Every piece of Feifei’s clothing had a patch on it.
There was a patch on her knee, another on her sleeve, and later on her bottom.
Guiying was skilled at patching, and the patches were neatly sewn, with fine stitches.
But the patches were still patches.
The new fabric was blue, the old one was grey.
After being washed for a few years, the colors became uneven, like someone had sewn together a patchwork of different pieces of land.
Her shoes were the same.
They were the brother’s worn-out shoes, which Guiying shortened the shoe opening, stuffed some cotton into it, and then put them on her.
The shoes were big, and when she walked, the heels made a “plop plop” sound.
In winter, without socks, she would put a handful of dry wheat straw in the shoes.
The straw would sting her feet, and after walking for a while, a red mark would form on the back of her feet.
She wasn’t without shoes or socks either.
The brother’s worn-out shoes were hers; the patched dress was hers.
Guiying sat by the lamp at night, turning over the brother’s worn-out clothes, unsewing them, piecing them back together, stitch by stitch, into hers.
When she did this, she always sewed two extra stitches, making them stronger so that the dress could last another year.
No one in the class wore more worn-out clothes than her.
The classmate next to her was called Liu Xiaojun.
His family was one of the prominent families in the village.
His father had a small store in the town.
Liu Xiaojun wore a white shirt, blue pants, and black and white sneakers with a pattern on them.
When he walked, he made no sound.
He disliked the earthy smell on Feifei and always moved the chair to the other side.
That day during the arithmetic class, the teacher was grading the homework from behind, and the first few children were whispering to each other.
Liu Xiaojun held a pencil and spent a long time drawing on a piece of paper.
After finishing, he pushed the paper to the girl in front to show her.
The girl burst out laughing, and then passed it to the girl behind.
The paper passed around in a circle, and finally reached Feifei.
On the paper was a person: one leg was long, the other was short, with a crutch tucked in the armpit, a cross mark on the face, and three words written crookedly beside it – “Bian Lop”.
Feifei’s hand immediately turned cold.
She recognized that crutch.
Her father didn’t have one, but the way he walked was exactly the same as what Liu Xiaojun had drawn.
“Does it look like this?” Liu Xiaojun turned his head, lowered his voice, and had a smug smile on his face.
“Your father walked like this, right?”
The laughter spread layer by layer, like ripples in water.
Someone shouted from behind in a strange voice: “Bian Lop, walking one step at a time up the slope -”
Feifei held the paper in her hand, wrinkled from squeezing.
She wanted to tear it.
But her fingers trembled and couldn’t exert enough strength.
She wanted to cry.
But the tears turned in her eyes and she forced them back – her mother was mute, and she couldn’t cry; if she cried, it would be like something.
The bell rang for the end of class.
She said nothing and folded the paper into a small square and stuffed it into her pants pocket.
On the way home from school, she walked alone.
At the edge of the river ditch in the village east, she took out the paper, tore it into very small pieces, and scattered them in the water.
The pieces of paper turned twice in the water and dispersed, floating away.
She sat by the ditch, looking at the pieces of paper, for a long time.
She thought: I have no father, I have only a walking shadow.
But I can’t say it.
If I say it, they will laugh even more.
That night, before going to sleep, she took off her patched clothes, folded them neatly, and pressed them under the pillow.
She thought, when I grow up, I want to wear one – one without any patches.
Just one.
It was only one that would suffice.
She didn’t know that many years later, there were dozens of clothes without patches in her closet, but this wish was like a needle, stuck in her heart, and couldn’t be removed.
She also didn’t know that the old patched dress, with patches on it, her mother had been keeping it for her.
Later, she never threw it away.