Frivolous - Chapter 6

Chapter 6

 

“Do you want me to help you remember?”

 

Yu Lanzhou stared intently at Chen Ran, as if trying to see right through her, continuing to walk forward. She expected Chen Ran to back away, but even when the distance between them closed to a mere ten centimeters, the girl didn’t budge.

 

Chen Ran looked her straight in the eye and said, “Auntie Yu, I’m not eighteen anymore. I’m not that cowardly.” She wouldn’t back away like she did the first time she kissed her.

 

Yet only Chen Ran knew that her heart was currently beating at its maximum frequency. She curled her fingertips, instinctively hiding her calloused hands—perhaps because she found them too ugly. This flinch made her aura seem even weaker.

 

Yu Lanzhou’s phone vibrated. She leaned down, picked up the book of poetry, and slapped it into Chen Ran’s palm. “But you still don’t seem to have made much progress.”

 

Worse than when she was eighteen.

 

Chen Ran noticed that the moment Yu Lanzhou saw the caller ID, her expression instantly softened, and her voice turned to liquid silk. “Mhm. Sunday? Okay. Good.”

 

There was only one person who could make Yu Lanzhou act this way. Without waiting for Chen Ran to say anything else, Yu Lanzhou departed, leaving behind only her slender, sharp silhouette.

 

The next morning, Chen Ran went to the office at the art hall and asked Xu Wan at the door, “Hello, is Teacher Yu in?”

 

“Oh, she’s not here. She went camping,” Xu Wan replied. “Is there anything you need me to relay?”

 

“Can you tell me the address of the campsite?”

 

“Teacher Yu doesn’t like being disturbed during her private time.”

 

“Oh, okay. Then when she gets back, could you please tell her something? Tell her I’d like her help in guiding me with a song.”

 

If anyone else from Chen Ran’s team had said this, Xu Wan would have found it laughable. Over the years, she had blocked countless people—both overt and subtle—trying to get close to Yu Lanzhou, yet they kept coming. But Chen Ran was special. She was “23,” the singer of the songs Yu Lanzhou listened to before bed.

 

Having observed Yu Lanzhou for years, Xu Wan could detect a glimmer of something whenever the two met. Teacher Yu cared about this beautiful girl—and not just because of the music. So, she nodded and agreed to pass on the message.

 

When Yu Lanzhou returned that evening and saw a USB drive on her desk, she asked, “What’s this?”

 

“It’s from Chen Ran,” Xu Wan replied with a slight bow. “She asked about your itinerary. I kept it confidential.”

 

“You didn’t tell her?”

 

“No.” Xu Wan bit her lip, suddenly unsure if she had done the right thing. “She wanted you to listen to a new track from her album and give her some guidance.”

 

Yu Lanzhou held the USB drive in her hand for a moment, then tossed it into the trash can. Xu Wan controlled her breathing; she realized she still couldn’t fully gauge her boss’s whims.

 

“You can head home now.”

 

“Yes, Teacher Yu.” Xu Wan closed the door.

 

At midnight, when Chen Ran and her bandmates walked out of the rehearsal room, the lights in the largest office of the Yu Lan Art Hall were still on. As they reached the intersection, they ran into Yu Lanzhou, who had just finished work. Dressed in all black, she looked dark, mysterious, and dangerous in the night. Her face showed no sign of fatigue.

 

The driver was opening the car door for her. Chen Ran ran forward and bowed slightly to Yu Lanzhou. Her voice was soft as she called out, “Auntie Yu.”

 

“Change how you address me.” Yu Lanzhou stood by the car. She didn’t explain why; she simply issued a requirement. Or rather, a command.

 

Chen Ran caught the looks from the people around them and understood. They didn’t need such an intimate connection in public.

 

“Then… is ‘Teacher Yu’ alright?” The same title everyone else used.

 

Yu Lanzhou gave a small nod.

 

“Teacher Yu, I have something I’d like to say to you. May I?” Chen Ran’s gaze drifted to a spot ten meters away.

 

“Say it here.”

 

“I’m sorry. And, thank you.”

 

Yu Lanzhou’s expression remained flat, her face unreadable. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but regardless, it isn’t necessary.”

 

“I wanted to thank you on behalf of the band. And also, about me breaking our appointment the other day… I’m sorry. Also, I wanted to trouble you…” Chen Ran’s voice grew weaker as she spoke, but she kept pushing. “The songs are in the mixing stage now. Could you give me some advice?”

 

“Why ask me? I’m not a professional in this field.” Yu Lanzhou stopped looking at her. “I have no advice for you. Move aside.”

 

A hesitation-free rejection in front of everyone. Yet Chen Ran didn’t feel humiliated. Since reuniting with Yu Lanzhou, Chen Ran had tentatively backed off a few steps, nearly retreating until hope vanished. If Yu Lanzhou had been pleasant to her in front of a crowd today, she wouldn’t be Yu Lanzhou.

 

Back at the company dormitory, Su Ping’an handed her an opened beer. “Are you okay?”

 

“Why do you ask?”

 

Qiu Fang, who had dropped by, grabbed a drink from the small fridge. “Honestly, she scares me. She looks like an iceberg. But even icebergs melt eventually; Teacher Yu is like a fixed, permanent glacier. You’re the only one who can even exchange two words with her. I thought you guys were close, but then she makes you call her ‘Teacher’.”

 

In their few meetings, Qiu Fang had never seen Yu Lanzhou smile. She spoke little and exerted immense pressure.

 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Su Ping’an asked, “I’ve been wondering too… what is your relationship?”

 

“We just met a few times before. There’s nothing special between us.”

 

“How did you meet? To be able to meet her a few times, Chen Ran, your family must have at least a ‘small goal’ (wealthy background).”

 

“Nothing like that,” Chen Ran stood up, poured out the half-finished beer, threw the can in the trash, and turned back. “Anyone else who asks is coming with me to the recording studio.”

 

“You’re going back? Didn’t you just get here?”

 

“Some details in the arrangement aren’t smooth yet. I want to try adjusting them.” Chen Ran smiled and raised her hand. “Any volunteers?”

 

Qiu Fang threw a pillow at her. “Go live in your studio then. I’m sleeping with Ping’an tonight.”

 

Su Ping’an stood up. “I’ll go too.”

 

“Then I’ll go as well,” Qiu Fang added.

 

“Don’t you go. It’ll be messy with too many people.” Su Ping’an pushed her back.

 

“Ooh, look at that, not letting me go. Afraid I’ll be a third wheel?”

 

Su Ping’an covered her mouth, laughing. “What are you talking about? Go if you want, just don’t blame me if you can’t wake up tomorrow morning.”

 

Little did they know that it was she and Chen Ran who wouldn’t be able to get up.

 

The next morning, Taozi brought coffee to Xu Wan, handing her a cup. “Did Teacher Yu stay up late again? She has dark circles.”

 

“Probably pulled another all-nighter.”

 

“She really shouldn’t. You need to persuade her. Take that lead singer from the Ode band—she stayed up so late she ended up in the hospital yesterday.”

 

“Chen Ran?”

 

“Mhm.”

 

Xu Wan was about to say more when her phone rang. She nodded a “thank you” to Taozi and left with the coffee.

 

That evening, Yu Zhou called. “Mom, Sister Wan told me Big Sister is at our company?”

 

“Mhm, she’s here. She didn’t tell you?”

 

“Not yet.” Yu Zhou hid the fact that Chen Ran hadn’t contacted her for over two years. “Mom, I heard she was hospitalized. Can you go see her for me? I’m worried about her.”

 

“Take care of yourself. Don’t focus only on your studies. You need to rest.”

 

“I know, Mom. I haven’t been reading much lately.”

 

“But I heard from Auntie Liu that the lights in your room stay on late every night.”

 

Yu Zhou used a forced, cheerful tone. “Oh, I just forgot to turn them off!”

 

Xu Wan, listening nearby, waited for Yu Lanzhou to hang up before asking, “Are you going to see Chen Ran?”

 

“No.”

 

Three days later, on the way home, Xu Wan ran into Chen Ran again, waiting at the intersection at the end of the workday. She noticed that the frequency of Chen Ran’s appearances in Yu Lanzhou’s life was steadily increasing.

 

“Yu—”

 

Before Xu Wan could finish the name, Yu Lanzhou signaled her to be silent. The car slowly drove past Chen Ran. Seeing the car, Chen Ran turned around and began to chase it. Even after the white Ferrari had traveled over a hundred meters into the night, she didn’t stop running.

 

Yu Lanzhou saw the figure in the rearview mirror and finally said softly to Xu Wan, “Stop for a moment.”

 

Seeing such a car-chase drama staged right after her recovery, she was curious about what Chen Ran was thinking. She asked, “You have something to say?”

 

Chen Ran nodded emphatically.

 

After being released from prison and getting her phone back, she had instinctively opened her music app to check her private messages. “Y” had sent her a message: Why did you stop creating? If you need funding, please contact me.

 

It was only text, yet Chen Ran could see Yu Lanzhou’s unique tone in it. Yu Lanzhou was the type of person who spoke very softly when asking questions; she wasn’t afraid of silence or being unheard. Others would simply strain their ears to catch every syllable. Her inquiries, even when phrased as statements, felt like questions that demanded an answer.

 

Yu Lanzhou was clearly “Y.”

 

This was the basis for Chen Ran’s “thick-skinned” persistence, ignoring everyone’s stares to beg Yu Lanzhou for guidance.

 

Chen Ran steadied her footing and caught her breath. She glanced at Xu Wan in the driver’s seat and then back at Yu Lanzhou. “I want to give you a new answer as to why I started a band—because someone once told me in my comments that forming a band could interpret songs more accurately.”

 

She watched Yu Lanzhou’s face closely, reciting the lyrics from the song where Y had left a comment: “I don’t want everything I believed in to have failed.”

 

After two years, Chen Ran finally asked the question: “Teacher Yu, are you ‘Y’?”

 

“What are you talking about?” Yu Lanzhou frowned, appearing genuinely confused.

 

Chen Ran couldn’t find any trace of a lie in her expression. Her heart sank. Could I have guessed wrong? If she was wrong, how would Yu Lanzhou see her? Would she think she was just a social climber as usual?

 

“Do you have anything else to say?” Yu Lanzhou’s hand rested on the window switch, ready to roll it up.

 

Social climber or not, Chen Ran didn’t want to lose this hard-won opportunity for communication. She cast aside her pride and apologized sincerely: “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been difficult with you, I shouldn’t have said so little.”

 

“Can you stop being angry with me?”

 

“I didn’t miss our meeting on purpose that day. I really wanted to see you.”

 

Chen Ran poured out her heart. She saw Yu Lanzhou’s brow relax slightly, her expression softening. It turned out she did respond well to directness.

 

The respectful use of “You” (the formal Nin) gave Yu Lanzhou a sense of both distance and comfort. She realized she liked being treated this way by Chen Ran. Respectful and submissive. Distant yet intimate. Just enough emotion without being cloying.

 

“Could you listen to this one? I’ve never let anyone else hear it.” Chen Ran respectfully held out the USB drive like she was offering her own sincere heart, waiting for Yu Lanzhou’s mercy.

 

A cool sensation touched her fingertips, and when she looked up, the USB drive had been taken.

 

“Thank you.” Chen Ran smiled broadly and waved at the receding car. “Goodbye, Teacher Yu!”

 

Late that night, Yu Lanzhou clicked on the audio file named “Deep Sea.”

 

The prelude featured heavy piano accompanied by a low, raspy female vocal, like moonlight floating on deep sea waves—silent.

 

I have no morning worth having. Only the lingering cough of a month. And the sea and moon held in my wrists.

 

I have no bouquet worth having. Only the gaze fixed on others And the white grains of salt rising beside my eyes.

 

I have no certain future Only the terrified waiting And the heart that leaps when that person approaches me.

 

The rest of the breath stops. The rest of the breath has not stopped. The rest of the breath never stops.

 

It was a song of self-disappointment. Its foundation, like the “23” of the past, was sorrowful. But it no longer carried that unique warmth.

 

“That person.”

 

Yu Lanzhou pondered those two words, her thoughts drifting elsewhere.