Chapter 14: My Deskmate

When the prep bell rang, Tian Zhen finally showed up.
Chen Qiao took off the sash and handed it back.
“Took you long enough.
Might as well not have come.”

“Heh, gotta put on a show,” Tian Zhen said, scratching his head with a grin.

The school gate was porous, but reaching the teaching building and field meant passing through a short uphill tunnel under the teachers’ office building.
After the class bell, the vice-principal and duty teachers stood at the tunnel exit, catching latecomers and those with messy uniforms.

To the right of the tunnel entrance were the cafeteria and shop; to the left, a row of washbasins filled with rice grains from washing lunchboxes or rinsing rice.

The cafeteria offered rice-steaming service.
Boarders had metal lunchboxes, rushing post-wakeup to place them in steamers, or they’d have to buy lunch.

One tunnel wall had the school bulletin board; the other displayed award-winning student works—calligraphy, drawings.
Chen Qiao spotted Wu Xin Yu’s bold calligraphy but none of Lin Na’s art.
She doodled princesses, dolls, cats, and dogs in textbooks or on scrap paper during class daydreams, making full use of blank spaces.

Climbing the teaching building stairs, he saw Wu Xin Yu descending, holding a pen and notebook, sash on.

“Perfect timing.
Let’s check hygiene.”

“My sash is still in the classroom.”

“Ugh, rookie mistake.
No time to grab it—let’s go.
Teachers know you, and I’ll vouch.”

“Fine.”

He didn’t want to run up and down.
He could’ve asked Lin Na to toss it down.

They were assigned the teachers’ office building—checking stairways and trash bins.
Students scrambled to sweep and dump trash.
Classrooms could be cleaned early, trash dumped near class time, but hygiene areas had to wait.

The office building’s narrow staircase maximized space.
Wu Xin Yu led, Chen Qiao trailing, catching her faint fragrance.

“Your nose okay?” she asked suddenly.

He pinched it.
“Fine now.”

“Good.”

They fell silent, splitting at the second floor to check left and right, then third and fourth.
It was clean—teachers didn’t litter, students didn’t dare, and some teachers even picked up stray trash.

With many teachers around, they kept saying, “Good morning, teacher.”

After checking, they raced back to their sixth-floor classroom.
Wu Xin Yu’s cheeks flushed, breathing rhythmically, determined not to be too late—a trait like his sister’s.

Chen Qiao felt a natural fondness for such principled girls.
A stand-in for his sister?

He wanted to slack, but trailing her too long looked odd, so he pushed to keep up, panting heavily.

She waited at the stair platform, loyal enough.

“Your stamina’s awful.
Always taking sick days, and you’re a boy…” she said.

“Cough…” Chen Qiao cleared his throat, embarrassed.
Exercise wasn’t instant; overdoing it could backfire.
His frail body couldn’t handle much.

Class had started three minutes ago.

“Report.”

They stood at the classroom door, saluting.
The math teacher nodded, and they headed to their seats.

Lin Na stood to let Chen Qiao pass, but the gap between desks was tight.
He brushed past her back, nose grazing her ponytail, tickling.
A small mole dotted her nape.

The back-row kids had pushed their desks forward.
Lin Na kept hers aligned, not shifting toward the reading corner.
Even if she did, the back rows would keep squeezing their space.

With only two classes per grade but 48 kids per class, the cramped old classroom was chaotic.

Only the front row’s desks stayed neat.
The rest were crooked, realigned only during seat changes, then messed up again.

Many nearby village schools closed, leaving three town elementaries: one in Hot Spring Village, one in Jade Field Village.
Unless parents could shuttle kids, most attended Baiyun Elementary, which offered boarding.

Families with means rented rundown town houses for convenience and work near new factories like cement or stone plants.

The math teacher was explaining yesterday’s blackboard problems, having students self-correct with red pens before submitting for review.

Then came sixth-grade content review for Friday’s monthly exam, covering the full year.
Next week was full revision.

Chen Qiao listened half a period, confirming he understood, then pulled out his notebook to write his novel.

The bell rang.
As group leader, he collected math homework, passing it to Wu Xin Yu, who delivered it to the office.

Seeing him return, Lin Na stepped into the aisle, letting him pass.
He felt a twinge of regret—he didn’t mind brushing past her.

“Finished the homework I gave you?” he asked, sitting sideways, back against the wall, arms on both desks, looking mature despite his young face.

“Done!” Lin Na said, visibly excited, digging through her crumpled notebook to find her work.

“Let me check if it’s right.”

Math required volume and breakthroughs.
The question-sea tactic, though old-school, worked—targeted problems on key concepts boosted grades fast.

Better grades built confidence, reducing her dislike for studying.

Elementary was just the start.
Many kids only clicked in middle or high school, surging ahead after playful, undisciplined early years.

Of the three assigned problems, she got the first two right, the last wrong.

“Where’s your work for this one?
Show me your scratch paper.”

Drafts revealed thought processes.
She flipped to the back, filled with scribbles.

“You started it right,” he said, pointing to a formula.

“I thought I messed up,” she said, head low, chin nearly touching her flat chest, like a scolded kid.

“Mistakes are normal.
I made this question tricky, like an exam trap.
You didn’t fully get it, so you doubted yourself.
Two out of three is passing.
Aim for all next time.”
He patted her head gently—her hair rougher than his sister’s.

It was instinctive.
To him, she was a kid needing encouragement.

With so many students, teachers focused on top performers or private tutoring kids.
No choice—salaries tied to titles, limited slots held by veterans, sometimes delayed pay.
Side gigs were a must, hence class leaders’ obsession with civilized class honors.

“I’ll give you three more.
Try them yourself.
Mistakes are fine—ask me if you’re stuck.”

“Mm,” she mumbled, head lower, cheeks faintly red, barely noticeable due to her skin.

Being patted like a child wasn’t just shy—it was humiliating.
Same age, same height, yet he treated her like a little sister.
She often patted her own sister, knowing the feeling.

Wu Xin Yu, returning with the math notebooks, saw him pat Lin Na’s head.
Was that their dynamic?
Coupled with him giving Lin Na’s sister candy…

To kids, head-patting, kissing, or hand-holding screamed romance.

Breaking rules repeatedly, no courtesy team discipline—Wu Xin Yu disapproved of types like Zheng Hui Jun.
Dating was for college.

Lin Na glanced at Chen Qiao, who was writing in his lined notebook, unfazed.

Though short, she helped at home, knew plenty, and dreamed of love—a prince charming.

But she knew her limits—nobody would like her.

Classmates called her Ugly Duckling, Lin Blackie, Lin Charcoal.
Ugly Duckling was the kindest.

As desk mates, she’d imagined romantic scenarios from soaps or anime.

Chen Qiao was good-looking, fair, smart.
His short stature felt relatable.
Yet, in a year, they’d barely spoken, keeping distance.

Before, he’d crawl under or climb over desks to get to his seat, never saying, “Excuse me,” overly polite, making her feel disliked.
No rumors linked them.

Some paired him with Wu Xin Yu—they were both courtesy team members, often checking hygiene together.

Kids loved shipping, but most thought no boy in school matched Wu Xin Yu.

After she lent him her handkerchief, everything changed.

He spoke to her, greeted her, tutored her, patted her head.

Did Wu Xin Yu’s basketball hit sour their bond?
They seemed fine this morning, greeting each other.

Staring at his focused profile, his head, she wanted to pat him back—no fair she alone felt embarrassed.

“Done?” he asked, noticing her gaze, unaware of her overthinking.
To him, this was a nurturing game.

“Not yet.”

“It’s class time.
Finish later.
Don’t get caught slacking.”

“You’re slacking too,” she muttered.
He’d been writing furiously last period, who knows what.

Next was Teacher Yang Fang’s Chinese class, focusing on essays—strong intros and conclusions.
She favored students in her private classes, including Wu Xin Yu, liking her more.

Elementary essays were easy for Chen Qiao, like eating or drinking—narrative pieces, no sweat.

His issue: don’t overwrite.
Around 600 words was enough.
Exams had limited space; spilling to the back was awkward.
For novels, though, more was better.