Chapter 27: Sit-ups

After her bath, Chen Fei Fei washed their uniforms in the bathroom, sitting astride a low stool, her skirt hitched up, revealing a sliver of creamy thigh.

She propped the washboard against her stomach, soaping and scrubbing clothes.
Sweaty collars got a vigorous brush; winter uniforms’ sleeves were the worst, so she often wore sleeve covers.

Chen Qiao dug out the hairdryer.
The bathroom had no outlets, and the kitchen, connected to it, had only one for the woodstove fan.
Their decade-old house was riddled with design flaws.

Luckily, they had a long power strip from pig-slaughtering days, used for hanging bright bulbs.
With it, he could plug in anywhere.

He tested the dryer’s heat on his palm, then lifted his sister’s wet hair, blowing it dry, combing knots with his fingers.

Standing beside her low stool—barely above the floor—he had a clear view of her delicate collarbone and slight curves.
Fresh from the bath, she radiated warmth, cheeks flushed.

Her pink checkered nightgown hung loose, its collar shadowy, hiding everything.

His hair-drying skills were forced by her.
In his past life, after she’d come home late from work, shower, and pass out on the sofa, he’d dry her hair and carry her to bed.

“You can wash clothes and dry hair at the same time?” she said, delighted, swaying her head.
Two people got more done.

She’d fretted over wet hair at night—showering without washing it felt wrong.
Evening baths were rushed; she had to cook, never feeling clean.
Post-dinner showers were bad too, and evening study meant more sweat, making it pointless.

“Pretty smart, huh?” he bragged, the idea a whim.

“Let it air-dry a bit.
Blowing it all dry’s bad for hair.”

Lin Na’s poor hair quality came from malnutrition and rough treatment, no care.

Since she’d run home, they had more time tonight.
Some “bed exercise” would dry it further.

“You know a lot.”

“Saw it online.”

“Always gaming online.”

“Haven’t gamed much lately—just anime, and video sites have your dramas too.
Wish we had a computer.”

No ID or bank card yet—manuscript fees needed a card.
His sister, for middle school exams, got a junior ID and bank card for her red envelope money.

In their northern Guangdong Hakka area, red envelopes differed from Cantonese customs—not 5 or 10 yuan, but 50 or 100.
Each year, Mom collected their envelopes, repaid relatives, and gave them leftovers—or her own if none remained—tucked under their pillows.

Some money was saved for tuition, not to be squandered.

A computer would need to be in her name for parental approval.

“With a computer, you’d game all day.
No way.
Forgot how many Famicoms you’ve wrecked?”

After hanging clothes and using the bathroom, they returned to the bedroom.

Chen Qiao lay on the bed, doing sit-ups, counting aloud: “One, two…”

No need to ask—she’d help when she saw.

He’d wanted her to hold his legs for sit-ups days ago but quit early from weakness, too embarrassed.
Now, after days of exercise, he lasted longer.

“Your form’s awful—legs flying, hands not touching the mat.
I’ll hold you,” she said, kneeling on the bed, pressing his feet.

Sit-ups got harder with her holding.
Elbows to knees, he caught her scent—a reward, stronger with better form.

They used the same soap and shampoo, but hers smelled better.

When he bathed after her, he’d sometimes see curled hairs on the soap.

Their parents used body wash and loofahs; she stuck to soap.
He liked her used soap—childhood loofah scrubs felt like scouring pads, peeling his skin.

Soon, his abs screamed, strength gone, body leaden.
Halfway up, he crashed back, head hitting the pillow, vision swimming, head throbbing.

“Abiao, two more—you can do it!” she cheered, her encouragement devilish.

“Ugh!” Gritting his teeth, he burned his “cosmo,” managing two shaky sit-ups before collapsing, done.

“Exercise is about breaking limits.
Running, when you’re spent, push two more laps—next time, you’ll go further.”

“Hold my legs.
Let’s see how many I can do.
Haven’t done these in ages—girls do them for the middle school exam.”

She lay at the bed’s end, knees bent, legs together, skirt flat.

Through the gap between her thighs, he glimpsed beneath.

He saw her change daily, even picked her underwear, but lifeless soap-scented fabric wasn’t the same as warm, scented reality.
The angle differed from mornings, each with its charm.

Her underwear was misaligned, wrinkled, digging into her.

She noticed, reaching to adjust it, smoothing it out.

He pressed her soft, warm feet—less pale, with sandal tan lines and toe marks.

Fresh from exercise, he was weak.
Her sit-ups were strong, nearly overpowering him.
He used his knees on her feet, hands on her calves—slightly fleshy—stabilizing her.

Her sit-ups were fast, flawless—over 40 in a minute, unlike his sluggish few.

Fanning her ear, she grinned, satisfied.
“Feels good.
More, and I’d sweat.
You doing more?”

“Nah, I’m done.
Tomorrow,” he said, shaking his head, dreading sore abs.

“Sleep time.”

Lights off, she hugged him to sleep, seamless.

Was it his imagination, or was her embrace tighter tonight?