The end-of-semester examinations arrived quickly.
Every subject proceeded without incident. Except physical education.
The top scholar who had made such a point of telling Zhu Yun to go and partner with Jiang Xingchi for the final practical exam began, as the date approached, to display a growing and quite unmistakable gap between his words and his actual feelings.
He would never admit it aloud, of course. But Zhu Yun knew him too well by now. Over the course of their relationship, her ability to read him had undergone successive upgrades — from nearsighted to microscopic to something approaching surgical precision. A few careful incisions through the top scholar’s composed and businesslike exterior revealed, underneath, an abundance of petty feeling.
Zhu Yun’s strategy was to play oblivious.
Once the initial shared-struggle camaraderie had faded, she had found she still couldn’t let go of her grades. On the day of the exam, under the full weight of a certain someone’s this is your last chance stare, she turned away with serene composure and went to volley with Jiang Xingchi.
It had to be said: Jiang Xingchi was genuinely exceptional at volleyball. Having spent a semester watching Li Xun play alongside him, Zhu Yun now had a much sharper sense of just how good Jiang Xingchi actually was.
Because so many people wanted Jiang Xingchi as their partner, there had been no time for individual practice. When Zhu Yun’s turn came, he simply said “don’t be nervous” and began.
She was slow to find her rhythm. The very first ball sailed wide — she had already resigned herself to failing — but Jiang Xingchi moved and retrieved it cleanly, returning it to exactly the right position with exactly the right force, dropping it straight overhead with nothing wasted. Every subsequent ball was the same. No matter where Zhu Yun sent it, his return came back at the same pace, the same landing point, so perfectly calibrated it felt almost unfair.
Perhaps he already knew about her and Li Xun. For every other classmate, he had kept the count right at the excellence threshold and stopped. But with Zhu Yun, he continued past ninety without any sign of slowing — and only on the hundredth did he finally move: a clean, elegant lift that sent the ball straight up, caught in one hand with unhurried ease.
The day was cold. By the end of the hundred volleys, Zhu Yun had worked up a light sweat. She went to find Li Xun, who was leaning against the high fence at the edge of the volleyball court with his arms folded, greeting her with an expression of pointed coolness.
“What happened to the person who swore we’d face everything together?”
Zhu Yun leaned against the fence beside him and obligingly looked around. “Yes, whatever happened to that person?”
Li Xun watched her with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Under that gaze, Zhu Yun’s resolve crumbled fairly quickly. She nudged his ribs with her elbow — one part wheedling, two parts shameless.
Then it was his turn. He ambled up and, right on schedule, managed eight volleys. Coach Tang offered to let him have another go to improve his score. Li Xun said, with easy indifference, “No need — eight is a lucky number,” and walked away.
There was, one had to admit, something almost impressively unbothered about it.
He was nothing like her in this regard. Grades genuinely meant nothing to him.
Which was fair, she supposed. Grades were probably less useful than the other things he occupied himself with.
That evening, the top scholar — bearing no grudges whatsoever — treated everyone to dinner. He reserved a large private room at the billiards club and brought along Gao Jianhong and Ren Di’s band.
Ren Di’s band was composed entirely of people who had no serious relationship with school attendance — a wild, uncontainable assortment who approached a night out as if survival were not required. Zhu Yun and Ren Di sat together at a remove from the men. Ren Di told her what she was planning.
“I probably won’t be back next semester.” She said it while smoking, still in her signature heavy makeup. More than a year had passed since they’d met, and what had once been bold and unpolished had settled into something colder and more refined.
Zhu Yun stared at her. “Already?”
“I’ve barely attended any classes. My grades aren’t close to what I’d need to graduate.”
That was also true…
“Do your parents agree?”
“Whether they agree or not doesn’t really change anything. We made a deal — I’d get into this school, and after that they’d leave me alone.” Ren Di shrugged. “A person should keep their word.”
Zhu Yun wasn’t sure what to say. Some part of her felt she ought to offer encouragement, but she quickly realized it wasn’t necessary. Ren Di was several steps ahead of her in every direction.
In the spirit of the evening, Zhu Yun helped herself to a few drinks and felt the warmth spread through her.
“What about you?” Ren Di asked. “What are you planning?”
Zhu Yun didn’t answer immediately. She turned and glanced briefly over her shoulder.
Ren Di followed her gaze to where Li Xun was talking with Gao Jianhong. “Not trading up?”
“Not trading up.”
There isn’t anything better.
The gathering stretched deep into the night. When the band members had one by one collapsed, Li Xun helped Zhu Yun into her coat, wrapped her scarf, and steered the somewhat unsteady her out of the room.
Outside, it was dark and bitterly cold. The wind hit her and she jolted alert. Li Xun, feeling it, pulled her coat tighter around her.
“Still cold?”
Zhu Yun shook her head vaguely.
Li Xun simply hoisted her onto his back. She settled her face against his shoulder and enjoyed being ferried along.
After a little while, Li Xun said, in the manner of someone looking for an argument: “Princess, you seem to have gotten a bit heavier.”
She kicked her legs in protest. He laughed. “Not complaining — skin and bones with nothing to show for it isn’t much to look at. A little something is better.”
Zhu Yun held on, warm and drifting. The world felt very small and very close, as if everything there was had been gathered into the space around him. She closed her eyes and let her imagination expand — turning the night into an endless galaxy, the two of them moving through it lightly, weightless.
“Li Xun.”
“Mm?”
“Do you have a dream?”
“No.”
“That can’t be right.”
“I’ve never thought about it that carefully.”
“Think about it now.”
“Then… to keep going like this, I suppose.”
“What does that mean?”