Chapter 40: Cure Poverty First

After school, Chen Qiao grabbed the recorder from the office and headed to Wang Yi Lin’s teacher dorm.
The door was open; she sat, hands propping her cheeks, sighing.
So young, yet so sentimental.

“Teacher Wang, I’m here,” he said, knocking lightly.
“Keep sighing, and happiness will slip away.”

“Oh, Chen Qiao, you’re here,” she said.
“My happiness now is boosting your grades.
Any secrets to your English jump?”

“Just memorize words.
I worked super hard for your reward,” he hinted.

“I know that, but some kids don’t take it seriously or can’t retain,” she groaned, taking the recorder, plugging it in, and playing a tape.
She couldn’t reward every high scorer, could she?
And hugs weren’t for everyone.

Gifts?
No budget.
Better to focus on teaching.

“Do more problems and tests,” he said.

A brute-force method, but effective.

“Tests?” Wang Yi Lin perked up—she’d passed CET-4 by grinding questions.

“Yeah, Chinese and math teachers pile on problems daily.
Lunch breaks mean two blackboard assignments, sometimes printed tests.”

“Makes sense, but some copy homework or skip it,” she said, slumping again, doodling circles on her desk.

“No saving those who don’t want to learn.
Most can be helped.
Assign problems, explain them in class, translate to Chinese, repeat.
Repetition sticks.”

She only covered textbook exercises and post-exam questions—sparse, with just two English classes weekly.

“I’ll make my own questions, ask the principal or other teachers for other schools’ tests.
Is copying them to the blackboard too much trouble?” she asked.

“For you, I’d do anything.
As English class rep, it’s my job,” he vowed earnestly.

She laughed, warmth spreading, pinching his cheek.
“Thanks!
Room on the blackboard for English homework?”

“Plenty—shift stuff, ten-plus questions, no problem.”

“Great!
I’ll draft third-grade questions tonight.
Tomorrow noon, it’s on you.”

“Got it,” he said, patting his chest.

Suddenly, she pulled him into a hug.
Unprepared, he tilted, face planting into her chest, hands on her back, fingers brushing her bra strap, cheek rubbing soft fabric, inhaling her faint scent greedily.

“Here’s your promised reward—don’t say I’m not trustworthy,” she said.

His playful clinginess didn’t annoy her; it sparked maternal warmth.
Rural teaching was lonely—no peers, no friends.
Music was her only pastime; now, maybe this too.

After thirty seconds, she pushed him back.
Her shirt collar was wrinkled, a gap showing pale skin and bra fabric, buttons intact.

“Better score next time—more rewards?” he asked.

“What else do you want?”

“A longer hug.”

“You little charmer—not obvious at all,” she laughed.

He wrote mature novels but acted childish—a stark contrast.

“Thanks, Teacher.
Love you most,” he said, stealing a quick peck on her cheek before bolting.
“See you, Teacher Wang!
Heading home!”

She touched her cheek, the damp sensation lingering, chuckling.
“Be careful, don’t run too fast, watch for cars!”

“Got it!”

His voice faded as she shook her head, muttering, “That kid…”

Humming, Chen Qiao strode home, thinking next time he’d kiss longer—too quick to feel.
At home, little Xin Yu awaited; he’d been smooching her cheeks, making her giggle.
His boldness grew—how to kiss Fei Fei without a slap, or get her to kiss him?

Last night’s scheduled novel update met the first signing threshold.
Time to check the black internet café for contract messages and submit to Story magazine, using Fei Fei’s bank card number.
Payments came via postal transfer or bank deposit.

Dad, thrilled at his double 100s and 99, offered 100 yuan pocket money, flush from partial debt repayment.
Mom stopped him.

“So much money for a kid?
He’ll buy junk food, get sick, or waste it on toys, picking up bad habits.”

“No money—sister,” Chen Qiao insisted.

“Sister?
Isn’t Xin Yu your sister?” Dad asked, eyeing her eating diligently.

Under Chen Qiao’s chopstick lessons, she’d mastered them, no longer fazed by his sister talk—he’d drilled it into her.

“Even with a sister, I’ll dote on you.
A sister means a younger auntie for you, a playmate.
Good, right?”

“Good!” Xin Yu cheered, now a staunch sister supporter.

Family hierarchy was a mess—bound to get messier.

“Uncle, Aunt, I want an auntie-sister too,” Xin Yu said, tugging Mom’s clothes, voice milky.

“You too?” Mom sighed.

“Fei Fei, you want a sister?” Dad asked.

“I…” Fei Fei glanced at Chen Qiao’s hopeful eyes.
“I’m fine either way.
Got a brother, a sister’s nice too.”

“Yay, love you, Sis!” he said, dropping his chopsticks, hugging her waist, face in her armpit.

His skin thickened—a good sign.
Shy as a kid, he refused to waste this rebirth with regrets.

Dad gave him 50 yuan, Fei Fei 100, Xin Yu 20—everyone got a share.
Xin Yu hesitated; Chen Qiao had Fei Fei hold hers.

“Let Auntie keep it for school fees, okay?”

Beyond tuition, there were insurance, uniforms, books, supplies—costs piled up.

“Okay, thanks, Granduncle…” Xin Yu thanked everyone, her politeness heart-wrenching.

“After my debt, you’ve got…” Fei Fei teased.

“No need to count—keep it.
I’ll ask when I need,” he said.

Money wouldn’t be an issue soon—step one: cure poverty.

“Alright,” Fei Fei said, pleased by his trust.

At the café, only Zheng Yan was there.

“Where’s Tian Zhen?”

“He flunked the monthly exam—his mom banned him from going out.
Invite him, he might sneak out.
I can’t—his mom thinks I’m the bad influence.”

“Expected.
Let him cool off at home.”

“Chen Qiao, you’re killing it—heard you bagged Wu Xin Yu.
Nice!” Zheng Yan gave a thumbs-up.

“Who said that?”

Wu Xin Yu thought he was with Lin Na; others paired him with Wu Xin Yu.
What a mess.

“Whole class is buzzing—don’t know who started it.
Fake?
No way.
You both hit 299, now desk mates—facts.”

“Eh…”

No point clarifying—fake now, true later.
Rumors helped, the more the better.
What did Wu Xin Yu think?

His novel had 66 favorites, sparse recommendation votes, and real comments urging updates—decent for an unpromoted newbie.
He replied sincerely, thanking support, but a refresh showed one less favorite—ouch.

The author dashboard pinged—a contract offer.

“Dear Author, your work has passed review and meets signing standards…”

It included editor Night Snow’s QQ, Group 4.

Great—first hurdle cleared.
A “keep updating, we’re watching” message meant another shot at 50,000 words.
Nothing meant consider quitting.
For pure newbies, not pros, finishing the first book was growth—nobody liked abandoned stories.
Pros weighed income, but abandoning a hit was too much.

It was after hours—hoping for quick friend approval.

“Stinky brother, online again?”

“I’m working!
Study—don’t you have biology and geography exams this term?”

Since this year, both counted 30% toward next year’s high school entrance exam.
Chess prodigies joined special admissions, and English oral tests shifted from “scenario response” to “dialogue”—135 written, 15 oral.

“How’d you know I’m reviewing those?”

He’d been through eighth grade.

“Test time.
Fail, and study.”

“Bring it—who’s scared?”

He copied a slew of exam questions from the web, sending them to Xia Zhi Rou.

“Too many!”
“Can’t write!”

Her replies drowned in questions.
Sneaking phone use during evening study—would a teacher buy her excuse if caught?

“Keep it up,” he replied.

A cough signaled a friend request approval—editors stayed invisible post-work, reading or reviewing.

“Hello, Editor, I’m…”

Standard signing process: he sent ID info.
Seeing his age, Night Snow asked, “You’re not joking?
Twelve, writing this?”

“Real.
No need for cheap pranks.
I read tons—classics, pirated bookstore novels that were actually web novels.
Found a goldmine online, binged, then wrote my own when I ran out.”

No sister-obsessed novels?
Write them himself—why many readers turn author.

He listed finished web novels, their plots, hooks, and innovations—some unnoted by current editors.
Night Snow was impressed.

“No signing minors?”

“It’s fine, just unprecedented.
Can you keep up updates?
Parents okay?
Affect studies?”

The deadly trio for young authors.

“No issue—fast typer, parents approve, or I wouldn’t touch a computer.
Top of my class.”

He’d shown typing speed earlier.

Night Snow gave tips—maintain updates, expect a secondary category push post-signing, full-site push if strong.
Sanjiang, the only self-applied slot, valued prose; good writing meant higher chances, but two rejections ended hopes.

She’d handle his Sanjiang to avoid redundant pushes.

“Contact me anytime.”

“Thanks, Editor.”

He sent a story to Story’s email, dreaming of dual success in web and print, a literary giant’s fantasy.