Chapter 20: Unexpected Encounter

“Abiao, Chen Qiao, little bro, time to get up.”

Chen Fei Fei pinched his cheeks, gently shaking his shoulders.
His face felt so soft—her favorite toy as a kid.
Once, she’d pinched too hard, upsetting him, so now she only did it when he slept, indulging herself.

“Mm… what time is it?” Chen Qiao mumbled, eyes half-open, staring at the ceiling and her chin, head heavy from napping, sleepier than before.

“Still early, just 1:30.”

The show was ending, playing Bleach’s ED, “To You, Becoming an Adult,” a rare non-hype track.
He hadn’t appreciated it as a kid, but now it grew on him.

“We gotta get to school.
I’ve got hygiene checks,” he said, trying to sit up.

His hand slipped between her legs.
Panicking, he pulled back, nearly tumbling off the sofa, but she caught him, laughing.
“What’s the rush?
Never seen you this eager as a courtesy team member.”

“Weren’t you the same, Sis?”

Blushing, he was glad she didn’t mind.

“I’m a Youth League member now,” she said.

He turned off the TV, and they headed downstairs.
Feeling the urge to pee—a habit before leaving or sleeping—he went to the corner under the stairs, where two urine buckets sat, the house’s makeshift toilet.

Undoing his school pants, ready to speed up and not keep her waiting, he froze as Chen Fei Fei entered, pulling her pants to her knees, sitting on the other bucket, clutching rough white paper.

The corner was dim, but daylight revealed enough.
From his angle, he saw her pale thigh flesh.
Standing, he was slightly taller than her seated.

His first instinct was to bolt to the pigpen’s squat toilet, but that’d raise suspicion.

Claim he suddenly needed to go number two?

He reasoned: I’m an old soul, what’s to be shy about?
His childlike exterior was harmless in every way.

Hearing her tinkle, he joined in, his tense body easing.
Mixed with her scent, the stench wasn’t so bad—his nose just got used to it.

She wiped, pulled up her pants, and reminded him, “Don’t forget to shake.
Don’t dirty your pants, but don’t shake too hard—splashing everywhere stinks.”

Seeing him frozen, she reached out.
“Need help?
I used to do it when you were little.”

She offered to wipe him, puzzled why boys didn’t use paper—saving it?
Shaking seemed easier; girls had it rough.

“No way!
Stop bringing up kid stuff!” he protested.

“Shy?” she giggled, her laugh like clear bells.

“You know it,” he grumbled, pulling up his pants.

They tossed the paper in the trash, washed hands at the sink, locked up—stray cats and La Tiao could sneak in—and left.

The road had mostly younger kids, some middle schoolers—delinquents-in-training.
His cousin Chen Huai and his crew stole copper wire from motor shops, true societal dregs.

Chen Qiao aimed to be a useful scoundrel, worlds apart.

The scrap dealer didn’t care about origins—cables were cables.

Chen Huai was a lost cause, a hopeless case like his fiancée’s dad, Zhang Dafu—a liability.
But some of his crew had potential, settling down after marriage, driving trucks or working factories, raising daughters.

Chen Qiao planned to mentor these redeemable types—he needed manpower.

The shop was packed.
At the school’s uphill entrance, he and his sister ran into Wu Xin Yu.

“Fei Fei Jie, Chen… Qiao, afternoon,” she greeted, surprised to see them so late.
She’d joined Teacher Yang’s essay class, getting printed Chinese test papers, skipping copying, only needing essays.

That’s why she arrived late.

Chen Qiao wasn’t in the essay class—slacking, minus one point.
Fei Fei, a middle school star, should’ve been at noon study.
He was dragging her down.

Not studying himself, ruining his desk mate, and corrupting Fei Fei?

Minus a hundred points!

“What a coincidence, Xiao Yu!” Chen Fei Fei clapped.

“Mm,” Wu Xin Yu nodded.

“Sis, I’m heading to class,” Chen Qiao said, waving coolly behind her back.
Her trash-stare was too much—can’t fight, so flee.

“Wait for Xiao Yu, you’re classmates!
No gentlemanly manners,” Chen Fei Fei huffed, hand on hip.

She couldn’t believe he ignored a cute girl like Wu Xin Yu—definitely not dating material.
Ye Qing Lan’s tease lingered in her mind.

She didn’t know he was pursuing his “ugly duckling” desk mate.

“Why so late, Fei Fei Jie?” Wu Xin Yu asked, probing if Chen Qiao was the cause.

“Oh, I napped with Abiao at home,” Chen Fei Fei said, skipping details.

As expected—not gaming with Tian Zhen, but still his fault.

“I’m off to class.
See you, Fei Fei Jie.”

“Bye.”

Chen Qiao hadn’t gone far, waving from the slope as she left.

He strolled slowly.
Reborn, he’d live well, not like a doomed daredevil.

Wu Xin Yu caught up, three steps to his two.

Tian Zhen and Zheng Hui Jun were still gatekeepers.

“You came together?” Zheng Hui Jun asked, shocked.

“Bumped into each other,” Chen Qiao said, shrugging, Wu Xin Yu beside him.

“Oh…” Zheng Hui Jun accepted it, knowing their disinterest in romance.

Tian Zhen eyed his sash eagerly.

“Don’t even think I’ll cover again,” Chen Qiao said, bolting.

Morning was fine, but noon’s sun would roast his frail frame.

He didn’t expect Wu Xin Yu to chase him.
His side ached after a short sprint; he slowed, panting.
She stopped too.

What’s her deal?

A top student turned stalker?
Probably a coincidence.

If she was a creep, he’d have to push her darker to have fun.

She wanted to expose his “fox tail,” strip his English rep role, and take it herself—she’d always assumed it was hers.
He’d ruin the class vibe.

In class, most were quietly copying Chinese test questions from the board, pens scratching softly.

The room was silent when focused, loud when rowdy—peer influence.
Talkative kids hushed without partners.

Chen Qiao used the back door to avoid blocking views.

Lin Na copied diligently, ruler-straight lines slightly crooked, oblivious to his arrival, not standing to let him pass.

Squeezing in risked bumping her, messing her writing.
Interrupting her focus for this seemed petty.

He decided to crawl under the desk—being short had perks.

Ducking down, he noticed Lin Na’s restless feet, shifting, stacking, or dangling on the desk’s crossbar, toes wiggling in pink sandals.

As he crawled, she spread her legs, kicking him.
He grabbed the desk leg with one hand, her calf with the other to keep balance.

“Ah!” Lin Na yelped, startled, standing, her voice piercing the quiet room.

All eyes turned to her.
Usually invisible, she couldn’t handle the stares, slumping back, hiding behind a textbook.

Her scream startled him, and he banged his head on the desk’s underside.

Thud—books and pencil case rattled in the drawer.

“Sorry, Chen Qiao, you okay?”

He slid into his seat, rubbing his head, squinting in pain—a small bump forming.
In front of a girl, he played tough.
“I’m fine, my fault.
Got a whim to crawl under, that’s all.”

His frail body was cursed—basketball to the face yesterday, desk to the head today.

“Really okay?
I heard a loud bang,” Lin Na said, seeing him rub his head.

This was her chance to pat him back—she’d soothe her sister’s bumps this way.

Summoning courage, she reached out, her hand over his, rubbing his hair and scalp.

“It’s swollen.
Hurts, right?” she poked the soft bump.

“It’s okay, used to it.
It’ll go down soon.”

Her touch felt nice, though he was secretly feeling her hand more than his head.

Their closeness drew classmates’ gasps and whispers.
Gossipers and shippers speculated about their desk-mate bond—already suggestive since most hadn’t had opposite-sex desk mates since first or second grade, meant to keep them quiet then.

To Wu Xin Yu, it confirmed her suspicions.

Both noticed the stares.

Chen Qiao pulled back first.
“Thanks, I’m good now.”

He could handle gossip, but Lin Na’s feelings mattered.
She was still a fragile girl, not ready for rumors to crush her—physically or emotionally.

“Good… you’re not in pain,” Lin Na stammered, cheeks faintly red, hiding her right hand under her left armpit.

“Why so late?
Feeling sick?” she asked, knowing his weak health and frequent absences, yet admiring his grades despite yesterday’s nosebleed.

“Napped at home.”

“Oh.”

“Copied all the board questions?” he asked.

“Two left.”

“Lend me when you’re done.
I won’t finish copying in time.”

With hygiene checks soon, he’d rather write answers, but Teacher Yang might question his attitude.

Asking Lin Na’s help made their bond mutual, not just him giving or her feeling useless.
It framed their deal as her helping him, him boosting her grades, hiding his less-pure motives.

Afternoon classes weren’t critical—moral education, natural science, and a final study period, likely using the board.

“My handwriting’s bad,” she said.

“As long as it’s legible,” he said, glancing.
Not neat, but clear enough.
“Better than mine, good enough.”

Writing novels, he practiced penmanship—not half-hearted, aiming to be his best self.