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Now that the first snow had finally come, Fang Zhixiao was determined to eat fried chicken and beer. But it was already past ten o’clock when school let out, and every fried chicken place near campus had long since closed. There was only one option: a McDonald’s open twenty-four hours, though it was quite a bit farther away, and with the wind and uncleared snow making the roads wet and slippery, getting there wasn’t easy.
“Do you want to go?” Fang Zhixiao said, holding her small electric scooter, looking at Li Kuiyi with longing eyes.
Li Kuiyi didn’t say a word. She lifted the hem of her down jacket, sat herself down on the back seat, tucked her hands into her sleeves, and said: “Ride slowly.”
She didn’t have any particular attachment to the idea of fried chicken and beer itself — but going out after dark with her best friend in the snow to find food seemed like a rather fun thing to do, so she was willing to go along. Besides, she knew Fang Zhixiao really wanted to go.
Fang Zhixiao broke into a grin, swung onto the seat herself, and called back: “Hold on tight!”
Li Kuiyi wrapped both arms around her waist.
The road was quiet and deserted. Snowflakes drifted down in ones and twos, weaving a loose net in the air, blurring the distant lights into something faint and wistful. Fang Zhixiao rode slowly and carefully, but the cold wind still swept past their ears, and each breath tasted thin and sharp. Their faces went numb, too frozen for much expression, which gave them a look of extraordinary resolve — at a quick glance you might think they were setting out to do something momentous.
Fang Zhixiao, seeming to encourage herself, raised her voice and called out boldly on the empty road: “Youth is for being reckless!”
Li Kuiyi buried her face against her back, laughing quietly. When she was done, she said in her most serious voice: “Fang Zhixiao, you’re so dramatic.”
Fang Zhixiao said proudly: “What we’re doing right now is a pretty dramatic thing.”
True enough, Li Kuiyi thought. By that measure, she was being dramatic too.
On the surface the two of them seemed very different — people had been surprised since middle school that they got along so well. One was effusive, one was measured, like summer and autumn that should never converge. But underneath, they were both the same: headlong, resolute, and action-first.
It took nearly thirty minutes of slow riding to reach the McDonald’s. Perhaps because the first snowfall and Christmas had coincided, the restaurant was lively — mostly couples, leaning close to each other, sweetly absorbed in one another. In a corner, a pair was kissing as though no one else existed. Fang Zhixiao took one look and turned away with an unceremonious eye-roll.
The two of them ordered an assortment of fried things, then, with great ceremony, ordered two glasses of beer bubble drinks. They collected their food, sat down in front of the large floor-to-ceiling windows, and watched the snow blow against the branches outside. They clinked their cups together lightly, completing a small ritual.
“Wait, wait — hold your hand right there, don’t move, I want to take a photo.” Fang Zhixiao was holding her cup in one hand and awkwardly digging into her bag with the other, finally extracting her phone. She adjusted the angle until she had the snow outside, the fried chicken on the table, and the drinks all inside the frame — click.
Then she laughed: “Okay, you can eat now. I’m posting this.” After hitting post, she remembered to add: “Give me a like when you get home.”
“Sure,” Li Kuiyi said.
“Are you going to post anything? I’ll send you the photo.” Fang Zhixiao offered.
Li Kuiyi shook her head: “I won’t post, but you can still send me the photo. I’ll save it.”
She had never been in the habit of posting statuses, though she considered herself someone who had plenty to express. As of now, she had exactly one post in her QQ space — from when middle school ended, with two photos attached: one of the view from her classroom window, and one of herself and Fang Zhixiao together.
Her QQ account had been registered by Su Jianlin back when she was in primary school, at an internet café. She’d stood beside him and watched him work the mouse, the air thick with cigarette smoke and instant noodle fumes, her head dizzy from it all — but she’d been too afraid to move, because in her understanding at the time, internet cafés were places where bad kids went.
Once the account was ready, she didn’t log in for a long time. She just memorized the number string. It wasn’t until middle school, when she had a desktop computer at home, that she started posting things. But she really wasn’t the type to dwell on fleeting emotions — something she’d posted the night before would make her cringe the next morning, and she’d delete it in a hurry. After enough of that, she stopped posting altogether.
“Sent it,” Fang Zhixiao said, putting the phone down and pulling on her disposable gloves to eat the fried chicken. The first bite was deeply satisfying. “Delicious, so good — compared to the school cafeteria, this is basically three Michelin stars!”
Then she mused: “I’m not sure why, but it was watching that drama that made me want to eat fried chicken in the snow — I thought it would feel very romantic. But now that we’re actually doing it, I realize the romance isn’t coming from the drama. It’s coming from the first snow and the fried chicken themselves.”
Li Kuiyi looked at the snow falling quietly outside and said: “Maybe the romance is coming from you.”
“Why?”
“The first snow, and fried chicken, and everything else in the world that gets labeled romantic — none of those things actually carry that meaning on their own. You find them romantic, probably because you’re a romantic person.”
Fang Zhixiao took a sip of her bubble beer, puffed her cheeks: “I’m happy to be called a romantic person, but I have to point out — you’ve just slipped into idealism. You know what idealism is, right?”
“Of course — it’s covered in the political philosophy textbook, Book Four. I flipped through it.”
“That worries me about your politics grades,” Fang Zhixiao said, voice muffled by food.
“Noted.” Li Kuiyi bit into a piece of fried chicken and immediately revised her position: “On second thought, fried chicken is romantic in and of itself — oil-fried food presumably stimulates dopamine release and produces feelings of pleasure. Matter determines consciousness. Firm stance, no wavering.”
Fang Zhixiao: “…”
After a moment she reflected: “I think of myself as a committed materialist, but sometimes idealism has a point. Like you said — the things the world calls romantic don’t carry that meaning inherently. And because they don’t, there will always be someone who doesn’t care for flowers, someone who isn’t moved by moonlight, but who might love rainy days, or insects, or forests. Which means, in the end, what everything is — is decided by what’s in each person’s own heart.”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to explore.” Li Kuiyi shook her head. “Take the simplest example: some people love rainy days, some people hate them. Does someone who hates rain hate it by nature? Or is it because something bad once happened to them in the rain — their shoes got soaked, their roof leaked, or maybe their ancestors were struck by lightning and the fear was written into the genes? If that’s the case, it still comes back to matter determining consciousness, doesn’t it?”
Fang Zhixiao wrinkled her brow: “Fine, that does make a kind of sense. But honestly, this philosophy stuff is too hard for someone like me to work out. I’m just going to sit here and eat my fried chicken and watch the snow, and does it really matter whether the world is material or conscious? Being happy is enough.”
Li Kuiyi smiled.
She’d actually been getting more and more confused herself as they talked. Fang Zhixiao’s embrace of happiness — it didn’t quite match the values she’d been raised to see as correct. She remembered a multiple-choice question from middle school politics: which of the following values is admirable? She’d chosen a line of verse from the poet Luo Yin — Today I have wine, today I’ll drink — and gotten it wrong. It was around that time she’d realized how to read the actual intent behind exam questions, and her test scores improved considerably after that. But she still didn’t understand: as a thinking individual, did a person have the right to pursue happiness outside the bounds of conventional moral frameworks?
She still didn’t understand.
Forget it. She’d never figured out what a person was truly supposed to be loyal to in one life. She’d just be loyal to herself.
The McDonald’s was warm from the air conditioning, and after a full day of classes, they were both exhausted. Eating and talking, they gradually grew drowsy, voices dropping lower and lower. They decided to head back. They asked the staff for paper bags, packed the leftover chicken, and headed out.
The snow had lightened — no longer large flakes, just fine powdery fragments. But hours of heavy snowfall had been enough to lay a cover over the whole city, and even in the dark of night it was a bright, gleaming silver-white in every direction. Coming out of the warmth of the restaurant, they both shivered, which at least woke them up a little.
Back at Li Kuiyi’s apartment, it was past eleven-thirty. Both of their cheeks and ears were deep red from the cold, and their hair was a little damp. To ward off any chance of catching cold, they turned on the bathroom’s warming lights and heat lamp, filled the room with warmth, and took long, luxurious hot showers.
By the time Li Kuiyi had finished blow-drying her hair, Fang Zhixiao was already in bed, scrolling through her phone. Something on the screen made her smile to herself — and then she turned her head and reminded Li Kuiyi again: “Don’t forget to like my post.”
“Right.”
Li Kuiyi finished drying her hair, put the dryer away, and climbed into bed with her phone.
She didn’t have a habit of posting status updates, and she rarely scrolled through others’ feeds either — unless, like tonight, Fang Zhixiao specifically asked her to go and like something. She’d scroll a little while she was there.
Tonight’s friend feed was unusually lively. Everyone was excited about the first snow, and some people were showing off Christmas gifts. Li Kuiyi scrolled down and quickly found Fang Zhixiao’s post, which she liked neatly. Scrolling further, she came across snow photos from Xia Leyi, Zhou Ce, and Pan Junmeng, and gave each of them a like as well.
When she reached He Youyuan’s status, she liked it reflexively too.
Then she realized her mistake and hastily undid it. She looked more closely at what he’d posted — and couldn’t help feeling a little startled. So this person really had become devoted to studying. The post stuck out conspicuously among all the first-snow content around it.
But why hadn’t anyone liked or commented on it? Someone like him should have no shortage of attention.
As if to test her theory, Li Kuiyi tapped into his profile and scrolled through his older posts. Sure enough — hundreds of likes, comment sections stretching on and on.
Must be a glitch in QQ Space, she thought.
“Seeking notes. Will pay handsomely.”
Li Kuiyi read the post again. Funny enough, she’d been planning to sell her notes — but He Youyuan surely wouldn’t want to buy hers specifically. He hadn’t even wanted them for free. Yet if he didn’t want her notes, he could borrow Qi Yu’s, or Xia Leyi’s. Zhou Ce’s scores were also considerably better than his. He had plenty of resources available. So why was he looking to buy?
That only left one explanation:
His family had not gone bankrupt.
Li Kuiyi held her phone in front of Fang Zhixiao’s face: “There you go. Your years of reading novels have led you astray.”
Fang Zhixiao squinted blearily at the screen, not quite following — and then snapped her eyes wide open: “He wants to buy your notes for a large sum of money?!”
“What about this tells you he wants to buy my notes?” Li Kuiyi was a little exasperated.
“Do you even have to ask? You said you were going to sell your notes, and he clearly found out, and so he posted this on purpose!”
Li Kuiyi somewhat regretted showing Fang Zhixiao her phone at all — but even without being shown, she would have seen the post herself, and the suspicion would have come regardless. Li Kuiyi sighed and patiently explained: “That’s not possible. Two reasons: first, I’ve only mentioned selling my notes to you and Zhou Fanghua — no one else knows. Second, he helped me out before, and I wanted to do something in return, so I asked whether he wanted my notes. He turned me down.”
Fang Zhixiao’s mouth hung open a little, her brain straining without arriving at any explanation for why He Youyuan would have turned down Li Kuiyi’s notes. Li Kuiyi’s reasoning was solid — continuing to argue was pointless. She said “fine,” and yanked herself back under the covers in frustration.
After a good while, she popped back out: “Why don’t I have He Youyuan’s status in my feed?”
How was that possible?
Li Kuiyi took Fang Zhixiao’s phone and quickly scrolled through her friend feed. He Youyuan had posted at 10:31 that evening. She scrolled all the way back to yesterday — and the post was nowhere to be found.
She went through again. Still nothing.
Which left Li Kuiyi more certain than ever: “QQ Space is glitching.”
Fang Zhixiao: “…”
After a long pause, she said, very quietly: “Is there any chance it’s set to visible to you only?”
Li Kuiyi felt a slow, uneasy question mark form in the back of her mind.
The uncomfortable thing was: what Fang Zhixiao said did actually make sense. But she couldn’t understand why. Why would He Youyuan refuse her notes for free and then want to pay for them?
The logic of this person’s mind was truly unfathomable — harder to work out than any philosophy problem.
Should she sell him the notes or not?
She was genuinely curious what “paying handsomely” actually translated to in numbers… But there was also a part of her that felt she should probably avoid getting more entangled with He Youyuan.
She was still turning it over when Fang Zhixiao dropped down onto her shoulder and said, wide-eyed: “Why haven’t you messaged him yet? Tell him you’ve got notes to sell!”
“It’s late — he’s probably asleep,” Li Kuiyi said, maintaining her composure and deciding to delay: “Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”
“But we’ve already passed midnight, so it technically is tomorrow.” Fang Zhixiao blinked at her with perfect innocence.
Li Kuiyi: “…”
“Message him,” Fang Zhixiao whispered in her ear, her tone exactly like a witch tempting Snow White with a poisoned apple.
Fine! Money falling from the sky — why refuse?
Li Kuiyi picked up her phone, tapped into her conversation with He Youyuan, and typed: “How much is ‘handsomely’?”
“Wait, wait—” Fang Zhixiao tried to stop her, but she typed too quickly, and the message was sent before she could intervene. “That’s so blunt!”
“Direct is good. He and I are purely business.”
A moment passed. He Youyuan actually replied: “The price is negotiable. I’d need to see the quality of your notes first before deciding whether to buy.”
“He’s asking you out,” Fang Zhixiao declared confidently.
Li Kuiyi was irritated. Her fingers flew across the screen: “You’re questioning the quality of my notes?”
He Youyuan: It’s normal, isn’t it? Even blind dates need to meet in person first.
“He wants a blind date with you,” Fang Zhixiao immediately translated.
Li Kuiyi shot her a glare, then exhaled slowly and turned back to the screen, silently talking herself down: the customer is king — don’t bicker with the king.
“Fine. When do you want to inspect the merchandise?”
He Youyuan: December 31st, after school. The day before New Year’s holiday.
Li Kuiyi: Deal.
“Ding — date successfully arranged!” Fang Zhixiao announced with great satisfaction, settling back under the covers.
“It is not a date!” Li Kuiyi cried, reaching over and tickling her relentlessly. “It is a business meeting!”
Fang Zhixiao rolled around the bed in helpless laughter but refused to take it back: “It’s a date, it’s definitely a date, it’s always going to be a date!”
Christmas passed, and New Year’s arrived close behind. Curiously, the New Year’s holiday for 2014 turned out to be only a single day, and students complained bitterly — hadn’t it always been three days? The homeroom teachers could only shrug helplessly, saying it was a national regulation and there was nothing to be done. Some teachers seized the opportunity to lecture: with the final exams almost here, how could anyone still be thinking about days off?
A little over a month later would be the Lunar New Year. First High’s schedule for the final exams had been announced: January 17th through 19th — but even after the exams, students couldn’t go on break yet. There would be additional lessons until the 25th before the real holiday began.
Students were even more disgruntled: “What is this — they won’t even let us celebrate the Minor New Year?” Some threatened, dramatically, to report the school to the education bureau.
Beyond that, First High also distributed a form to all first-year students: Liuyan City First High School 2013 Cohort Arts-Sciences Division Preference Form.
The homeroom teachers urged them earnestly: “Don’t fill this out carelessly — this could very well determine your future. Think it through carefully, then fill it in. Have a parent sign it and bring it back after the break.”
But the students paid that about as much attention as they might pay to background noise. Most received the form and immediately picked up their pens, filling it out in a few quick strokes, then looked around to see what the people beside them had written, and started cheerfully ribbing each other: “What — you’re picking sciences too? I guess we’re still competing then.”
“Who’d pick arts over sciences? Only a fool — you can’t get a job with an arts degree.”
Class 1 was no different.
Going by what had happened in previous years, when the split happened, Class 1 wouldn’t change much. The class would simply become the sciences advanced class. The only difference was that a small number of students would inevitably be cut from the advanced track.
Almost no one in this class was choosing arts. The few who might have considered it were generally talked back into sciences by the teachers.
That was simply how it was — First High’s sciences program was strong, and the arts program was weak. Every student who had made it into Tsinghua or Peking University in recent years had come without exception from the sciences track. The arts track had only broken through once — in 2009, when a graduating student placed in the top twenty in the province and was admitted to Peking University.
And beyond the Tsinghua and Peking University numbers, even the rate of top-tier and first-tier university admissions in general was no contest between the two tracks.
Li Kuiyi received her form, read through both the student section and the parent section thoroughly, then held her pen in place for a moment — and began to write, carefully and deliberately. Name. Gender. Class. Chosen track…
Zhou Fanghua saw her put pen to paper and was a little surprised, because she’d expected someone as considered as Li Kuiyi wouldn’t be in any rush. Then she thought about it: Li Kuiyi had clearly made up her mind long ago. When she filled out the form made no difference to what her decision would be.
She leaned over: “You’re filling it out now—”
The rest of the words stuck in her throat.
She looked down and saw that Li Kuiyi had chosen arts.