds a very interesting spot in the ceiling to stare at. He hasnโ€™t spoken much this whole interview.

โ€œSo are you working as a full-time author now?โ€ I ask, moving down the list to the next question Iโ€™ve prepared.

โ€œOh, no.โ€ James throws his head back and laughs so loud the elderly woman glares over at our table again. โ€œNo, no, no. God, no. I couldnโ€™t do thatโ€”for one, it would be such a waste of my Harvard Law degree. I mean, anyone wouldย killย just to get into Harvard, you know? Iโ€™d be a fool to throw all that aside. And my professors would be crushed too, seeing as Iโ€™m the most promising student theyโ€™ve taught in centuries. Their words, obviously, not mine.โ€

โ€œYour professors must be very healthy,โ€ I say.

A soft, half-muffled sound draws my attention to Julius. Heโ€™s pressed a hand to the lower half of his face, his shoulders shaking, then stilling just for a second before he loses it again, shaking his head too, as if heโ€™s annoyed he finds it so funny in the first place. At least heโ€™s stopped looking like the tortured subject of a Renaissance painting.

โ€œHm?โ€ James just looks confused.

โ€œSeeing as theyโ€™ve been teaching for centuries and all.โ€

He falters, then recovers. โ€œWell, theyโ€™re so experienced it certainly feels like theyโ€™ve been teaching that long. Harvard is all about the history, you

know.โ€

I note quietly that this is the twenty-fifth time heโ€™s brought up the wordย Harvardย in the past ten minutes. If Harvard were a ghost, he would have successfully summoned it back to life by now. โ€œSo youโ€™re not writing full- time. That must be hard to balance, then.โ€

โ€œWell, itโ€™s worth the financial stability.โ€ He folds his hands together. โ€œThe book money is really just a fun little bonus, but Iโ€™m definitely not going to rely on it for retirement or anything like that.โ€

In the back of my mind, the words from the article appear in screaming, bold black text:ย sold for seven figures.ย Thatโ€™s his idea of a fun bonus? The absurd statement also seems to have an instant sobering effect on Julius, who definitely rolls his eyes this time.

โ€œItโ€™s really more of a side hustle for me,โ€ James says. โ€œThe old saying is true: Donโ€™t put all your eggs in one basket. Now Iโ€™ve separated my eggs into the law basket, and the author basket, and the investment basket, and also my debating coach basket . . .โ€

Even though Iโ€™m talking to him, Iโ€™m watching Julius. He appears to be muttering something to himselfโ€”eitherย kill meย orย cashmere, which seems less likely.

โ€œYeah, sure,โ€ I say, distracted. โ€œI hear that youโ€™ve done a lot of debating.โ€

โ€œAbsolutely. It really sets you up for success in so many fields, even if you donโ€™t end up becoming a professional champion debater like myself.

Thatโ€™s why I always encourage Julius to get more involved in debating.โ€ He gives Julius a light shove. โ€œRight, Juโ€‘zi?โ€

I almost choke on my own saliva.

Juโ€‘zi throws me a warning look, then frowns at his brother. โ€œI thought weโ€™d retired that nickname already. It makes no sense. Why would I be called a tangerine in Chinese?โ€

โ€œWhy? Because itโ€™sย soย adorable.โ€ James grins. โ€œAnd I really mean it, about the debating thing. You donโ€™t have to feel bad just because Iโ€™m naturally good at it. If anything, you should be encouraged by the fact that we share the same genes. Itโ€™s impossible for you to beย terrible, even if you arenโ€™tย quiteย as goodโ€”โ€

Julius stands up. โ€œIโ€™m going to get us some drinks. You want any?โ€ He directs the question at me, which is truly a sign of how much he doesย notย wish to be around his brother. That, and the fact that he would so eagerly volunteer himself for any sort of task without a gold star or extra credit or compliment attached to it.

But I think Iโ€™m starting to get it. The vicious look on his face when Iโ€™d beaten him in that class debate. Why heโ€™s never mentioned his brother before. Why heโ€™s so ruthlessly determined to be first all the time. Why heโ€™s scowling now, the lines of his shoulder tight.

We place our orders. Heโ€™s still scowling when he returns later with a glass of warm water for me, black coffee for himself, and some sort of

herbal infusion tea that I thought people only pretended to like in theory to convince everyone else theyโ€™re on a health kick. But James downs the drink in one go and asks for a refill.

โ€œGet it yourself,โ€ Julius grumbles.

James merely looks over at him, expectant.

With a sigh, Julius pushes off his chair again. When he comes back, weโ€™re just wrapping up Jamesโ€™s final response about his plans for the next year, which include a fully funded trip around Europe, a major film

adaptation heโ€™s both writing for and producing, and a lecture at some fancy lawyersโ€™ convention.

โ€œThis has been great,โ€ he says, beaming. Itโ€™s a wonder how he manages to smile so widely and speak at the same time. โ€œNow, Iโ€™m going to go sign some stock while Iโ€™m here. Itโ€™ll probably take a whileโ€”I haveย thousandsย of copies to get through.โ€ He gives James another loud thump on the back.

โ€œYou kids have fun though.โ€ We do not have fun.

Mostly, we tidy up our notes and sit in silence until I break it first. โ€œWell. We definitely have enough material for that four-page spread

now . . . Actually, just his description of the five-star hotel he stayed at for his debut novelโ€™s national tour is enough material for the spread.โ€

Julius nods along, but his eyes follow his brother as he shakes hands with an enthusiastic fan. They take a selfie together, Jamesโ€™s signature winning smile and the cover of his debut on display. The fan appears to be bawling.

โ€œPeople always act like that around him,โ€ Julius remarks under his breath. โ€œEven our own parents.โ€

โ€œYour parents . . . always ask your brother to autograph the collar of their shirt?โ€ I ask as James whips out a gold Sharpie he apparently just keeps in his front pocket.

Julius lets out a surprised scoff of laughter, proving my theory from earlier. His smiles really do feel like miracles. Especially when youโ€™re on the receiving end of them.

Warmth spreads through me, but then I give myself a mental kick.

Remind myself of who Iโ€™m talking to.ย Julius Gong.ย The boy whoโ€™s made my life unbearable for the past ten years. He wouldnโ€™t even be here right now if he wasnโ€™t forced to by the principal.

โ€œI better go home,โ€ I say.

His expression flickers. โ€œSo soon?โ€

I pause, caught off guard, and his demeanor changes in response. The smile is gone in a flash, the lines of his face carved into their usual cool, unimpressed mask.

โ€œI mean, arenโ€™t you going to transcribe the notes first?โ€ he asks. โ€œSurely you donโ€™t intend to leave that work to me?โ€

Thisย is the Julius Gong I know. The Julius Gong I can comfortably hate.

Iโ€™m almost relieved. โ€œIโ€™ll transcribe them,โ€ I tell him, only so we can wrap this up faster. โ€œIโ€™ll email the finalized version to you by midnight.โ€

โ€œOkay. Good. You better.โ€

I begin to shove everything in my bag, but he adds, โ€œI hear youโ€™re throwing a party this weekend?โ€

My hands freeze over my notebook. โ€œIs there a problem with that?โ€ โ€œSo you really are. Hosting a party.โ€ He stretches the last word out like

itโ€™s something ridiculous, like Iโ€™m planning to house an elephant or organize a Christmas feast in late April. โ€œWhy?โ€

โ€œBecause I feel like it,โ€ I say, defensive. Iโ€™m lying, of course, but Iโ€™m more offended by the implication that I canโ€™t be the kind of person whoโ€™d throw a party for fun. That he thinks he has me all figured out. That Iโ€™m an open book to him, and he can read me easily, better than anybody else.

โ€œYou never do anything just because you feel like it, Sadie Wen,โ€ he says, flattening his palms over the table. โ€œYou must have a multistep strategy. A long-term objective. Or else why are you inviting people like Rosie to your house?โ€

โ€œDoes it matter?โ€ Irritation races through me like brush fire. โ€œItโ€™s not like Iโ€™m invitingย you.โ€

His black eyes glitter. I watch his throat move slightly before he replies, his voice cold, โ€œI wouldnโ€™t have come even if you did.โ€

โ€œOkay,โ€ I say flatly. I donโ€™t tell him I had considered inviting him this afternoon; weโ€™re inviting most of the year level anyway. But now that

thoughtโ€”the very fact that Iโ€™d evenย entertainedย the ideaโ€”mortifies me. Why would I ever give Julius a reason to reject me? Rejection is the most humiliating form of defeat. Itโ€™s losing the battle before itโ€™s even begun. Itโ€™s lowering your weapon so they can spear you in the chest. โ€œThen donโ€™t.โ€

โ€œI wonโ€™t,โ€ he says, his jaw taut. โ€œYouโ€™ve said that already.โ€

โ€œI want to make it clear.โ€

โ€œDonโ€™t worry, itโ€™sย veryย clear to me.โ€

We glare at each other, breathing hard as if from physical exertion, my nails digging into the metal spiral of my notebook. Nobody else has ever had the power to fill me with such pure, blistering rage. To make me so angry I want to flip over a table, stamp my feet like a screaming toddler, burn holes into the carpet. Before I can do any real damage, I take my

things and leave without even bothering to zip up my bag.

But my fingers itch the whole way home, and for the rest of day, as I close up the bakery and do my daily workout routine and finish my homework and brush my teeth, I canโ€™t think about anything except him.

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