For two whole weeks, Xia Xiao Lan’s doubts remained unexplained.
After every class, teachers were swarmed by students seeking clarification. She dared not publicly ask about such trivial personal matters.
The first two weeks of school merely introduced architecture basics, with hardly any professional knowledge taught. She still hadn’t received Zhou Cheng’s reply—where could a letter traveling just dozens of miles have gone?
Before Xia Xiao Lan could sort out her school situation, military training began.
Yang Yong Hong, their dorm senior, was ecstatic.
“After military training comes National Day. I heard the school’s organizing a parade formation for the 35th anniversary celebration. Will we freshmen make it? We haven’t even practiced!”
Xia Xiao Lan found it strange that Yang Yong Hong wanted to join this parade formation—what was the point of one or two thousand people arranging themselves into patterns?
Yang Yong Hong looked incredulous, “The parade formation passes through Tiananmen Square—doesn’t that mean anything to you? We’re celebrating our country, commemorating our great leader! People from my village and county can see me on TV, they’ll be proud that I marched in front of Tiananmen!”
“Didn’t you make your county proud when you ranked first in the college entrance exam?” Xia Xiao Lan had her moment of fame then, with provincial TV and newspaper interviews.
Yang Yong Hong countered: “Does your county have a TV station? That’s wonderful! Our county only has a radio station, and our whole village shares one TV!”
Xia Xiao Lan fell silent.
She’d never paid attention to whether An Qing County had a TV station.
Since provincial TV had interviewed her, perhaps An Qing County didn’t have its station.
When Zhou Cheng offered foreign exchange certificates, Li Feng Mei chose a TV over a washing machine, though Xia Xiao Lan still thought the washing machine more practical. She didn’t anticipate much from 1980s TV programs and couldn’t fully grasp Yang Yong Hong’s excitement, but she understood how genuine people’s love for the country and respect for their great leader was in the 1980s!
From Chen Wang Da’s tears at Tiananmen Square to Yang Yong Hong’s eagerness to join the National Day parade formation, Xia Xiao Lan might not have felt the same resonance, but she deeply respected such sincere patriotism:
“Why not ask our homeroom teacher?”
Yang Yong Hong shook her head, “Never mind, freshmen definitely won’t be included.”
It was just an excuse—she was too shy to ask.
When the school announced the military training departure time, everyone began packing. They’d already bought uniforms upon entering school—one set had to last two weeks—so they only needed to pack underwear changes.
Girls were particular about hygiene—laundry soap and bath soap.
For hair washing, even Xia Xiao Lan could only use Seagull hair cream with Bee Flower conditioner. This was top-tier in 1984; alternatives included shampoo, bulk-sold shampoo water, or lower-grade options like alkaline powder and baby soap. Even in Yang Yong Hong’s hometown, few still used ancient methods like soapberry water or wood ash water.
Teachers couldn’t be cold-shouldering her just because of minor rumors. Xia Xiao Lan didn’t want to isolate herself—she wasn’t alone at Hua Qing.
She decided to actively lower her living standards, hoping to bridge the gap with other students.
According to Su Jing’s gossip, during the department’s democratic life meeting, someone had raised concerns about freshmen’s lifestyle habits. Though “Xia Xiao Lan” wasn’t named specifically, they mentioned students showering twice daily as being pampered and wasteful… Xia Xiao Lan wanted to curse—who had nothing better to do than monitor her bathhouse visits?
Her dormmates and classmates all seemed focused on studying, not the type to care about such things!
Unwilling to give up running, she moved it to evenings to eliminate one shower.
After realizing she was being watched, Xia Xiao Lan postponed her watch-buying plans.
In the first week, given Hua Qing’s size, Xia Xiao Lan considered buying a bicycle. Several dormmates wanted bikes too—Su Jing and Lu Yan had brought theirs from home, while others planned to buy used ones.
“They’re cheap and less likely to be stolen! A second-year senior sister told me,” Zhou Li Min said.
Xia Xiao Lan found this incredibly logical! If everyone bought used bikes, why should she buy new ones and stand out again?
After careful selection, she spent 50 yuan on a used bicycle.
While new Phoenix or Forever brand bicycles cost two to three hundred yuan, a 50-yuan used bike was well-worn. She took it for inspection, replacing tires and adding a basket—only the frame remained original. The repairman seemed apologetic: “These parts I’ve collected could build a new bike. I’ll charge just 70 yuan. Don’t worry, I’m being fair—I’ll even paint it, make it good as new!”
Bicycle repair was profitable then—tire patches cost five mao. The repairman replaced both tires; 70 yuan total wasn’t expensive, as bicycles and parts were precious commodities.
When he offered to paint her assembled bike, Xia Xiao Lan test-rode it and was thoroughly satisfied:
“Master, thank you, but no need for paint—this is perfect!”
“I won’t charge for paint…”
“It’s good enough!”
Xia Xiao Lan paid and rode away.
Why buy used if she wanted it repainted? Might as well buy new then.
Her decision to buy used earned unanimous dormitory approval. Yang Yong Hong shook the bike—parts stayed firm—praising it as a great bargain for 50 yuan.
Xia Xiao Lan began to understand.
Living standards didn’t need actual lowering—just general alignment with others sufficed.
A used bicycle.
Empty bottles without labels for her toiletries.
Including the skin toner, Zhou Cheng gave for New Year’s.
In Beijing, Xia Xiao Lan learned true dryness—her face hurt without moisturizer after washing. Even the frugal Yang Yong Hong bought clam oil for the face and hands.
When Xia Xiao Lan boarded the military training bus with her luggage, Zhou Cheng’s reply still hadn’t arrived.
Everyone was excited on the bus, regardless of gender. The boys were especially happy—they were going to an artillery training regiment. Surely they’d touch cannons, maybe even fire into the sky?
Xia Xiao Lan, having done military training in her previous life, listened quietly.
Such naive thoughts—military training meant endless standing at attention, goose-stepping, formation walking… Shooting? Playing with cannons? Impossible! Of course, that was in the 1990s—this was 1984, maybe they really would handle real guns.
“Xiao Lan, what do you think our instructors will be like? As handsome as Tiananmen’s flag-raising soldiers?”
Su Jing leaned in.
Xia Xiao Lan couldn’t answer. The buses were arranged by class, and Class 2 of ’84 finally gathered all five of its “golden flowers,” including the popular freshman Ning Xue. Ning Xue and Su Jing were from the same school and both entered Hua Qing—of course, they knew each other, just a question of how well. Hearing Su Jing and Xia Xiao Lan gossip, Ning Xue casually explained: “Only junior officers get assigned to military training—they’re young enough.”