In March, the wind still carried the remnants of winter, stinging the face when it blew.
On the blackboard at the back of Classroom 3 (Class Three), there was a piece of red paper, listing the payment list for this semester.
The names that had paid were marked with a red check, while those who hadn’t were left blank.
Bian Feifei’s name was on the second-to-last line, with an empty space behind it, just like the corner where she usually sat.
The head teacher’s surname was Qian, in her forties, teaching mathematics.
Her voice was so loud that it could even lift the roof of the classroom.
He slapped the triangular ruler onto the podium: “The total for this semester’s supplementary teaching fees, test fees, and accommodation and meal expenses amounts to one hundred and eighty-seven yuan.
All should be paid by next Monday.
Those who fail to do so will have to stand in class or even in the corridor.”
The attention of the entire class suddenly shifted, focusing on the last row.
Bian Feifei lowered her head, her fingers twisting the washed-out corner of her white shirt.
The blue cotton coat was made by her mother, with frayed cuffs and two patches on her arms, the color being darker than the rest of the garment.
One hundred and eighty-seven yuan.
She repeatedly counted these words in her mind.
Her father sold half a bag of food rations last month, gathering seventy yuan, which was still not enough for half.
She had initially held onto a glimmer of hope – perhaps Teacher Qian was just bluffing.
But on Monday morning, when the roll call was called to her, Teacher Qian didn’t even lift her eyelid: “Bian Feifei, stand outside.
”
When she stood up, the leg of the stool scraped a harsh sound on the cement floor.
More than seventy pairs of eyes were fixed on her.
Some people chuckled in a low voice.
The corridor was long, leading to the staircase at one end.
The morning reading wind crept in through the window gaps, messing her hair.
She leaned against the cold wall, holding up her book, reciting English words silently, only audible to herself.
Other classes’ students passed by, pointing and gesticulating.
A boy deliberately came out to fetch water, spilling it at her feet and running away with a smile.
She didn’t move.
The first class was English.
Through the glass, she saw the classmates in the classroom reading the words to the recording.
Her mouth opened and closed.
She also opened her mouth, silently repeating along the empty corridor.
Her hands were frozen.
She blew her nose, and the white mist dispersed in the light cast by the blackboard.
Suddenly, she remembered her father’s lame leg and her mother’s working until midnight to sew shoe patches.
At that time, she didn’t know what “life” meant.
She felt a lump of damp cotton blocking her chest, making it hard to breathe.
During the break, her deskmate Xiaomin quietly came out and handed her a still warm steamed bun: “Eat it first.”
She accepted it, shaking her head: “You keep it.”
“Me?
I don’t like it.” Xiaomin finished speaking and ran away.
During the second break, Teacher Qian came from the other end of the corridor, with loud footsteps.
He walked up to her, paused for a moment, looked at her, as if wanting to say something, but finally just said: “Tell your father to do it quickly.”
She murmured “Yes,” and lowered her head even more.
That entire afternoon, she was forced to stand in the corridor until her legs became numb.
When the放学 bell rang, the students scattered, chatting and laughing.
She leaned against the wall, slowly squatting down, and sat down for a long time before getting up.
As the sky darkened, she returned to the dormitory, took out her diary, and wrote a few words under the lamp, then crossed them out.
Finally, she wrote –
“I don’t want to go to school anymore.”
After finishing, she leaned against the desk, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably, but without making a sound.
The girl on the upper bunk turned over and muttered, “The light is off,” and she hurriedly closed the notebook.
Outside the window, one of the street lights on the dormitory building turned on, dimly illuminating a small patch of ground.
She stared at that light for a long time, and for the first time, an idea of running away popped into her mind – go far away, to a place where no one knows that her father is lame and her mother is mute.
But the next morning, she still carried her schoolbag, was the first to enter the classroom, sat next to the warm heating panel, and recited the English words again.
That steamed bun, wrapped overnight, she broke into two halves.
One was for breakfast, and the other was saved for lunch.
No one knew that on that day, as she walked down the corridor, that nerve in her heart had been stretched to an extremely thin point.
So thin that it was almost about to break.