Chapter 3: The Ugly Duckling and the White Swan

Ding-a-ling—

The bell for the end of class rang.
Chen Qiao snapped back to reality.
His nosebleed had stopped, but his legs felt numb from standing.
His school uniform and red scarf were stained with blood and water.
He pulled out the handkerchief stuffed in his nose and washed his face with both hands.

The blue handkerchief, embroidered with plum blossoms, was stained with blood.
No amount of scrubbing would clean it—probably needed soap or detergent.

In the corner of the handkerchief, the name Lin Na was printed.
So familiar—his desk mate, wasn’t it?

Chen Qiao felt odd stares around him.
Looking up, he saw a girl in a pink skirt on a sign.
He was at the sink outside the girls’ bathroom.
By tomorrow, his “pervert” reputation would spread through the school, then the whole village.

In a small rural place, gossip spread fast—one to ten, ten to a hundred, everyone would know.

Chen Qiao shrugged and headed toward the familiar teaching building.
He was in Class 2, Grade 6, on the sixth floor.
Not many students—each grade had just two classes.
Around 2015, a small baby boom would hit, tied to the two-child policy.
The village even built a fancy kindergarten with fees matching the county’s.
But a few years later, it ran out of students.

Panting, Chen Qiao climbed to the sixth floor.
His body lacked exercise, short and weak—a typical shut-in.
Reborn, he’d have to train hard to build a strong physique.
How else could he rise above?

He entered the classroom just as the prep bell rang.
It was noisy—fresh off gym class, kids fanned themselves with folded homework or textbooks.
Some crowded under the room’s two fans, one above the teacher’s desk, the other in the center.

The slow, creaky fans barely moved air.
Crowded with kids, they made it hotter.

Naughty boys made fart noises with folded paper, playing with desk mates.
Some girls played string games or cross-stitched.
No one seemed worried about the upcoming graduation exam.
Unlike later years, elementary school wasn’t so intense.
Parents didn’t hover with tutoring.
Ninety-nine percent of kids moved on locally.
The most driven ones took private lessons with teachers, getting extra help after class or special attention in school.

Chen Qiao spotted his seat—first row, fourth column, by the window.
Seats switched every two weeks, and now he had the window spot.
No curtains, the afternoon sun baked the room.

Being short, he sat in the front row, paired with a girl—the only boy in class with a female desk mate.
As a kid, he thought it was embarrassing.
Now, he knew how rare it was.

His desk mate, Lin Na, was petite, often slouching, lacking confidence.
Her skin was dark from helping at her family’s fruit stall, probably doing farm work too.
No sunscreen—her arms under her sleeves were paler.

She had a younger sister, diagnosed with type 1 diabetes in eighth grade.
The school raised some medical funds.
That was during Chen Qiao’s darkest time—too caught up in his own mess to help.

Holding the damp handkerchief, Chen Qiao said, “Thanks for the handkerchief.
It helped a lot, but I got it dirty.
I’ll wash it and return it.”

“No need, I’ll wash it myself.”

Lin Na quickly grabbed the handkerchief, spreading it on her book under the sunlight streaming into the classroom to dry.

The homeroom teacher, Yang Fang, walked in with materials, shouting, “Class meeting, everyone back to your seats.”

Kids by the fans scattered to their places.

Yang Fang, a middle-aged woman with gold-rimmed glasses, was stern, likely menopausal.
She was scary when angry.

She’d taught Chen Qiao in third grade, then took maternity leave.
Back now, she ran an essay tutoring class at her teacher’s apartment.
Chen Qiao tried a session, but when he heard about the fees, he didn’t go back.

Chen Qiao tried squeezing past Lin Na to his seat, thinking he was slim.
He wasn’t.
His legs brushed her back.
Lin Na thoughtfully moved her stool forward, letting him slip in easily.

Sitting on the long bench, he blocked most of the scorching sunlight.
Even the classroom walls felt hot.

“Class begins.”

Yang Fang announced loudly.
The class monitor shouted, “Stand up!”

Chen Qiao stood right after sitting.
The classroom filled with the sound of stool legs scraping the floor.
With the class, he shouted, “Hello, teacher.”

“Yes, hello, students.
Today’s class meeting begins.
Summer’s coming, and it’s getting hot.
You’re graduating soon—no swimming in the river, got it?”

Same old warnings.
Every year, someone drowned—kids or rescuers.
The village river was polluted, full of garbage, sometimes dead pigs, reeking and black.
No one dared swim there anymore.
You’d have to go upstream in the mountains.

Could a swimming pool make money?
Chen Qiao’s adult mind jumped to business ideas, ignoring the teacher’s repetitive talk.

Sitting back, he ran his hand over the rough, pitted desk.
Turning, he studied Lin Na’s profile.
She seemed to be working on today’s math homework.

Her skin was dark, but her features were neat—straight nose, long lashes.
Her lips, dry from gym class, looked parched.

Her slightly rough hair was tied in a simple short ponytail with a cheap black hair tie.
Her chest was flat, undeveloped.
Wu Xin Yu, though, had started developing—her family was better off.

Chen Qiao looked for Wu Xin Yu.
She sat at the second desk in the first row, right side, tugging her collar slightly, fanning herself with her right hand.
It was hot.

Though far apart, Wu Xin Yu turned, meeting his gaze.
Her small face scowled, lips pursed, glaring at him.

Weird—he hadn’t done anything to upset her.
If anyone should be mad, it was him.

It was probably Wu Xin Yu who threw the basketball that hit him.
Why else would she care?
They barely interacted.
She didn’t attend middle school locally—probably went to the county or city.
Teachers’ kids were always overachievers, racking up awards like his sister.

The teacher finished her routine spiel, telling everyone to study.
Questions could go to her.
She patrolled, checking who wasn’t focused.

Chen Qiao turned, propping his chin on one hand, staring at Lin Na’s profile.
He recalled classmates nicknaming Lin Na “Ugly Duckling” and Wu Xin Yu “White Swan.”
Comparisons hurt.

Lin Na was short and dark, with average grades, quiet, with few friends.
After school, she helped at her family’s fruit stall.

Wu Xin Yu had fair skin, was a top student, and helped classmates with questions.
Though she wore the same uniform, her hairstyles and accessories changed daily—not because she was vain, but because her mom had time to style her hair, treating her like a princess.

Comparing Wu Xin Yu to Lin Na was unfair.
Few in the grade, school, or village could match her.
His sister was one.

Lin Na squirmed under Chen Qiao’s stare, turning her back to him.
They were desk mates with a “38th parallel” line—never crossing it.
Even an accidental elbow touch made them blush, hearts racing.

Finally, Lin Na tucked her hair behind her ear, biting her lip.
“Chen Qiao… is there something on my face?”

“No, I just wanted to ask about today’s homework.
I didn’t note it.”

His mind was still a mess, overwhelmed by information.
Small details slipped away.

“Math homework is exercises 1, 3, and 5, plus equations and word problems on the back blackboard.”

Chen Qiao glanced at the back blackboard.
The neat handwriting wasn’t the math teacher’s bold strokes—probably Wu Xin Yu’s, the study and math rep.

“Chinese homework is the test paper copied on the board this afternoon,” Lin Na said, flipping open her notebook.

Yang Fang, the Chinese teacher, was dedicated, giving them old test papers to practice.
With limited school funds, they couldn’t print copies for everyone.
Paying for them was out of the question.
The Chinese rep copied questions on the board at noon, and students arrived early to write answers.

Serious students like Lin Na copied the questions too, leaving space or drawing a crooked line with a ruler.
Answers were in pencil.

The questions were about choosing correct pronunciations for marked characters, filling in idioms, connectives, recitation, fixing sentence errors, and identifying rhetorical devices.

Chen Qiao flipped through his notebook.
His Chinese homework was done, but math was just questions copied, meant to finish at home.

In his drawer was a red sash, old and fraying, tassels nearly gone.
It read “Lanhe Town Baiyun Elementary Civility Guidance Team.”
He was a guidance team member since fifth grade.
Teachers picked two top students per class starting in fourth grade.

Chen Qiao got the role because Wu Xin Yu was already on the team, and another high achiever, the class monitor, declined.

The team checked hygiene in classrooms and areas, tied to the “Civilized Class” ranking.
They ensured red scarves were worn and confiscated toys like marbles, Yu-Gi-Oh!, or Three Kingdoms cards.

Chen Qiao turned in some cards but pocketed others.

“Just this for homework, right?” Chen Qiao asked, holding his notebook and math book.
He didn’t want to do homework at home—bigger things awaited.

“Yeah.
Wait, you finished it all?” Lin Na tilted her head, surprised.

“Is that weird?”

Lin Na waved her hands.
“No, no.”

Realizing she was loud, she glanced at the teacher.
Yang Fang was by the back blackboard, near the rowdy boys in the back.
Relieved, Lin Na relaxed.

“I heard the questions were hard today, um…”

Lin Na’s mouth opened, hesitating.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

She shook her head like a rattle.

“Want me to teach you how to do them?”

Lin Na’s notebook back was her scratch paper, filled with formulas.
She used the right numbers but got wildly wrong answers.

“I’m dumb.
You might not be able to teach me,” she said, embarrassed, head down.
Math was her weakness—she often failed.

“The harder it is, the more I like the challenge.
No dumb students, just bad teachers.
Plus, you lent me your handkerchief to stop my nosebleed—I owe you.”

No childhood sweetheart was one of Chen Qiao’s regrets.
Always gaming, he kept girls at a distance.
Turning an “Ugly Duckling” into a “White Swan” would be quite an achievement.

*

[Translation of the provided Chinese novel chapter into English, following the specified style guide]

Ding-a-ling—

The bell for the end of class rang.
Chen Qiao snapped back to reality.
His nosebleed had stopped, but his legs felt numb from standing.
His school uniform and red scarf were stained with blood and water.
He pulled out the handkerchief stuffed in his nose and washed his face with both hands.

The blue handkerchief, embroidered with plum blossoms, was stained with blood.
No amount of scrubbing would clean it—probably needed soap or detergent.

In the corner of the handkerchief, the name Lin Na was printed.
So familiar—his desk mate, wasn’t it?

Chen Qiao felt odd stares around him.
Looking up, he saw a girl in a pink skirt on a sign.
He was at the sink outside the girls’ bathroom.
By tomorrow, his “pervert” reputation would spread through the school, then the whole village.

In a small rural place, gossip spread fast—one to ten, ten to a hundred, everyone would know.

Chen Qiao shrugged and headed toward the familiar teaching building.
He was in Class 2, Grade 6, on the sixth floor.
Not many students—each grade had just two classes.
Around 2015, a small baby boom would hit, tied to the two-child policy.
The village even built a fancy kindergarten with fees matching the county’s.
But a few years later, it ran out of students.

Panting, Chen Qiao climbed to the sixth floor.
His body lacked exercise, short and weak—a typical shut-in.
Reborn, he’d have to train hard to build a strong physique.
How else could he rise above?

He entered the classroom just as the prep bell rang.
It was noisy—fresh off gym class, kids fanned themselves with folded homework or textbooks.
Some crowded under the room’s two fans, one above the teacher’s desk, the other in the center.

The slow, creaky fans barely moved air.
Crowded with kids, they made it hotter.

Naughty boys made fart noises with folded paper, playing with desk mates.
Some girls played string games or cross-stitched.
No one seemed worried about the upcoming graduation exam.
Unlike later years, elementary school wasn’t so intense.
Parents didn’t hover with tutoring.
Ninety-nine percent of kids moved on locally.
The most driven ones took private lessons with teachers, getting extra help after class or special attention in school.

Chen Qiao spotted his seat—first row, fourth column, by the window.
Seats switched every two weeks, and now he had the window spot.
No curtains, the afternoon sun baked the room.

Being short, he sat in the front row, paired with a girl—the only boy in class with a female desk mate.
As a kid, he thought it was embarrassing.
Now, he knew how rare it was.

His desk mate, Lin Na, was petite, often slouching, lacking confidence.
Her skin was dark from helping at her family’s fruit stall, probably doing farm work too.
No sunscreen—her arms under her sleeves were paler.

She had a younger sister, diagnosed with type 1 diabetes in eighth grade.
The school raised some medical funds.
That was during Chen Qiao’s darkest time—too caught up in his own mess to help.

Holding the damp handkerchief, Chen Qiao said, “Thanks for the handkerchief.
It helped a lot, but I got it dirty.
I’ll wash it and return it.”

“No need, I’ll wash it myself.”

Lin Na quickly grabbed the handkerchief, spreading it on her book under the sunlight streaming into the classroom to dry.

The homeroom teacher, Yang Fang, walked in with materials, shouting, “Class meeting, everyone back to your seats.”

Kids by the fans scattered to their places.

Yang Fang, a middle-aged woman with gold-rimmed glasses, was stern, likely menopausal.
She was scary when angry.

She’d taught Chen Qiao in third grade, then took maternity leave.
Back now, she ran an essay tutoring class at her teacher’s apartment.
Chen Qiao tried a session, but when he heard about the fees, he didn’t go back.

Chen Qiao tried squeezing past Lin Na to his seat, thinking he was slim.
He wasn’t.
His legs brushed her back.
Lin Na thoughtfully moved her stool forward, letting him slip in easily.

Sitting on the long bench, he blocked most of the scorching sunlight.
Even the classroom walls felt hot.

“Class begins.”

Yang Fang announced loudly.
The class monitor shouted, “Stand up!”

Chen Qiao stood right after sitting.
The classroom filled with the sound of stool legs scraping the floor.
With the class, he shouted, “Hello, teacher.”

“Yes, hello, students.
Today’s class meeting begins.
Summer’s coming, and it’s getting hot.
You’re graduating soon—no swimming in the river, got it?”

Same old warnings.
Every year, someone drowned—kids or rescuers.
The village river was polluted, full of garbage, sometimes dead pigs, reeking and black.
No one dared swim there anymore.
You’d have to go upstream in the mountains.

Could a swimming pool make money?
Chen Qiao’s adult mind jumped to business ideas, ignoring the teacher’s repetitive talk.

Sitting back, he ran his hand over the rough, pitted desk.
Turning, he studied Lin Na’s profile.
She seemed to be working on today’s math homework.

Her skin was dark, but her features were neat—straight nose, long lashes.
Her lips, dry from gym class, looked parched.

Her slightly rough hair was tied in a simple short ponytail with a cheap black hair tie.
Her chest was flat, undeveloped.
Wu Xin Yu, though, had started developing—her family was better off.

Chen Qiao looked for Wu Xin Yu.
She sat at the second desk in the first row, right side, tugging her collar slightly, fanning herself with her right hand.
It was hot.

Though far apart, Wu Xin Yu turned, meeting his gaze.
Her small face scowled, lips pursed, glaring at him.

Weird—he hadn’t done anything to upset her.
If anyone should be mad, it was him.

It was probably Wu Xin Yu who threw the basketball that hit him.
Why else would she care?
They barely interacted.
She didn’t attend middle school locally—probably went to the county or city.
Teachers’ kids were always overachievers, racking up awards like his sister.

The teacher finished her routine spiel, telling everyone to study.
Questions could go to her.
She patrolled, checking who wasn’t focused.

Chen Qiao turned, propping his chin on one hand, staring at Lin Na’s profile.
He recalled classmates nicknaming Lin Na “Ugly Duckling” and Wu Xin Yu “White Swan.”
Comparisons hurt.

Lin Na was short and dark, with average grades, quiet, with few friends.
After school, she helped at her family’s fruit stall.

Wu Xin Yu had fair skin, was a top student, and helped classmates with questions.
Though she wore the same uniform, her hairstyles and accessories changed daily—not because she was vain, but because her mom had time to style her hair, treating her like a princess.

Comparing Wu Xin Yu to Lin Na was unfair.
Few in the grade, school, or village could match her.
His sister was one.

Lin Na squirmed under Chen Qiao’s stare, turning her back to him.
They were desk mates with a “38th parallel” line—never crossing it.
Even an accidental elbow touch made them blush, hearts racing.

Finally, Lin Na tucked her hair behind her ear, biting her lip.
“Chen Qiao… is there something on my face?”

“No, I just wanted to ask about today’s homework.
I didn’t note it.”

His mind was still a mess, overwhelmed by information.
Small details slipped away.

“Math homework is exercises 1, 3, and 5, plus equations and word problems on the back blackboard.”

Chen Qiao glanced at the back blackboard.
The neat handwriting wasn’t the math teacher’s bold strokes—probably Wu Xin Yu’s, the study and math rep.

“Chinese homework is the test paper copied on the board this afternoon,” Lin Na said, flipping open her notebook.

Yang Fang, the Chinese teacher, was dedicated, giving them old test papers to practice.
With limited school funds, they couldn’t print copies for everyone.
Paying for them was out of the question.
The Chinese rep copied questions on the board at noon, and students arrived early to write answers.

Serious students like Lin Na copied the questions too, leaving space or drawing a crooked line with a ruler.
Answers were in pencil.

The questions were about choosing correct pronunciations for marked characters, filling in idioms, connectives, recitation, fixing sentence errors, and identifying rhetorical devices.

Chen Qiao flipped through his notebook.
His Chinese homework was done, but math was just questions copied, meant to finish at home.

In his drawer was a red sash, old and fraying, tassels nearly gone.
It read “Lanhe Town Baiyun Elementary Civility Guidance Team.”
He was a guidance team member since fifth grade.
Teachers picked two top students per class starting in fourth grade.

Chen Qiao got the role because Wu Xin Yu was already on the team, and another high achiever, the class monitor, declined.

The team checked hygiene in classrooms and areas, tied to the “Civilized Class” ranking.
They ensured red scarves were worn and confiscated toys like marbles, Yu-Gi-Oh!, or Three Kingdoms cards.

Chen Qiao turned in some cards but pocketed others.

“Just this for homework, right?” Chen Qiao asked, holding his notebook and math book.
He didn’t want to do homework at home—bigger things awaited.

“Yeah.
Wait, you finished it all?” Lin Na tilted her head, surprised.

“Is that weird?”

Lin Na waved her hands.
“No, no.”

Realizing she was loud, she glanced at the teacher.
Yang Fang was by the back blackboard, near the rowdy boys in the back.
Relieved, Lin Na relaxed.

“I heard the questions were hard today, um…”

Lin Na’s mouth opened, hesitating.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

She shook her head like a rattle.

“Want me to teach you how to do them?”

Lin Na’s notebook back was her scratch paper, filled with formulas.
She used the right numbers but got wildly wrong answers.

“I’m dumb.
You might not be able to teach me,” she said, embarrassed, head down.
Math was her weakness—she often failed.

“The harder it is, the more I like the challenge.
No dumb students, just bad teachers.
Plus, you lent me your handkerchief to stop my nosebleed—I owe you.”

No childhood sweetheart was one of Chen Qiao’s regrets.
Always gaming, he kept girls at a distance.
Turning an “Ugly Duckling” into a “White Swan” would be quite an achievement.