Chapter 22: Catching Bugs

Like yesterday, Chen Qiao held Xin Yu while watching his sister learn to cook, even trying a few stirs with the spatula.
In a few days, under her guidance, he’d cook for her.

Dad came home before Mom today, showering first.
They’d eat together once Mom arrived.

While his sister went to evening study, Chen Qiao walked Xin Yu home, giving her small toys and Cardcaptor Sakura flash cards—bargains from a closing shop’s clearance—to keep her busy.

As for studying, Xin Yu was smart and sensible, no pushing needed.

He did a few push-ups; sit-ups were sloppy without someone holding his legs—maybe ask his sister tonight.

After his bath, he sat on the sofa watching News Broadcast.
Older now, he liked it, deepening his sense of the era.
A keyword in a report might spark a memory chain.

“Abiao, check tomorrow’s weather?” Mom called from downstairs at 7:30 sharp.
She always watched the forecast—rain meant no watering the garden.

“Still sunny.”

But a month-long rainy season was coming, moldy and miserable.

His parents rarely checked on his or his sister’s studies, true free-range parenting.
They’d scold for watching TV past bedtime, and the Famicom was taboo.

Mom wasn’t on duty tonight, and Dad had no social engagements.
They finished chores and went upstairs early.
Seeing Chen Qiao “studying” (writing his novel), they quietly closed his door.

They chatted in bed about daily life—groceries, neighbors, town gossip.

Chat all you want, but make me a sister! Chen Qiao thought.
The age gap would widen otherwise, turning her into a daughter figure, and he’d have his own kids for that.

Thin walls meant every sound carried.
Maybe they were shy with kids around?

To spark the sister plan, he’d need to create a romantic getaway for them—a belated honeymoon they couldn’t afford or dream of before.
Tough sell—they were frugal, saving for his and his sister’s college fees.
Maybe he and his sister would travel instead.

Barring surprises, he’d attend a week-long English summer camp at the county’s No. 6 Middle School for junior high prep.
Math and Chinese camps were popular, snagged by connected kids, not always grades-based.
English camp?
No one wanted it, so he got in—courtesy team perks, the king of scraps.

Free food and lodging, decent meals—crispy fried chicken legs, though not daily.

The dorms were rough, next to a pigpen, smelly but familiar.
No private bathrooms, just a shared toilet and washroom per floor.
Bathing meant group showers, like at town middle school.

Rumor said girls had baths and hot water—unverified.
He’d reconnect with camp roommates in county high school, bittersweet—they’d forget, just another camp for city kids, some leaving midway for music exams.

Rural kids played in mud, caught loaches, fished—Chen Qiao remembered it vividly, especially after his family’s year-end crisis, making the camp unforgettable.

“I’m making instant noodles,” he announced loudly, ensuring his parents heard.

Two packs at home: Super Fuma Duo and Twin Pancake, cheap and filling.

He’d ask his sister if she wanted some—her noodles, technically.
Eating them without permission meant repaying or losing allowance.
Sharing was fine.

He wrote his novel at the dining table, frogs croaking outside.
Footsteps signaled his sister’s return.

“You’re not sleeping?
What’re you doing downstairs?”

“Writing a novel.”

“A novel?”

“Yeah, I’m submitting to magazines for fees, to buy you tasty stuff and take you to Guilin’s ‘best under heaven’ scenery.”

He seriously considered pitching to Dongxi Anime Club or mags like Zhiyin, Reader, or Story Collection.
Yilin?
Pass—too easy with cliché, skewed stories, but he didn’t need that money.

Magazine fees came within two months via mail or email submissions for extra cash.
Why waste his knowledge now, only to write WeChat or clickbait later?

A hit web novel could set him for life, but monetizing copyrights was years off.
His stories, a bit risqué—his nature—weren’t high-brow, unlike adapted fantasy giants.
Subscriptions and rare rich-reader tips were his lifeline, with piracy rampant.

Websites had no anti-theft; simple crawlers stole content, synced with authors on forums.
Writers begged for legit reads to avoid starvation—writing wasn’t sustainable otherwise, forcing factory jobs.

Paying readers were few; students might catch up later if lucky.

Chen Qiao had big plans.
Startups were money pits, needing endless funds, plus life improvements and emergency savings.

Money, the more, the better.

“You’re studying hard for Mom to have a sister, and now novels?”

“Studying and writing don’t clash.
Novels sharpen my essays.”

“Keep it up, but pay me back first,” she giggled, not taking him seriously—robot wars or ninja tales, like his old Ultraman or Digimon dreams.
Novels were closer to reality but still childish to her.

She grabbed her nightgown and underwear from a chair to fetch hot water for a bath, noting he’d been more helpful since yesterday, grabbing her clothes, saving her a trip.

“Sis, want noodles?”
Despite eating plenty last night, he craved Twin Pancake’s taste.

“Hmm…” She patted her flat stomach, torn—night snacks were bad, but she was hungry.

“I’ll cook if you want—two eggs, some water spinach.”

She’d refuse outright if uninterested.

“Cook it.
More water, less salt, or I’ll be thirsty all night.”

“Got it.”

Noodles were his specialty—pre-made seasoning, quick-cooking, no raw bits.
She trusted him with it.

In the bathroom, she poked her head out.
“Chen Qiao, you washed clothes again?
What’d I say last night?”

“Mom did it.”

He didn’t get the chance—Mom took over chores when home.

“That’s better.”

He prepped the noodles, boiling water ready.

He’d cook when she finished bathing to avoid soggy noodles.
How’d he know?
The sound of rushing water meant she was rinsing soap, using it all at once.

“Now’s the time.”

“Yah!” A shrill scream came from the bathroom—his usually calm sister, in danger.

“Sis, what’s wrong?
Snake?”

Snakes often slipped into chimneys, bathrooms, stairs, even beds.
Catching one while fishing wasn’t rare.

He dropped the pot, rushed to the bathroom, pushed the door, finding a rope latch inside.

No time to think, he slipped his small hand through, unhooking it—too narrow for an adult’s.

As he opened the door, she barreled out, hugging him tightly.

One arm around his back, gripping his arm, chin on his shoulder, she pointed back, shouting, “Centipede!
So gross, so many legs!”

That’s it?
She couldn’t handle bugs or snakes—flies were fine, but centipedes and millipedes triggered her phobia, despite liking harmless silkworms.
Maybe because silkworms turned into cocoons and moths?

The bathroom’s mossy corner, damp and dark, was perfect for millipedes.

His face pressed against her damp chest, slick and warm, smelling faintly of soap.

“It’s okay, Sis.
I’ll handle it.
Let go…” He patted her back—nearly her butt, close call.

Fearless as a kid, he’d grab moths or stinkbugs with a plastic bag and toss them.
Grown-up caution made him hesitate.

She released him, letting him breathe, but hugged him from behind, arms around his neck, budding chest against his back, chin on his head, shadowing his steps.

Her wet hair dripped, water rolling from her collarbone and thighs to the floor, soaking his clothes.

He grabbed chopsticks, entering the bathroom.
“Where’s the centipede?”

“By the mirror on the wall.
It popped out while I was looking—scared me to death.”

Her trembling was palpable.

“Don’t look if you’re scared.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“It’s a millipede, not a centipede—no venom.”

Still, touching it risked a rash from its defensive chemicals.

He poked it with chopsticks; it curled up—definitely a millipede, not a fast-moving centipede.

He tossed it outside, sparing its life.
Millipedes were somewhat beneficial.
As a kid, he’d stomp any bug; now, he didn’t bother.

All life has spirit—except roaches, mosquitoes, and flies.

She refused to re-enter, asking him to grab her clean and dirty clothes and dry towel.
Facing away, she dried off, slipping on underwear and nightgown.

Cooking noodles, he glanced at her silhouette—curves emerging, long legs, pale back glowing under dim light, her shadow revealing every move.

He nearly overcooked the noodles; the spinach yellowed.

“Done?” she asked, towel on shoulders, sniffing.
“Smells good, I’m starving.”

He served the noodles, one egg each, while she swapped the coal briquette with tongs.

Full, she washed clothes, telling him to brush his teeth and stay nearby, fearing another millipede.

They swapped school stories—hers mundane, his big news: becoming English rep.

“Your English teacher’s new, right?
Don’t know her,” she said.

“Yeah, a young college student, not graduated.”

“How’s her English?
Average, probably—she’s a music teacher.”

“Oh, since you’re rep, do it well.
Don’t let your English slip.
Ask me anything.
Want to join me for morning recitations?”

“Sure,” he agreed.

Elementary words were easy, but he planned an English refresh to hit his old CET-4 level.

He lit the way with a flashlight; she carried a basin of washed uniforms.

The rooftop had no lights.
As a kid, he’d swing the flashlight like a lightsaber, shouting attack names, peak chuunibyou.

After she hung the clothes, they headed down—he to store the flashlight and pee, she to return the basin to the bathroom.

“Sis, give me the basin.
I’m going that way.”

“No, I’ve got stuff to do.”

At the urine bucket, her familiar figure appeared, lifting her skirt, slipping off her underwear, and sitting in one fluid motion.

Sis, hooked on group bathroom trips with friends?
Even with your brother?

The night made her tinkling crystal clear.