Chapter 23: Pulling the hook

Chen Qiao woke to his sister’s clear recitation, as always.
When would he wake up hugging her?
Every night, she held him.
He wanted to flip the roles.

Except in deep winter weekends or holidays when she might sleep in, he’d have to rise earlier than her—or pull an all-nighter.

Chen Fei Fei paused her Water Margin recitation.
“Awake already?
I was about to wake you, had all sorts of plans, but no need now.”

“Should I sleep again?” he half-joked.

“Go for it.”

If she wanted to play, he’d indulge her antics.

He flopped back on the bed, eyes closed, wondering how she’d wake him.
Pinch his nose?
Shake him gently?

A slap?
No way.
Stepping on his stomach or sitting on him—that was Xin Yu’s style.

She crawled onto the bed, hands propping her up, leaning close.
Her unbound hair fell, brushing his face and pillow, tickling.

Her breathing grew nearer.
He furrowed his brow, swallowing, nervous.

“Pfft…” She blew warm air into his ear, whispering, “Lazy bug, time to get up and study…”

“Whoa!” Her gentle tone sent shivers.
He jolted upright, back against the headboard, catching a glimpse of her pale skin and delicate collarbone through her collar.

“Effective, huh?” she grinned, flashing a victory V-sign, swaying playfully.

Seeing her rare, mischievous side—familiar yet fresh—he smiled.
This was what he wanted, pure joy.

“Only worked ‘cause I was awake.
That soft voice wouldn’t cut it otherwise.
Sis, gimme your first-year middle school English book.
Time to memorize words.”

“Starting middle school stuff now?
So diligent?” she asked, shocked.
Was he really changing?

“I know all the elementary stuff.
Middle school English restarts anyway, right?
Vocabulary solves most problems.”

“True enough.”

She handed him her first-semester middle school English book.

He flipped to the word list, reciting.

“No, no, that’s pronounced like this…” she corrected.

Her pronunciation and phonics were sharper than his.
He read by instinct and memory, a “mute” English—good for reading and writing, not speaking.

He repeated after her.
The next word was a mess too, so she sat beside him, holding the book, guiding him through each word twice, teaching her mnemonic tricks—Chinese phonetics or word combinations.

“Don’t you need to review your texts?” he asked.

“I memorized them ages ago.
Just reinforcing with extra recitations, keeping the morning reading habit.”

She became his English tutor, pointing out every mistake.

After twenty-plus words, he wanted more.

“You got them all?” she asked, skeptical.

“Test me.”

She gave Chinese meanings, asking him to spell the English, random order.

“You actually got them all.”

“You teach well.”

“Hmph, obviously.”

His reborn memory felt sharper—maybe an illusion; young brains were just better.
These words were simple, familiar, and with her elite tutoring, forgetting them would be a crime.

The alarm blared—happy times always flew.
Time to wash up and eat breakfast.

She changed from her nightgown to her uniform in front of him, treating him like family—not an outsider.

He was torn.
He should remind her to be cautious, but he relished the kid privileges.

How could he give this up?
What if he never saw it again?

Why hadn’t he noticed before rebirth?
Probably sleeping in till 7:20, throwing tantrums when she woke him, missing her changing.

Early-rising brothers get the view!

He changed into his uniform under the covers, his young body stirring.
When would his “first times” come?
Washing underwear at night was a hassle.

Breakfast included eggs—his insistence, one daily for health, to grow taller, faster.
Mom used to offer, but he disliked them.
His sister got one too, from their hens.

“You didn’t tie your red scarf properly again,” Chen Fei Fei said, retying it.

“It’s on, isn’t it?”

He slacked on the scarf, savoring her fixing it, her face close, fine facial hair visible, her scent intoxicating.

Basking in morning light, they met Ye Qing Lan at the usual spot—hard to miss.

Another school trip surrounded by older girls.

No Wu Xin Yu today.
In class, Lin Na was already there, softly reciting words, writing as she memorized.

After yesterday’s desk-crawling mishap, he played it safe, waving instead.
Can’t repeat the same trick—maybe in a few days.

“Morning, Lin Na.”

“Morning, Chen Qiao.”

She stood to move to the aisle, letting him pass.

He didn’t let her, squeezing in fast, their bodies brushing—one of his daily thrills.

Checking the duty roster, it was Group 3’s turn; he and Lin Na were soon.
Sanitation was Group 2.

Since third grade, each class got a sanitation zone by the teacher’s draw.
The big field and uphill path were dreaded—too many leaves or snack wrappers.

Their zone was the teaching building’s stairs—average, needing early cleaning before crowds.

The last morning class was art, taught by a balding man in his forties, whose wife taught middle school art.
They ran an affordable art class in town, selling brushes and paints.

Forget class fees—art supplies weren’t cheap for average families.

Art was wrapping up; the assignment was a freeform drawing, due in two weeks for final grading.
All subjects would conclude, scores tallied on report cards as Excellent, Good, or Pass, with teacher comments.

Lin Na took out her art book and pencil, drawing a few lines, erasing repeatedly.
The paper was pitted, thinning, wrinkled, ready to tear.

She flipped to a fresh page, chin in hand, twirling her pencil, brows furrowed.

“Haven’t decided what to draw?” Chen Qiao asked.

“Nope.”

“Can I see your old drawings?”

“Don’t laugh.
They’re not good.”

“No way, they’re better than mine.
You got Excellent-minus a bunch; I’m lucky for Good-plus, mostly Good-minus.”

He flipped through her book.
First was a sketched sphere—decent shading for a kid—then a cylinder and desk, class assignments.
Her freeform works shone: a blooming sunflower in cheap watercolors, shaping up; a classic sun drawing; a colorful underwater fish world; a rainbow night sky; Totoro and Sakura.

Untrained, her lines were rough, colors limited by cheap pens, but her passion and talent glowed.

“These are great.
Some could win awards.
Why not enter contests?”

“No way I’d get picked.”

“Believe in yourself.
Wanna see mine?
Laugh if you want, but not too loud—shh…” He put a finger to his lips.

His sketchbook was a mess: an unround sphere, awful shading; freeform Naruto, only the Leaf symbol right; WarGreymon, unrecognizable.

Lin Na was a budding otaku—future chats about Miyazaki films would spark more connection.

“Lin Na, teach me to draw?”

“Why the sudden interest?”

“My report card’s all Excellent except Good in art.
It stands out.”

“Oh.
I’ve never taught drawing, don’t know how.”

“Guide me once I pick a subject.
I’ll keep helping with math and suggest what to draw.
You’ve seen my level.”

He’d once dreamed of being a manga artist or illustrator for his novels, self-studying with videos, buying a tablet.
Jack of all trades, master of none—he quit novels too.

“I’ll try.
You’ve helped me so much; I want to help you.”

“Pinky swear.”

Under the desk, he extended his pinky, sneaky like a prank.

“Okay…” Her voice trembled, hooking her pinky with his, shaking up and down.

Their eyes met; she looked away shyly, but her pinky gripped tighter.

Another step closer.