Long after, when Qi Qi recalled this book drift, a question suddenly occurred to her: during those tense and busy high school days, how did the school know for certain that everyone would go find and read books?
The moment the question arose, she found her answer.
Those who would participate, definitely would.
It wasn’t about finding books, but about trying every possible way to discover which book that person had contributed, then racing through the sea of books to accurately find it, attempting to understand the contributor’s thoughts, feelings, and loves through this entrance. Finally, after much contemplation, carefully crafted matching sentences to write solemnly beneath the previous line of text.
There would always be someone who was a regular guest at this small inn called Youth.
But only in the future, when the inn has completely ceased operations, do we have the courage to admit this fact.
This message in the book, from an unknown, strange version of me, was the closest I ever got to you.
Back then, Qi Qi tried to get information from Huan’er—they lived in the same compound and went to school together, surely her female friend would know.
Her friend quickly replied, “Song Cong’s book is ‘The Catcher in the Rye.’ You should just ask him directly next time, he’s not an outsider, he’d tell you.”
Huan’er thought Qi Qi was like everyone else, just interested in the “top student”—what review books he used, what he wrote in his notes, and what extracurricular books he read. Song Cong’s every move was the standard for good student behavior, and her friend was just too embarrassed to show that she also cared about rankings and eagerly wanted to catch up with the advanced students.
The periodical reading room was specially cleared for this activity. Qi Qi went on opening day but couldn’t find it after two rounds of searching. She guessed someone might have gotten to it first by chance, and planned to look again in a few days.
Even without self-study classes on Friday afternoons, some people still stayed properly in the classroom, like class monitor Liao Xinyan, the thin girl in the first row who had never left the class’s top five, and like the boy in front of Huan’er who ranked in the middle tier with her and had someone delivering his lunch and dinner. Song Cong was called away by Deputy Principal Fu along with other class academic representatives to help with the second-year knowledge competition, while Jing Xiyi got his wish to spend all day on the soccer field—he had been selected as captain and would lead the school team in the provincial high school football championship in two weeks. Once when Huan’er and Qi Qi went to watch a school-friendly match, one side was the school team’s starting lineup, the other substitutes, with three PE teachers joining the weaker side to balance the strength. The match was intense, with spectators crowding all around the field. Wearing the captain’s armband, Jing Xiyi showed none of his usual casual demeanor—running, shouting, raising his hand for the ball, he was the absolute core of the field. Watching his running figure, Huan’er suddenly understood something: people who embrace their dreams shine brightly.
Qi Qi said, don’t you think it’s a pity he came to Tianzhong?
While everyone was fighting desperately for that one spot, for Jing Xiyi it was a kind of last resort.
Just like when we were young, happily giving our favorite toy to someone we liked most only to receive a cold “thank you” in return. Only when we grow up do we understand that thank you was all the politeness they could muster.
Perhaps goodwill forced upon someone is also a burden.
These things Huan’er didn’t plan to tell anyone. Regretting the past was a meaningless drain on herself; she only hoped her friend could seize all present opportunities and charge forward without looking back.
Just like now.
“Goal!” Cheers erupted around them.
Jing Xiyi had scored on a breakaway, securing the win with a last-minute goal.
On the field, he was surrounded by teammates ruffling his hair, his expression somewhat twisted, but, surprisingly, his smile carried a touch of shyness.
Growing up nicely, Huan’er thought privately.
After the match, she gripped the unsent sports drink in her hand and left with Qi Qi—many girls had gone up to offer water, one bottle more or less wouldn’t matter. But the laughter behind them made her look back every few steps. Jing Xiyi was surrounded by people; she couldn’t see what he looked like now.
In the third week of Cultural Month, Teacher Xu’s daughter returned to give a speech. Class Five emptied this time—everyone wanted to see this fairy-like senior student who had an even closer connection. The auditorium was packed; Huan’er and Qi Qi squeezed into the aisle, while third-year students in nearby seats either silently recited with closed eyes or wrote furiously in their exercise books. Young Miss Xu walked onto the stage with light steps amid applause; her topic was “Flying Against the Wind.”
Perhaps only birds who have successfully crossed through the clouds and reached the other shore would thank the wind and rain along the way. For small birds like Chen Huan’er who were looking at the dark clouds ahead while flapping their fragile wings, what she most hoped for was a cannon to blast those clouds to pieces—if only they could cancel the college entrance exam.
“Let me talk about my situation first.” After introducing herself, Young Miss Xu spoke smoothly, “I barely made it into Tianzhong on the public funding line, ranking around 400th when I entered. By the end of the first year, I was at 320th, after class assignments in the second year I stabilized in the top ten, and in the third year, I never left the top five. As Deputy Principal Fu just mentioned, I’m now studying Journalism at Tsinghua University. I’m telling you all this because I want you to know that I was always chasing, always catching up. It was exhausting, incredibly exhausting, but, it was worth it.”
Then she began sharing study methods, from systematic approaches to individual subjects, while people below took notes non-stop.
Huan’er didn’t remember much of this part either, but one thing she said made Huan’er’s blood surge—Young Miss Xu said never look down on yourself, no matter what others say or do, never.
During a bathroom break, Huan’er met Teacher Xu in the auditorium’s outer hall. She greeted him, then asked, “Why aren’t you going in?”
Teacher Xu stood with his hands behind his back, “Haven’t I seen enough of her already? I can hear from here too.”
As Huan’er was about to leave, he called her back. It seemed like he had been quiet for too long and was eager to chat. He asked how much she had absorbed and if she had gained anything. Huan’er answered honestly, “I want to choose the science track, but senior was mainly sharing experiences about liberal arts.”
She had always preferred science, and Tianzhong traditionally emphasized science over liberal arts, with only five or six liberal arts classes by the second year. This choice needed no deep thought.
“Experience belongs to others,” Teacher Xu looked at her, “Take the essence, but you still have to find your way slowly.”
Huan’er pointed inside, “Did you tutor her at home?”
“Rarely.” Teacher Xu lifted his chin, “At the time, this girl was about equal in science and liberal arts, we wanted her to study science. But she insisted, and later… well, she’s stubborn, and didn’t tell us much about her difficulties. The year she took the college entrance exam, I was still teaching graduating classes, and could barely keep up with my own students.”
“No wonder.” Huan’er nodded.
“What?”
Huan’er smiled, “Senior said never look down on yourself, that moved me.”
“Hah,” Teacher Xu laughed self-mockingly, “The person who looked down on her most was her father.”
“Hm?”
“This girl came back to teach me a lesson.” Teacher Xu said no more, and patted Huan’er’s shoulder, “The chemistry teacher has praised you several times. Work hard, once you set your goal, give it your all. Don’t leave any regrets.”
Prolonged applause came from the auditorium; the sharing session must have concluded.
Beyond admiration, Chen Huan’er now felt great respect for the confident Young Miss Xu inside. How lonely must her flight have been, on that journey through storms and gales, when no one believed she could fly across?
Chen Huan’er had a fulfilling month. Besides finishing several drifting books, she and Qi Qi also used Song Cong’s connection to watch two second-year knowledge competition rounds. While other class representatives only helped with preliminaries, Song Cong was pressed by Deputy Principal Fu to follow through to the end—as an impartial scorekeeper requiring no special skills, students from other grades were brought in for fairness. He said he owed Deputy Principal Fu a favor when he first enrolled, but no matter how much Huan’er and Qi Qi pressed about what it was, the boy maintained an attitude of absolute secrecy as if facing execution. The competition questions were wide-ranging: why do babies “cry without tears,” Do figs actually flower, where did the name Google Browser come from, fortunately mostly multiple choice—otherwise this general knowledge competition would have turned into an embarrassment contest.
There was such a question in the semifinals: Is the cerebellum in the front, middle, or back of the brain? Chen Huan’er blurted out “back” from the audience seats, almost simultaneously with a gentle-looking boy wearing glasses on stage who grabbed the chance to answer, also giving “back” as the answer. It was correct, and Qi Qi poked her hard on the back of her head, “You’re quite knowledgeable about this.”
“The sea of knowledge is boundless.” Huan’er clicked her tongue twice. She was just applying what she’d just learned—this was a point from a chapter in that “Neuropsychology” book, still fresh in her mind.
The boy with glasses was both steady and accurate, almost single-handedly carrying his class into the finals. Qi Qi pointed at the girl standing beside him on stage and gossiped, “They say those two are a couple.”
“How do you even know that?”
“Hot campus couples ranking on the forum, there are photos and everything.” Qi Qi raised her eyebrows, “Jealous? Dating on public funding.”
“But… don’t the teachers mind?”
“Don’t know, maybe since their grades are both good, they turn a blind eye.”
Grades are a strange thing—for a while they’re all-powerful, then after that period, they become useless. They have eternal life; they’re proud, fair, and sometimes play not-so-funny jokes. They’re worshipped like deities by certain groups, unbothered by the departure of believers because they’re certain there will always be more people kneeling at their feet.