Chapter 45: Three people sitting at the same table

Rainy days hit Chen Qiao hardest when Mom dug out his old long rain boots, insisting he wear them to avoid catching a cold from puddle-splashing.

He could stomp through puddles in boots, but he’d always hated them—stuffy, uncomfortable rubber, awkward to wear.
Plus, a sixth-grader in rain boots?
Classmates would mock him.
As a kid, he’d been so conscious of others’ opinions—skipping boots in rain, ditching thermal pants in winter.

In the end, he complied, or Fei Fei and Mom wouldn’t let him leave.
No resisting?
Fine, he’d soak up their unconditional doting.

He packed his sandals in a plastic bag, swapping them at school as indoor shoes—genius move, pure cleverness.

The rain brought cooler air, so Mom made him wear his school uniform jacket.

On the way to school, naughty boys spun umbrellas, flinging droplets, shouting cheesy moves like “Stormy Pear Blossom Needle” or “Flying Leaf Blade,” or battled with long-handled umbrellas as spears and shields.

Rain shifted Chen Qiao and Wu Xin Yu’s gate duty to the office building tunnel, closer for hygiene checks.
But field cleaners suffered—sweeping with wet brooms under umbrellas, barely catching debris, resorting to picking trash by hand.

The classroom was a mess of water stains and muddy shoe prints, damp and dirty.
Some left umbrellas outside or hung them on corridor sills; others, fearing theft or mix-ups, brought them in.

Chen Qiao watched raindrops gather on windows, sliding down in winding trails.
Even with windows shut, water seeped through cracks.

During break, Lin Na came with questions.
Seeing her stand, Wu Xin Yu, feeling guilty, offered her seat.
“Lin Na, sit.
Next period’s self-study—let’s swap seats.
You here, I’ll take yours.”

Her words felt tangled—what a mess.

“Thanks,” Lin Na said, sitting in her old spot, familiar yet strange.
Wu Xin Yu was an angel—beautiful, kind.
Chen Qiao was great too, maybe a tad better.

He got a good-guy card out of nowhere.

“No need—this is your seat.
Sit anytime, no need to ask,” Wu Xin Yu said, lingering by the desk to read his latest chapter, learning from it.

Some boarder must’ve seen them share an umbrella, and now both classes knew—such big mouths.

As the prep bell rang, she closed the notebook, heading for her old seat.
But the math teacher arrived with a stack of printed tests.

Instinctively, she sat back down—good girls didn’t roam during class.

Lin Na, caught in the middle, panicked, trapped.
Math was her weakness; she feared the balding teacher, wanting to vanish, head low, muttering, Don’t see me, don’t see me.

Her trembling shook the bench, felt by Chen Qiao and Wu Xin Yu.

He grabbed her hand under the desk, rubbing her palm, boldly telling the teacher, “We’re teaching Lin Na math.”

Studying math?
No problem.

“Yeah, we’re reviewing what you taught today,” Wu Xin Yu backed him up.

“Good, very good!
Top students helping struggling ones—everyone should learn from Chen Qiao, Xin Yu, and Lin Na.
Lin Na’s attitude is worth emulating.
Many aren’t dumb but don’t study hard or ask for help.
I won’t name names—you know who you are,” the teacher said.

Chen Qiao and Lin Na had been desk mates until last week, so sitting close seemed fine.

“Finished today’s math homework?
Let’s go over it—face the backboard,” he said.

Lin Na exhaled, patting her flat chest.

The class turned to the rear blackboard.
Chen Qiao gave the teacher some face, pausing his novel to avoid drawing attention, sparing Lin Na’s nerves.

Three on one bench was tight, especially as he leaned center, taking advantage—what a beast.
He dreamed of being the middleman, arms around both, living the dream, but that goal was a summer away.

Afternoon-to-evening rain brought thunder and lightning, startling timid girls, some faking loud squeals for attention.

Sudden power outages dimmed classrooms, blackboards invisible, sparking cheers—rural power was shaky.
Middle school night study outages were pure chaos.

After school, juggling an umbrella and recorder was a hassle, so he asked Lin Na to hold the umbrella for a bit—mutual help goes far.

Her sister, Lin Yu, tagged along, giving him cold looks, likely jealous he “stole” her sister.
Kids were simple, possessive.
He’d fed her candy, but not enough—pocket money meant more sweets and snacks to stock.

“Teacher Wang, here’s the recorder, wrapped in plastic, barely wet,” he said.

“Thanks—I meant to tell you not to bother today, but the rain got worse, and I couldn’t go over,” Wang Yi Lin said.

“I’m heading home today, Teacher.”

“No music today?” she asked, surprised.

“Nope, gotta cook rice.
See you, Teacher.”

“Be careful in the rain,” she said, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

Alone, teaching rurally, she was lonely.
A close student like him, chatting about work or music—a shared passion—was rare.
He knew music well for a kid.
One song wasn’t enough to talk.

No choice—he’d neglect her this week.
The middle school landslide was top priority.
But playing hard-to-get, making her miss him, might make her chase—a sneaky win.

Rain often fell before dawn, waking people.
Thanks to it, Chen Qiao saw Fei Fei’s serene sleeping face—long lashes intertwined, soft hair on her cheeks, chest rising and falling gently.

He could stare forever but fought the urge to prank, swallowing hard, craving to kiss her face.

Fei Fei propped herself up, rubbing sleepy eyes, yawning.
Her nightgown slipped, baring her left shoulder and delicate collarbone.
She mussed her hair, exuding a messy, languid charm.

“You’re up early.
What time is it?”

“Before six,” he said, glancing at the clock.

“Sleep more.”

She hugged him back to bed, draping a leg over him, brushing his thighs, drifting back to sleep—rainy days were perfect for napping.

Good thing he hadn’t hit puberty’s morning reactions, or he’d be “poking” her by now.