The classroom was quieter than usual. Ms. Devon had moved Lian's seat closer to the front after complimenting his poem in front of the class. He hated the attention, but something strange had happened—no one had laughed. In fact, a few kids had nodded, like they actually understood it.
Jamie had whispered to him afterward, "You've got the soul of a fox and the voice of a storm." It made him smile, even though he didn't quite get it.
But today, Lian couldn't focus. He kept glancing at the door, waiting. Dreading.
His dad was coming to school for a parent-teacher conference.
It started the night before. The knock at his bedroom door had been soft. His mother peeked in, her face lit only by the hallway light.
"爸爸你需要你明天," she said gently. Your father needs you tomorrow.
Lian didn't respond. He turned away, facing the wall.
"他去学校," she added. He's going to school.
Lian bit his lip. Of course, she meant he had to translate. His father still didn't know any Mandarin, and his mother still didn't know any English. And Lian was the bridge.
Always the bridge.
The meeting was in the afternoon. Lian sat between his parents and across from Ms. Devon. She smiled at first, but Lian could tell it was a careful smile, one she wore around glass.
His father wore a button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He crossed his arms, glanced around the room like it was too small.
Ms. Devon began speaking slowly, clearly.
"Lian is doing better. He's quiet, but he's starting to find his voice in writing."
Lian translated, simplifying the words. "她说我写得还可以," he said to his mother. She smiled, proud.
His father raised an eyebrow. "What did she really say?"
Lian shrugged. "That."
But Ms. Devon continued. "I think he struggles with confidence. Sometimes it's like he's looking for permission to be himself."
Lian hesitated. His father tapped the table.
"Translate."
Lian looked at his mother. "她说我有时很努力."
She nodded. That wasn't what Ms. Devon said. But it was easier this way.
His father narrowed his eyes. "You're lying."
Lian stiffened.
"I can tell when you twist it. Don't play games with me."
Ms. Devon interjected. "Is there a problem?"
Lian's father stared at her. "No."
But Lian saw it again—the shimmer.
He looked at his father's reflection in the window.
A spider.
It crouched behind his father's eyes. Not the kind from cartoons. This one was sleek, black, and silent. Not monstrous—but calculating. Spinning words. Holding threads.
His mother sat still, her hands in her lap. Her eyes didn't meet anyone's.
Lian wanted to scream.
But instead, he said nothing.
That night, he drew again. Not animals this time. A web. A boy in the center, tied at the ankles and wrists. The strands led to a shadow with eight legs.
Then he tore the page out.
The next day, Jamie caught up with him after lunch.
"You okay?"
He shook his head.
"Want to hide in the shed after school?"
He nodded.
Inside the shed, it smelled like dust and apple juice. Jamie passed him a juice box and let him sit in silence.
After a long while, he whispered, "I think my dad is a spider."
Jamie blinked. "That's new."
"Not really. He always was. I just didn't want to see it."
She nodded. "He spin lies?"
Lian nodded. "He traps people. Quietly. He never yells, but everything he says sticks. Like I owe him. Like I'm wrong before I even talk."
Jamie leaned back. "Sounds like a spider."
He looked down. "I think... I've been turning into one too. A little. Lying. Twisting words."
Jamie didn't say anything for a moment.
Then she asked, "Why do you lie?"
Lian stared at his shoes.
"To keep things from breaking."
Jamie said, "Maybe you're not a spider. Maybe you're just scared. That's different."
He looked up. "Then what am I?"
She smiled. "Still shifting."
He didn't know what to say. But her hand found his, and for once, he didn't pull away.
That night, Lian sat at his desk again. He opened a new page.
This time, he drew a fox—not Jamie's. His own. It was curled tightly, but its eyes were open. Watching.
Behind it, a web.
But the fox wasn't trapped.
It held a match.
And it was ready to burn.