Lavender
The main gate of Linxia No. 1 Middle School has three bays, with the central gate being a full six meters wide. Its copper plating is gilded, and when sunlight shines through, it creates a dazzling golden wave. The six seal characters "Linxia No. 1 Middle School" above the gate are the work of an elderly calligrapher from the Provincial Calligraphy Association; each stroke is inlaid with gold threads as thin as a hair. When the wind blows, tiny glints of light dance within the lines, like countless golden ants crawling. Yu Chen stood beneath the gate, his shadow compressed into a thin sheet, like a gray goose that had mistakenly wandered into a swan specimen exhibition—its wings not fully clipped, its tail feathers dyed a gaudy red.
She was wearing the training uniform issued by the sports school last year; the polyester mesh was faded from washing, and the four printed characters "Linxia Sports School" on the chest were cracked and peeling, the edges curling up like scabs about to be ripped off. Bright red hair spiked out from the holes in her baseball cap, small tufts floating and sinking in the sea of crisp, uniform school uniforms, like tongues of flame that refused to go out. Every student who passed by subconsciously held their breath, then secretly let out a tiny, suppressed laugh, the sound clinging to the heat, buzzing into her ears.
—"I heard she kicked a male student in the 80kg weight class at the sports school, causing him to suffer a concussion."
"My family spent two million in sponsorship fees, which was specially approved by the school board."
"—Violent maniac, stay away from her, or you might get thrown over her shoulder."
Yu Chen pinched her palm with her fingernails until the pain was enough to wake her up, before stepping over the gilded threshold. The rubber sole of her shoe scraped against the copper surface with a soft "squeak," like tearing open a sealed strip, severing her completely from the past three years with a "whoosh."
Six genuine leather sofas, dark green with gilded brass studs, stood in a row outside the registrar's office. Sitting on one, your bottom sinks in two inches before being gently supported by the soft, springy fabric, as if someone had lightly embraced you from behind. Yu Jing's assistant was already waiting, his three-piece suit perfectly wrinkle-free. As he handed over the file, his fingers hovered in the air, as if afraid of absorbing the sweaty smell of the sports school. The stamp was applied twice with a deep, crisp sound, like counting down in a boxing ring—eight, nine, ten, KO, the old game over.
The homeroom teacher's surname was Gao, given name Xuelan, and she was forty-six years old. Her gold-rimmed glasses were so thin they were almost transparent, and the temples curved in a cold arc behind her ears. She took the file, her fingertips barely holding the corner, as if it were a stack of infection reports. Her gaze shot out from above the lenses, first landing on the ends of Yu Chenyan's bright red hair, then sliding to her faded tracksuit, and finally settling on the bruise on her right hand knuckle—that bluish-black patch gleamed purple under the cold white lights of the registrar's office, like a cheap medal.
“Yu Chen.” Gao Xuelan pushed up her glasses, the metal frame clicking softly behind her ear. “No. 1 High School is a century-old prestigious school with a strong school spirit and academic atmosphere.” She paused, emphasizing the words “special channel” very lightly, yet very heavily. “I hope you will be self-disciplined, abide by the rules, and live up to my expectations.”
Yu Chen was assigned to the last row of Class 5, Grade 12, by the window, in a single seat. The desk was made of solid wood veneer with elegant grain, covered with a layer of matte varnish. When you scratched it with your fingernail, it made a soft "squeak" sound, like stepping on a dry branch on a snowy night. The seat next to her was empty, with a printed note pasted on the back of the chair: "Leave of absence requested, competition training, return date undetermined." The corner of the note curled up and was blown by the wind, hitting the edge of the desk with a "pat-pat" sound, like silent applause.
The first class was at 8:20 a.m., math. The teacher, Zheng Baoguo, was a 59-year-old man. The top of his head was completely barren, with no hair growing on it, but the hair on the edges grew stubbornly and was combed into a "cross-sea bridge" that stretched from east to west. As he turned around, the bridge undulated and trembled, as if it might collapse at any moment.
The blackboard was a three-panel sliding board, dark green, crisscrossed with scratches. When chalk touched it, it made a long, screeching sound, like scraping a steamed egg with a fingernail. Yu Chen opened her textbook; the reflective laminated cover made her squint. The title page read "Required Course Four," and the table of contents was crawling with sin, cos, and π, like a swarm of crushed ants, their corpses arranged with remarkable order. Yet, she didn't recognize a single one—three years ago, the sports school had suspended academic classes, and the last math she remembered was quadratic equations.
Zheng Baoguo wrote on the blackboard, glancing back every three lines with a searchlight-like gaze. His eyes paused for half a second as they swept over Yu Chen, letting out a barely audible "humph," as if he'd spotted a rat dropping. He turned back, wrote again, and hummed again. After repeating this five times, he suddenly flicked his finger—the chalk tip drew a white arc, striking Yu Chen's desk with a "smack," scattering fine powder that landed on the ends of her bright red hair like a miniature avalanche.
“Newcomer.” Zheng Baoguo’s voice was not loud, but it precisely controlled the breathing of the whole class. “Come up and write the induction formula.”
Yu Chen stood up, the chair scraping loudly as it dragged across the floor. She walked slowly, each step accompanied by the sound of her own heart pounding—thump, thump, thump—like a sandbag being struck. The blackboard was right in front of her, the chalk lying in the groove, blindingly white. She reached out, and the instant her fingertips touched the chalk, the bruise on her knuckles gleamed purple under the cold light.
A few scattered snickers sounded behind me, like shards of glass falling to the ground:
"An illiterate student in a sports school."
"Does she understand sine graphs?"
"I bet she'll step down after writing a solution."
Yu Chen gripped the chalk tightly, her knuckles turning white. She remembered what Xiao Wei had told her in her first boxing lesson: "When your opponent throws a punch, you either dodge or meet it head-on." She raised her hand, the tip of the chalk touching the blackboard, "snap"—it broke, white dust spurting from the broken end like tiny fireworks. She looked down and saw the two pieces of chalk roll to her feet. Suddenly, she smiled, bent down to pick them up, turned around, aimed at the podium, and gently tossed them—
"Smack."
The chalk landed on Zheng Baoguo's lesson plan, bounced up, fell again, and rolled to the side of the four large characters "trigonometric functions," as quiet as if surrendering.
“No,” she said.
The entire class gasped, their voices ringing out in perfect unison, as if they'd rehearsed. Zheng Baoguo's beard trembled, and the age spot at the corner of his mouth quivered, like a dried raisin about to fall off. Just as he was about to speak, the front door was pushed open—
The light rushed in first, followed by the person. 195 centimeters tall, his broad shoulders filled the doorway completely. His school uniform jacket was casually draped over his left shoulder, the cuff swaying in a cold, white arc with his movements. In his hand was a stack of exam papers, the top one's corner lifted by the wind, the bright red 148 points like a drawn dagger, dazzling to the eye.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Zheng." Her voice was clear and crisp, like the pop of a pull tab on an ice-cold soda, the bubbles rising to suppress all her anger. "The student council is compiling the monthly exam data, so it will take two minutes."
Yu Chen squinted. As the boy passed by her, the air seemed to split open, carrying a faint scent of cedar, cold and bitter, like turpentine applied after a sports training session. His profile was sharp, his nose and jaw forming a steep ridge, but his eyelashes were excessively long, casting two small fans on his eyelids. His amber eyes swept over her like a high-speed train passing through a tunnel, the wind pressure making her eardrums bulge.
—Translated by An. [She silently recited it in her mind, her tongue pressed against the roof of her mouth, the airflow brushing against the back of her teeth as she pronounced "An," like a dismissive "humph."]
Zheng Baoguo's expression shifted from gloomy to sunny, his wrinkles instantly smoothing out: "Perfect, hand out the test papers and let some students see—" He paused deliberately, his gaze drifting towards Yu Chen, "what the level of No. 1 Middle School is like."
An Yi nodded, his fingers rustling through the exam papers, the pages making a crisp "snap" sound. He stopped in front of Yu Chen, picked up the bottom sheet with two fingers, and gave it a gentle shake—
5 points.
The beginning of the document was circled in red, round like a bullseye. The name "Yu Chen" was handwritten in the name column, but it was covered by a red cross, like two corpses nailed together.
"Yours." His voice was very low, barely loud enough for her to hear, but a tiny curve appeared at the corner of his mouth—not a smile, but the cold glint of light in the eye just before the blade pierced her skin.
Yu Chen reached out, her fingertips just touching the edge of the paper when An Yi suddenly released her. The test paper fluttered down, face up, the 5 points pointing directly at her brow, like a gun aimed at her. The whole class burst into laughter, the sound exploding, chalk dust rising to the surface, swirling in the beam of light like a slow, ash-snowy flurry.
She bent over, hearing a soft "crack" from her spine. The instant her fingers touched the exam paper, An Yi's voice fell from above, soft as a sigh, yet heavy as a hammer blow—
"The sports school is a waste of resources."
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