The beginning of term at Mei High was always lively.
The banner above the main entrance had been swapped — the College Entrance Examination top scorers who had been publicized all summer were replaced by a welcome sign for new students.
But the Hall of Honor was packed with parents of incoming freshmen, a sea of heads jostling and pressing forward. The eyes of these middle-aged men and women glimmered with a rare, eager light as they pointed at name after name behind the glass frame: Tsinghua, Peking University, Fudan… Parents murmured in admiration, as though those names were the beautiful futures their own children could reach in three years’ time.
Jiang Du’s grandfather was among them, peering forward. He was a sturdy man, neatly dressed, carrying himself with the dignity befitting a retired factory worker. People pushed and jostled around him, yet he continued to crane his neck forward, straining to make out the names of the distinguished students on the board.
“Old man, stop crowding in here. Finding which class the child is in — now that’s what matters.” Her grandmother tugged at her husband.
First-year students had no honors track — just regular classes, ranked sequentially by entrance exam scores, looping back from the first class again when the list ran out.
“Sweetie, have you found which class you’re in?” Her grandmother located Jiang Du in the crowd. The two girls were pressed close together, searching for their own names.
Wang Jingjing suddenly shrieked, then shook Jiang Du’s arm with violent enthusiasm: “Class Two! God definitely heard my prayers — we’re both in Class Two! This is unbelievably amazing!”
Jiang Du was slight and frail; she nearly toppled over from the shaking.
Her grandmother broke into a delighted smile: “Jingjing is in the same class as us?”
Then came the search for their dormitory. Wang Jingjing bolted ahead, shouting something about absolutely needing to claim a good spot.
The first-year girls’ dormitory building was on the path to the cafeteria. The balconies already fluttered with older students’ clothes in every color. While Wang Jingjing charged toward the dorms, her mother and Jiang Du’s grandparents strolled along at an unhurried pace behind her.
The bed nearest the door was the worst — constant coming and going, noise, and cold drafts in winter. Wang Jingjing seized an upper-lower bunk near the balcony, tossed her bag up onto the top bunk, then plopped herself onto the bottom, and beamed at the other families arriving behind her: “Auntie, this bunk’s taken.”
Wang Jingjing was very crafty. She had heard that the boys’ dormitory — directly across — would whistle at the girls’ dorm after lights out. Some would show off by playing guitar; others would bellow love poems at the top of their lungs… All in all, the gossip about Mei High set her imagination running wild, and Wang Jingjing was extremely eager to begin enjoying her brand-new high school life as soon as possible.
Jiang Du was assigned a lower bunk.
The first day was a jumble of chaos and excitement. Every young, bright face was filled with longing for the future. The dormitory housed eight girls. Under the gentle prodding of their parents, most introduced themselves with restrained brevity — first and last name only.
“This girl’s skin is so fair — she’s so pretty.” Someone complimented Jiang Du. The dormitory still carried a faint earthy dampness left over from the rain — nothing like the overwhelming downpour anymore, but lingering in the nose, making everything feel vaguely damp.
When someone complimented her, Jiang Du simply pressed her lips into a quiet smile.
This season, the mosquitoes were vicious. Mothers helped their daughters hang mosquito nets and lay out bedding, cheerfully reminding them: “Get along well with your classmates — don’t stir up any trouble! You’re in high school now. You’re all grown up.”
Her grandmother held Jiang Du’s hands, stroking them slowly, murmuring gentle reminders about all manner of small things. Jiang Du kept nodding softly in response.
“About the military training — make sure to tell the teacher. Don’t push yourself too hard. Do you understand?” Her grandmother patted her hands, still looking slightly worried.
Jiang Du said: “I understand. I won’t forget.”
“Good, good.” Her grandmother murmured the words twice.
At noon, both families had originally planned to eat at the small restaurant near the school gate, but it was far too crowded. Wang Jingjing’s mother drove everyone a little further away for lunch, then brought the two girls back. After that, there was nothing more for the parents to do.
The moment the adults left, Wang Jingjing erupted in gleeful celebration. She dragged Jiang Du all over the school grounds until they’d explored every corner and memorized the layout completely.
By the time of evening study hall, unfamiliar figures trickled into the classroom one by one.
Some were lucky enough to still share a class with old middle school classmates and could barely contain their excitement. Others had come in from small towns in the county, didn’t know a soul, and were tentatively trying to start conversations. Wang Jingjing swept her gaze around the room, confirmed that aside from Jiang Du, she recognized no one, and sat down with mild disappointment — though she immediately resumed scanning the room in the hopes of spotting a good-looking boy.
Jiang Du listened as the girls were already chatting about dramas they’d watched over the summer, the classroom filled with laughter and noise. The homeroom teacher was nowhere to be seen. Everyone was letting it all out freely, and there was plenty to say.
The seating was open. Wang Jingjing preferred to be around boys, so she had come and sat toward the back, where it was almost entirely male. When Jiang Du approached, eyes lowered, the boys let out a rather obvious collective murmur.
She didn’t say anything — just flipped open her book. The boy behind her gave her back a light tap. Jiang Du turned halfway around, and the boy got a clear look at her face.
“Hey, what’s your name? I’m Lin Haiyang.” He introduced himself with easy confidence.
Wang Jingjing had already spun around in her seat, snickering with undisguised curiosity on her face.
Jiang Du’s face turned faintly pink: “I’m Jiang Du.”
“That’s a really interesting name,” Lin Haiyang launched into conversation. “Is that the Du with the water radical? What a coincidence — all the characters in my name have the water radical too.”
Wang Jingjing, listening nearby, rolled her eyes: “Lin, you’ve got quite the nerve — using a water radical as a pickup line. Are you short on water or something?”
Lin Haiyang took the question seriously: “What, are you short on water too?”
“I’m not short on water. My mom says I’m short on common sense.” Wang Jingjing shamelessly mocked herself, and sure enough, the boys behind her erupted in laughter. Just like that, she was deep in lively conversation with all of them.
In the end, Wang Jingjing turned her whole body around to face the back row. She got along with everyone the moment she met them.
Jiang Du was the kind of girl who had always been shy. She didn’t like to talk much, and would never be able to do what Wang Jingjing did — blend in with her classmates so effortlessly and naturally. She preferred to observe everyone quietly from the side, though she was equally reluctant to have anyone pay too much attention to her.
The classroom was still noisy. Jiang Du’s heart was quietly still.
She watched Wang Jingjing lose herself in conversation with the boys and didn’t interrupt her. In her desk drawer sat a plastic shopping bag from a clothing store — for some reason, middle schoolers had all stopped carrying backpacks and had started carrying around just a plastic bag with a few scattered school supplies inside. In a little while, some would stop needing even that.
Jiang Du reached in and took out a small pack of tissues. She pulled one out and slipped it into the pocket of her denim skirt.
The hallway outside was empty.
The classroom blazed with white-bright light, packed with chattering first-year students. Every classroom was the same — lively and unruly.
Jiang Du didn’t share Wang Jingjing’s habit of boldly peering into every classroom she passed. It was at the corner, just as she was about to head downstairs, that she nearly collided full-on with a figure.
It wasn’t her fault — she wasn’t walking quickly. The boy had been taking the stairs two at a time, climbing fast, and they met right at the landing.
Jiang Du stepped back two paces.
Almost simultaneously, they both said: “Sorry.” She instinctively looked up, and her pupils gave the faintest tremor.
The boy hadn’t looked at her at all. He apologized quickly and brushed past.
It was him. No blood on his face now, his whole appearance clean and composed.