Chapter 42: It’s Raining
After checking the office building’s cleanliness, Chen Qiao returned to the classroom with Wu Xin Yu, who didn’t say a word the whole way.
He rambled to himself.
On paper, he wrote, “Mad?”
“No,” she replied, her pen nearly piercing the page—clearly furious.
“Even without Zheng Hui Jun seeing me carry your bag, the rumors wouldn’t stop.”
“I know.
Check this—I wrote it last night.”
“Whoa.”
She actually wrote.
“Let’s see.”
Titled The Death of the Goldfish, it was a short, essay-like piece about her killing a pet goldfish, flowery and showy.
“Like your usual essays—fancy words, technical flair, but stuck in that essay structure.
More blank space would help—let readers ponder the fish’s fate.
Make it more fairy-tale-like or add twists to stir emotions.”
He spouted theory smoothly, but writing brought issues he barely noticed, especially during daily serial updates.
“Noted.
Show me yours.”
“Here…”
“So little?
Were you studying last night?”
He barely wrote in class—no way he studied at home.
“The plot doesn’t connect to yesterday’s.”
“Part’s on the computer.”
“What’d you write?
Tell me.”
During breaks, Lin Na came to his desk with finished problems.
With Chinese and math in full review mode, his questions for her followed the teacher’s pace, reinforcing basics.
After earlier gap-filling, staying on track would boost her scores noticeably.
He stood inside the desk, explaining; she stood outside, both angled to see the problems.
When she got them right, he patted her head.
She was used to it, barely reacting but blushing, especially under Wu Xin Yu’s gaze, feeling like a thief.
She knew she should refuse but craved more.
As an older sister, Lin Na had no one to pamper her—parents doted on her frail younger sister.
She accepted it as her role but secretly yearned for care.
To Wu Xin Yu, they were the perfect couple, circled in a heart.
During morning exercises, clouds hid the sun, peeking out occasionally—cool, not sunny.
Wang Yi Lin announced daily English homework, sparking class groans.
“Your idea?” Wu Xin Yu asked.
“Does she know about you and Lin Na?”
“Nope, and it wouldn’t matter—we’re innocent.”
“Pfft, as if,” she scoffed.
“She knows I write novels.
Caught me in class.
Notice I don’t write much in English?”
He did, but only to lure Wang Yi Lin over for a playful book-tap on his head, her brows raised, flirting without fear of confiscation.
“She reads it too?” Wu Xin Yu said, a strange feeling rising—jealousy, maybe.
“Just flipped through it once, no interest, doesn’t follow.”
“Follow?”
“Reading as I write—chasing updates.
Only core fans do that.”
“Am I your core fan?”
“Aren’t you?”
He juggled two notebooks—novels and stories—to keep her hooked.
After school, Lin Na ran to his desk, palms together.
“Sorry, Chen Qiao.
My parents thought I failed and got detention.
I don’t want my sister going home alone, so no after-school tutoring.
I’ll catch up during breaks and self-study—thanks.”
She felt she took too much of his time, wanting to give him and Wu Xin Yu space.
Worrying about her sister was true.
Wu Xin Yu blamed herself, wondering about swapping seats back during self-study.
She copied math homework; he did English.
The Chinese rep, a boarder, copied after lunch.
They each grabbed a stool for the blackboard.
As he slipped off his sandals to step up, she stopped him.
“Wait—use this chair.
I’ll take ours.”
His feet were too dirty.
They swapped.
She sat, slipped off her white sneakers, neatly aligned—mild OCD—revealing spotless white socks, dainty ankles begging to be pinched.
Halfway through copying, a gust rattled unhooked windows.
He jumped down, put on sandals, and shut them.
Window-side kids were responsible—broken glass meant blame, even if class funds covered it.
Everyone wanted leftover class fees as pocket money at graduation.
He finished first—English was quicker.
Wu Xin Yu was halfway.
“Done.
Want help?
Looks like rain.”
Noon felt like dusk.
“Two left—I finish what I start.”
He moved to her stool.
She glanced at his feet.
“I’ll sit where I stepped,” he said.
Relieved, she resumed copying, pressing the problem sheet between them on the board, tacitly letting him help.
His left hand touched hers on the paper.
Startled, she pulled back; his hold kept it from falling.
She pouted, glared, and pressed the paper’s edge, far from his hand.
He copied the last word problem.
Finishing first, she eyed his chalk writing.
“Your handwriting’s ugly.”
“Readable’s enough—don’t nitpick,” he said, dusting chalk off.
Not bad, but her neat script outshone his.
They returned the stools, her flipping his so his stepped side faced inward.
They rushed downstairs, beating boarders, as raindrops fell, cool on their necks.
“Jinx,” she grumbled, sprinting across the field to the office building for shelter, her bag’s books and pencil case clanging.
“My fault?
Anyone’d say it’s gonna rain,” he said, leisurely opening his umbrella.
Rain grew heavier, signaling the long rainy season—a race against time and death.
Tunnel edges were wet, trapping Wu Xin Yu.
Some boarders dashed to dorms; others eyed his umbrella, hoping to share.
He held it over her.
“No umbrella?”
“Nope—bad call.
Why’d it wait till we’re leaving?”
Timely rain—pouring before school, stopping on arrival, or vice versa.
“Let’s go—I’ll walk you.
Rain won’t stop soon.
Gotta pick up my sister—she forgot her umbrella too.”
He knew rain was coming, deliberately didn’t remind Fei Fei, wanting to share an umbrella home.
With her network, she’d likely borrow one or share with Ye Qing Lan, though the last stretch might mean a little wet.
He also wanted to inspect the landslide site for preventive measures, not relying on tardy alerts.