The year she graduated from elementary school, the drought was severe.
The wheat grew short and the heads were shriveled.
Villagers squatted by the fields, sighing one after another.
Bian Feifei’s grades were mediocre—she did okay in Chinese but struggled in arithmetic, her paper covered with red crosses, as if someone had sprinkled chili powder across her notebook.
On the day the results were posted, Teacher Fang called her into the office, flipping through her test papers.
“Feifei,” she said, “your heart is bright, but you’re just too timid.
When I ask a question, you hold back for ages before answering.
This habit must change.”
She lowered her head, twisting the corner of her shirt until the fabric frayed, yet still didn’t dare to look up.
Outside the school, the sun blazed fiercely.
She walked home along the village path, where a few older children sat under a tree cracking sunflower seeds.
Seeing her, one shouted, “Hey, cripple’s daughter!
What did you get?”
She ignored them and quickened her pace.
Behind her, laughter erupted.
The dirt road turned pale under the sun; corn leaves curled at the edges, rustling faintly in the breeze like hushed whispers.
She hurried forward, kicking up fine dust that slipped into the torn toe of her cloth shoes, digging painfully into her feet.
She remembered Teacher Fang’s sigh as she flipped through her paper, remembered those red marks on her notebook—her chest felt heavy, as if pressed down by a millstone. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
She didn’t understand why, sitting in the same classroom, others answered so quickly while she always choked on her words, unable to utter a single syllable.
She could hear her own heartbeat, loud and pounding, louder than her footsteps.
Under the old locust tree at the village entrance, several newly married women sat.
Some held babies, others sewed shoe soles, their blouses open as they nursed, faces tanned by the sun.
One woman named Daya spotted her and waved, “Feifei, come sit with us.”
Bian Feifei walked over and crouched beside the shade of the tree.
“How old are you?” Daya asked.
“Twelve.”
“Twelve?
Not little anymore.” Daya smiled, revealing a chipped front tooth.
“In two or three years, you’ll be getting married.
Listen, marriage is good.
Marry into a family with oxen, and you won’t have to work the fields.”
The other women laughed along, not unkindly, but with a quiet resignation.
They spoke of dowries, of land in the husband’s household, whether they’d have a child next year.
They talked so naturally, as if twelve-year-old Bian Feifei could already see herself at thirty—squatting beneath another locust tree, cradling a different baby.
Bian Feifei slowly clenched her fists. Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
Suddenly, she felt suffocated, as if the air itself had crushed her breath.
She stood up and said, “I’m going home.”
Daya called out behind her, “Hey, what’s this little girl running off for—”
She ran all the way home, slammed the door shut from the inside, leaned her back against it, chest rising and falling rapidly.
Her mother was busy in the kitchen, gesturing and asking what was wrong.
But she couldn’t speak—only shook her head.
Guiying watched her for a moment, then turned to the stove, pulled out a hot sweet potato, and thrust it into her hands.
The potato was scalding, and she passed it from hand to hand, tears falling first.
The flickering firelight danced across her mother’s face.
Her mother didn’t speak, but her hands did—the warmth, the silent comfort—Bian Feifei absorbed it all.
She broke the sweet potato in half, gave one piece to her mother, and held the other to her mouth.
As the sweetness spread across her tongue, the tight knot in her chest slowly began to settle.
That night, lying curled up on the kang bed, she wasn’t thinking about the women under the locust tree.
She thought only of Teacher Fang’s words: “Too timid.” She rolled onto her side, facing the wall, and whispered to herself: “I don’t want to be like that.
I don’t want my future to be something I can see right away.”
Outside, the first summer rain fell, tapping against the broken eaves, pattering steadily—like someone drumming for her, beat after beat.
She didn’t know where she would go, only that she refused to accept that fate.