Chapter 34: Feeding the Tiger with Oneself

When Chen Qiao woke, Hai Xia had already left for the cement plant in Dad’s truck, luggage gone.
Fei Fei was memorizing vocabulary—ever disciplined.

He missed her sleeping face again.

“Memorizing words today?” she asked.

“Of course.”

With her, he stayed disciplined too.

Mom was long gone to the clinic—market days were hectic, everyone on duty, no matter the day, with breaks later.
Elders and middle-aged folks came to shop, get checkups, or grab meds; some lonely seniors just chatted with doctors.

From home, the street’s bustle was palpable—vendors’ calls, blaring pre-recorded ads with crackling static, piercing the air.

Scrap collectors’ tricycles roamed the town; a mochi seller’s motorcycle played a distinct melody after its honk.

After breakfast, Fei Fei asked, “Abiao, hitting the market?”

“Yeah, need to fix my watch.” He shook his ten-yuan blue electronic watch, likely dead from a bad battery.

No phone yet—time-checking was a hassle, so the watch would do.

“That thing’s ancient.
If it’s busted, buy another—Mom’ll reimburse.
Let’s go.”

By the river, rows of motorcycles parked—this era’s main transport.

The streets teemed, shoulder-to-shoulder, endless crowds.

Fei Fei held his hand, lest he get lost in the sea of people.

Stalls lined the streets: fruit, local specialties, “three for ten” daily goods, and “branded” clothes and shoes from afar—knockoffs, obviously.

Close to Xijiang province, spice lovers abounded, chili piles like small hills.

Fortune-tellers read fates, old barbers clipped hair with scissors, pest poison sellers doubled as calendar vendors—thick almanacs listing do’s and don’ts, their covers featuring Hong Kong beauty queens with a few pin-up pages.

Three watch repair stalls, run by brothers, also sold calculators, Tetris handhelds, and Famicom consoles with cartridges—old relics.
Famicom was passé; city kids played PSPs, rural kids still clung to it, soon to be outclassed by PC games.

As expected, the battery was dead.
A new button cell fixed it.

Clothing dominated market day, especially for elders and kids, filling a canopy, plus the permanent clothing-electronics street.

One video store’s disc packaging looked fancier than stall goods, but still pirated—quality-checked, unlike stall discs where Pokémon might be Digimon, or Dragon Ball turned into Nine Dragon Ball.

Fei Fei loved browsing clothes but found solo shopping dull.
She’d drag him along; he’d resist, hating being her dress-up doll, sneaking off alone, only to bolt like a thief if caught.
Lately, though, he’d been cooperative.

She didn’t buy, just held up favorites with a clothes pole, lacking mirrors or changing areas.
Chen Qiao was her mirror, giving feedback.

She picked clothes for him too, making him try them on—his old reason for dodging shopping.

Most clothes were dated: floral tees, leftover long-sleeves, jeans, and sweatpants.
No skirts or shorts—Fei Fei’s sleep dresses came from Mom’s county training trips.

But she looked good in anything.

The town was small; they bumped into classmates, relatives, exchanging greetings.

Lin Na and her sister Lin Yu manned a fruit stall with pineapples and bayberries—some homegrown, some sourced.

On market day, their family split three stalls: parents each took one, the sisters shared another.
Stalls cost two yuan, with a stamped receipt.

Most classmates were only children.
Only daughters often had parents in key roles, adhering to birth policies.
Boys like Chen Qiao usually had older sisters; few parents paid fines for younger sisters.

Girls typically had brothers or sisters, some families birthing three or more girls chasing a son.

This bred a legion of sister-loving boys, Chen Qiao included.

Spotting him and Fei Fei, Lin Na hid her face, embarrassed.
She didn’t mind other classmates ignoring her stall, but with Chen Qiao, she felt inferior, not wanting him to see her working.

He headed straight for her—market day was for bonding outside school.

“Morning, Lin Na!
How’s business?”

“Okay…” she mumbled.

“Awful—only ten yuan, and some jerk kept nitpicking,” Lin Yu blurted, swatting bugs with a stick tied with plastic strips.

After checking prices, he bought two yuan of salted pineapple slices and two jin of bayberries.

Lin Na picked him the biggest, best bayberries—too honest.

He avoided relatives’ fruit stalls; they shortchanged regulars, padding two jin to three with bad fruit, using old pole scales.

He reached to pay, but Fei Fei beat him, handing over exact change.

“Sis, I’m buying.”

“Can’t even let me look cool in front of a girl?”

“It’s my money,” she shot back, rolling her eyes.
“Wanted some anyway.”

“Your classmate?”

“My desk mate.”

“Oho, a girl desk mate?
She bully you?” Fei Fei teased.

“Nope.”

Who’s bullying who?

Back home by 10, nearly lunchtime.

Mom wasn’t eating; Dad didn’t need minding.
They made egg fried rice with leftovers.
He considered fetching Xin Yu, but her grandma’s relatives were visiting with good food, urging him to stay.
He chose Fei Fei.

After watching Dongxi Anime Club’s weekend special, Fei Fei popped in Meteor Garden, a clichéd idol drama with decent car chase scenes.

She sat him on her lap, squeezing his arm during tense scenes, treating him like a pillow.

As a kid, he didn’t care for idol dramas or girly novels—just watched or read whatever, engrossed.

He wasn’t rushing to write his novel; time with Fei Fei was precious, serene.

They lounged on the sofa till 4:30.
She paused the DVD.
“Let’s water the garden, grab some veggies.”

Right at a cliffhanger—she had restraint.

Mom usually tended the garden, but on non-study Saturdays, Fei Fei went.
Yesterday, Mom carried buckets of night soil there, with Fei Fei and Xin Yu tagging along.

The garden was close, along crisscrossing dirt paths, sun-baked and cracking.

Canal water gurgled, teeming with tadpoles and creepy red worms.
Roadsides and stone cracks sprouted plantain, snakeberries with tiny yellow flowers, foxtails, and nameless wildflowers.

Kids heard snakeberries were snake food, grown from their spit or crawled over—slightly toxic, often pesticide-tainted, less tasty than raspberries or mulberries.

Chen Qiao played with a foxtail, then swung a straight stick.
Fei Fei carried a woven basket with scissors.

Their family’s plot, prime land split by irrigation channels, grew pumpkins, cucumbers, tomatoes, and water spinach.
Sweet potatoes went on barren hills.

They watered with a plastic dipper—wooden handle, perforated—or a sprinkler can.

Fei Fei used the dipper; he took the can, nearly tumbling into the ditch, earning her giggles.

Siblings together, work was light.

By afternoon, Lin Na and Lin Yu’s stall wound down—market day slowed after 2 p.m., with locals bargain-hunting near dusk.

Wu Xin Yu, done with her essay class, walked home, studying a test paper—not hers, but Chen Qiao’s.

Teacher Yang used it for analysis, usually picking Wu Xin Yu’s.
She’d praised Chen Qiao’s progress—neater handwriting, cleaner paper.

She scored 99 in Chinese, losing one on the essay; Chen Qiao got 100.
Yang said it encouraged his effort, but Wu Xin Yu wasn’t convinced, borrowing his paper to see why.

His essay mastered techniques—parallelism, metaphors, apt quotes—clear, with simple beauty, unlike her ornate, sometimes risky wordplay that cost points.

Impressive.
She’d attended math class that morning—full marks, as expected.
But Chen Qiao matched her.

Two perfect scores crushed her.
It wasn’t losing—it was him excelling while “dating,” making her diligent study feel clownish.

She asked about Lin Na: 81 in Chinese, typical, but failed math, infuriating the teacher.

Chen Qiao’s fault, surely—acing his own tests while tanking his “girlfriend’s.”

Wu Xin Yu planned to intervene, becoming his desk mate to shield Lin Na.
Sitting with Lin Na would harm her current partner.
Chen Qiao wouldn’t sway her—she was confident—and she’d uncover his study secrets, likely Fei Fei’s tutoring.

Half the credit went to Fei Fei.

She pitched switching seats to Yang, citing essay discussions and their courtesy team duties for easier seating post-inspections.

Both top students, Yang saw no issue, hoping for synergy to boost her essay class’s appeal, even considering letting Chen Qiao audit for free.