Chapter 21: Killing Two Birds with One Stone

At hygiene check time, Chen Qiao donned his sash and joined Wu Xin Yu to inspect the teachers’ office building.
They walked in silence, the air between them tense.

Chen Qiao didn’t know what shifted in her attitude since yesterday afternoon, but he’d keep his mystique, not asking outright.
That’d put him at a disadvantage.
He’d figure it out or wait for her to spill.

The building was spotless—another day with no violations to report.

Back in class, he tackled homework first, then worked on his novel.
For the essay, he drafted an intro and conclusion, outlining the middle to practice 600-word narratives—exactly 600, no more, no less.

The final study period was spent tutoring Lin Na in math.
He gave her problems, having her explain correct answers to check if she’d lucked out or truly grasped concepts for broader application.

For problems she didn’t get, he explained patiently, reinforcing his own knowledge without overstepping elementary-level material.
It didn’t take long.

“Memorized the English words?
Dictation’s tomorrow,” he reminded her, now the English rep.

“I’ll review tomorrow morning.
I can copy them extra times.
I’m slow, so writing helps me remember.”

Good memory bows to diligent notes.
Lin Na’s attitude was solid—she did the work, never slacked, just struggled with efficiency, effort outweighing results.

After school, Chen Qiao headed to the office to find Wang Yi Lin.
She sat at her desk, bathed in sunset glow, cheeks flushed, whitewashed walls turned golden, the distant sky orange-red.

Pen in one hand, the other mussing her hair, she crumpled and tossed a paper into the trash—working on lesson plans.
She’d prepped the whole term but wanted to show Chen Qiao there was more to English than he thought.

High-level lessons were futile—80-90% of the class wouldn’t get it, only top students like Chen Qiao or Wu Xin Yu might.
Pointless for graduation exams.

She sighed, then stared out, lost in thought.

“Teacher Wang?” Chen Qiao called.

“Huh?
Chen Qiao?
School’s out?” she asked, startled.

“Yeah, the dismissal music’s playing,” he said, tugging his ear.

“Sorry, I was lost in thought.
Let’s go…” She stood, banging her knee on the desk, wincing in pain, clutching it as she sat back down.
Why always embarrassing myself in front of students?

“You okay, Teacher Wang?” he asked, concerned.
He hadn’t meant to startle her.

“I’m fine,” she said, rubbing her knee.
“Take the recorder to my dorm.”

Her limp showed she was still in pain.

“Okay.”

He carried the recorder, following her.

They crossed the field, passed through the tunnel, and reached the two new dorm buildings, connected by welded iron sheets.

The left was for students, with a first-floor evening study room; the right, for teachers—apartments for singles, small suites for married ones like Teacher Yang, whose husband also taught, securing them a suite.
Most teachers didn’t live on-site—locals went home, others commuted from county homes via taxis, common in middle school, carpooling.

Dorms were for naps or duty nights.

Before these buildings, students slept in empty classrooms, teachers in the office, doubling as bedrooms.

Wang’s single-teacher apartment was small, seen in one glance.
No real furniture—just school desks.
A battered one, drawers broken, served as her desk, plastered with schedules and sheet music.
Her bed was a student-style bunk, lower berth, quilt rolled like a caterpillar, wrinkled, with pajamas and underwear strewn about.

Slippers lay upturned by the bed—carelessly tossed.

A faded wooden chair held a washbasin; a round mirror hung on the wall beside a red bucket.

On the balcony, a discarded cable served as a clothesline, draped with her teaching shirts, jeans, and intimates.

“Ahhh!” she yelped, realizing she’d forgotten Chen Qiao was coming.
Post-nap, she hadn’t tidied, same as always.

She rushed to fold clothes, straighten the quilt into a tofu block—last done during college military training.

“Teacher Wang, don’t bump your foot again,” he warned.

“Don’t treat me like an idiot,” she snapped, glaring.
This kid had no respect—writing novels in class, now cheeky.
Time to show him an adult’s authority.

He set the recorder on her wobbly desk, lined with cassettes—music and teaching materials.
A pair of earbuds and headphones sat nearby.

A Fairy Tale drama soundtrack cassette caught his eye—maybe pirated, like many discs.

He popped it into the recorder and hit play.

The spinning tape and familiar melody felt like time travel.
MP3s were common now—students used them for novels, some had MP4s, pricey.
Even with multimedia classrooms, recorders remained key for English.

His family had a Walkman for his sister’s English tapes; Dad’s truck had a cassette player.

“Chen Qiao, don’t play with my stuff.
No music on the recorder,” Wang scolded.

“But you use it for music.
Public tool, private use?”

“I’m the teacher.
I won’t break it, and I can afford to replace it,” she said confidently, chin up, smirking—adult privilege.

“You love music, huh?”

“What kind of talk is that?
I’m a music teacher.”

The dismissal bell stopped.
She sat on the bed’s edge, eyes closed, savoring the music—her daily highlight.

Song done, he paused it—otherwise, it’d go on.

“Teacher Wang, should I bring the recorder to the office tomorrow morning?”

“No… I’ll handle it.
Thanks for today.”

No English or music first period, and as a non-class teacher, she slept till 8 or 9, sometimes till exercises, eating bread and milk for breakfast.
She knew she wasn’t teacherly.

Her internship here was above average compared to peers, especially those in the West or other rural middle schools.

She had a private toilet—decent.
No hot water, but a quick-heater for a bucket sufficed.

“I’ll keep your music secret if you keep my novel-writing secret.
We’re accomplices,” he said.

Shared secrets built bonds.
Too bad no computer to borrow.

“Negotiating now?” she laughed, pinching his cheek.
She thought his mature writing and sly wit made him tricky, but he was still a kid.

“Fine, I agree.
But be a good English rep and ace your exams—or I’ll tell Teacher Yang.
Study hard, and I’ll reward you.”

“Reward?
Really?” His eyes lit up, recalling that friend’s risqué photo, glancing at her chest—small, but still…

“Of course, teachers don’t lie.”

She noticed his shift, arms crossed, smug.
Kids can’t resist rewards.

“What reward?” he pressed.

“Hmm… what do you want?
Nothing too pricey—I’m not rich.
Snacks?
Toys?
Burgers?”

Burgers were only in the county.

He shook his head.
Asking for risqué stuff now would earn a slap.
Wait till they’re closer, hit puberty, then play curious and innocent.
No peek, no study!

“Novels?
The Four Classics?” she offered.

Books were pricey—she’d avoid pirated ones, but they’d cut into her cassette budget.

“Read them.”

“Even Dream of the Red Chamber?”

Her voice pitched up.
Writing novels meant big reading volume, but that book?

“Yeah, some parts confused me, like ‘first test of cloud and rain,’ but Liu Lao Lao was fun,” he said, feigning innocence, finger on chin, head tilted.

“Cough, read it again in high school.
I’m not a Chinese teacher, don’t know much.”

“I’ll ask Teacher Yang!”

She panicked, stopping him.
“No way!
High school teachers know that stuff.
Teacher Yang’s proud—she’d get mad if stumped, pile on homework.
Mastered your elementary stuff yet?
Don’t aim too high.”

“Good point.”

He teased the naive volunteer teacher.
Other teachers would’ve slapped him, called his parents or sister, ruining his good-student image.

Relieved he dropped it, she continued, “Where were we?
Rewards?
Nothing else you want?”

“I want a hug from Teacher Wang.”

“Huh?”

She froze, stunned by the unexpected request.

“I’ve always wanted a gentle, much older sister to hug me.
You seem young, pretty, kind, caring.”

Much older was key—his sister was only two years older, giving him an out if exposed.

“Oh…” She tucked her hair behind her ear, blushing, flattered but embarrassed.
She felt inadequate as a teacher, just coasting.
No makeup, no cute dresses—she sometimes disliked her mirror reflection.

“If I’m so great, why write novels in my class?” she huffed.

“To get your attention.
I knew you wouldn’t tear it up like other teachers, not giving me a chance to explain.”

Flattery, though partly accidental, worked.

“Kid, always up to no good,” she said, tapping his head with a hand-knife.
As a former student, she knew boys’ silly attempts to impress girls.

On a kid, it was pure, not off-putting—just right.

“It’s been a while since dismissal.
Go home, or your parents will worry.
As for the reward, ace your exams—English, Chinese, math—and I’ll consider it.”

She pushed him out, hands on his shoulders, escorting him downstairs.

No immediate yes—keep him hooked, vague but possible, with raised stakes.

If he succeeded, she’d hug him.
Their age gap—eight or nine years—and his good-student vibe, even with novel-writing, made it fine.
His small size, not looking sixth-grade, helped—less likely to be misread.
A taller, older boy, say 14, wouldn’t even enter her dorm.

“I’ll work hard.”

Already driven to ace exams for Mom’s wish for a sister, this bonus fueled him more.

“I’m expecting great things.
Be safe,” she said, smiling.

Heading home, he spotted Xin Yu watching TV at the barbershop.
Ignoring her protests, he bought five lollipops—one for him, one for his sister, one for Xin Yu, two for random little girls.

He washed rice, prepped veggies, waiting for his sister to cook, then jogged around the house.
Tired, he lifted Xin Yu by her armpits, hoisting her high—exercise and fun, a true win-win.