Heading for the Plains - Chapter 12

Zhu Cijing’s niece was named Zhu Yuan. That same night, Xia Chao sent her a friend request.

The request was accepted almost instantly. The girl was from the same graduating class, but she carried herself with the air of a seasoned veteran, chatting Xia Chao’s ear off without a pause.

She analyzed everything for Xia Chao with practiced authority, explaining that since Xia Chao had already settled on Physics and Geography, it would be best to choose Chemistry as the third subject. This would offer a much broader range of choices when it came time to apply for universities.

Xia Chao nodded seriously. She knew this was a popular subject combination. The high school she had attended was a township school with limited resources; they only offered a few fixed combinations. Unless a student was a top-tier genius with a specific advantage in a certain subject, the teachers almost always recommended this path.

After a long detour, she had returned to the starting line.

Xia Chao didn’t resist the suggestion; in fact, she felt a wave of relief. Having some foundation was better than having none at all. Even a tiny scrap of meat is still meat, she thought, realizing with a start that she was already strategizing for those final scores in June.

It was magical. Just a few days ago, she had felt that she would never have anything to do with the Gaokao again in this lifetime. She knew this change was entirely due to Ping Yuan’s influence.

Zhu Yuan was a warm, straightforward person—the kind who made you feel an immediate, friendly curiosity. As they chatted, Xia Chao couldn’t help but scroll through her “Moments.”

Her feed was a vibrant record of a young girl’s colorful life. There were friends, trips, and photos of girls with faces painted in playful colors. In one photo, Zhu Yuan stood in the center, excitedly showing off the first makeup kit her “Auntie” had gifted her.

There were also things Xia Chao didn’t recognize—shiny little cards and badges pinned inside heart-shaped backpacks. Zhu Yuan carried one while holding a small plush doll, smiling for a photo with a beautiful parfait cup.

Things I’ve never seen, Xia Chao thought softly. So this is what the summer after the Gaokao is supposed to look like.

The scent of gardenias from her quilt drifted into her nose again. Xia Chao rolled over slowly and let out a soft sigh. A pang of bitterness slipped through her heart; she recognized it as inferiority.

Xia Chao remembered her own Gaokao experience. She hadn’t been so lucky. While everyone else in the exam hall was writing furiously, she couldn’t squeeze out a single word.

It was humiliating, but it was a humiliation she had accepted voluntarily.

She hadn’t always been a poor student. Before Xia Ling got sick, she was quite bright. If she acted out occasionally, it was only because she knew her good grades would make the adults turn a blind eye.

But after Xia Ling fell ill, her grades plummeted. At first, it was just a few missed days to accompany Xia Ling to the provincial capital for check-ups. She’d ask her deskmate to take notes, and she could still keep up.

But Xia Ling’s condition worsened rapidly, leading to hospital stays that lasted a month, then two. Her deskmate was loyal—no matter how long the battle dragged on, she would send Xia Chao the notes every weekend as soon as she got her phone. But Xia Chao had no time to study or practice. Soon, those complex symbols became unrecognizable.

On TV, family members of the sick are either rushing around in a panic or praying desperately outside the OR. But only those who have lived it know that between those two states lies a vast, hollow, and hopeless void.

You are always waiting. Waiting for CT scans, ultrasounds, and biopsies. Waiting in line for blood draws. Waiting for chemo to end or anesthesia to wear off. And in that long wait, the void is filled with nothing but anxiety and fear.

Xia Chao couldn’t bring herself to open a textbook then. Perhaps she had tried, but she was always interrupted—hurrying off to collect a lab result, empty Xia Ling’s bedpan, or wash her mother’s body. Eventually, the unread notes piled up.

One day, she made a decision. She told her deskmate, “Thank you, but you don’t need to send the notes anymore.”

“You’re not coming back to school?” her deskmate asked.

“Mhm,” she remembered typing the single character, deleting her follow-up words, and finally just saying, “My mom’s surgery didn’t go well.”

The other side went silent. They were girls too young to know how to use platitudes to smooth over such a silence. After a long sigh’s worth of time, the reply came: “Okay. Hang in there.”

“You too,” she replied. “Good luck with the Gaokao.”

Their conversation ended there. By the time she returned to school, Xia Ling had passed away. She wanted to give up on the exam, but Xia Ling had insisted she try it once. The weight of that final wish forced her onto the battlefield.

And the result was that humiliating blankness.

When the final exam ended, everyone was cheering. Students rushed back to their dorms, shredded three years of papers, and threw them from the balconies. The white scraps fluttered down like paper money at a funeral. Standing in that “snowstorm,” Xia Chao felt the world grow very quiet.

She had always categorized that feeling as “not caring,” but she later realized it wasn’t indifference—it was a sense of grievance that she had no one to blame for. Everyone had been kind: her deskmate sent notes, the teachers kept her handouts, and even Xia Ling, in her final moments, looked at her with guilt, saying, “Mama failed you.”

Xia Ling hadn’t failed her; the gift of being raised was enough for Xia Chao to be grateful. It was simply the unpredictability of fate. Xia Chao had no one to hate, so she hated herself. But hating herself felt so unfair.

It wasn’t until she met Ping Yuan that she had the courage to say, “The world is unfair.”

And only Ping Yuan would say back, “So what if it’s unfair? I follow the rules just to break them.”

Those few lazy sentences had somehow reignited the competitive spark deep in her heart.

How annoying.

Her phone screen stayed lit. Xia Chao buried her face in the covers, staring at the light, wondering why she was thinking of these things.

Perhaps it was because Zhu Yuan was chatting so happily. Xia Chao replied politely, thanking her. Toward the end, Zhu Yuan seemed to realize she was being a chatterbox; she sent a bashful, laughing emoji to end the topic and told Xia Chao, “Good luck with Senior Year!”

Senior Year?

Xia Chao caught the phrase immediately. She asked: “Did Ping Yuan tell you I was a Senior?”

“Eh?” the other side was confused. “Aren’t you a rising Senior? Ping Yuan didn’t say what grade you were in.”

I see. A smile touched Xia Chao’s lips. No wonder Zhu Yuan had been talking to her like an “Upperclassman” all night. Ping Yuan hadn’t told her about the “repeating” part. Maybe it was to protect her privacy, or maybe it was to protect her pride. After all, Zhu Yuan was so bright and successful that she could easily make someone else feel like a shadow.

But now, the tiny shadows cast by that sunlight seemed to fade. Xia Chao was the type who would bloom with just an inch of sunshine.

So, she spoke honestly to Zhu Yuan: “I’m actually repeating the year. My sister probably forgot to mention it.”

Ding. Three seconds after the message was sent, a “scream” came from the other side. The text box practically shook: “I’m so sorry!!! Ahhhhh!”

Zhu Yuan was “dying.” On the other end, she clutched her quilt in despair, burying herself in her bed. What a massive embarrassment! She had thought she was talking to a younger student! Zhu Yuan, who was always the “baby” of her family and thought she finally got to be the “Big Sister,” was stunned.

“I’m so sorry… I was being a bit presumptuous.” (And a bit of a show-off).

“It’s okay,” Xia Chao replied breezily. “Repeating is technically still Senior Year.”

This was a graceful exit for her. Zhu Yuan’s liking for her went up another notch. “Since we’re the same age, it’s perfect! I’ll give you all my Senior Year notes. But the exam syllabus changes every year, so make sure to check the latest materials.”

“Yes, please!” Xia Chao replied sincerely. “Thank you so much.”

Zhu Yuan sent back a sticker of a happy, hopping bunny.

After finishing her chat with Zhu Yuan, Xia Chao felt much lighter. she couldn’t help but roll around on the bed twice before picking up her phone to message Ping Yuan: “Thank you.”

Ping Yuan’s reply was as cold as ever: “?”

Only then did Xia Chao notice Ping Yuan’s WeChat name: “Really Want to Sleep.” Her profile picture was a solid block of grey. Cold and lazy.

For some reason, Xia Chao immediately imagined Ping Yuan in the next room, clutching her quilt, expressionless and confused. The mental image was so cute it made Xia Chao smile. She decided she didn’t want to be so formal with her thanks.

She asked: “Why are you still awake?”

Really Want to Sleep: “Don’t want to sleep.”

Despite the name, Xia Chao thought. She typed: “Why?”

Really Want to Sleep: “Don’t want to go to work. If I sleep, it’ll be tomorrow.”

Fair enough. Thinking about shaking milk tea tomorrow, Xia Chao didn’t want to sleep either. A faint sense of “workplace dread” filled her heart. She replied: “…Understandable.”

Pfft. On the other side of the wall, Ping Yuan couldn’t help but laugh.

Poor kid. Experiencing the bitterness of the workforce at such a young age. Her lips curved upward as she typed: “How was the chat tonight?”

Xia Chao: “Good. Zhu Yuan is fun.” After a pause, she decided to be honest. “She thought I was a Junior. I told her I’m repeating.”

Really Want to Sleep: “Is that so? That’s good.” The reply was nonchalant.

Xia Chao nodded, then realized Ping Yuan couldn’t see her. She typed again: “Thank you.”

Really Want to Sleep: “You’re welcome. We’ll go to the mall this weekend to buy some daily supplies. Also, tomorrow night I want to have stewed soup and steamed ribs.”

Xia Chao: “…” What an efficient woman, solving three problems in one sentence. Xia Chao did the math for her schedule: “Can we go on Sunday? Saturday isn’t good for me.”

Really Want to Sleep: “Other plans?”

Ping Yuan didn’t seem to know her shift schedule yet. Xia Chao sent a dejected-sounding voice note: “I only get one day off. I’m on shift this Saturday.”

It sounded truly piteous. Even a woman with a heart of ice couldn’t help but laugh at a “one-day-off” victim. Ping Yuan’s lips curled, and she couldn’t resist sending a voice note back.

Xia Chao tapped it. She heard that cool voice, but with a playful, upward tilt at the end: “Good luck. Only five more workdays to go.”

…Dammit.

This person is just as mean as the day we met.

While Xia Chao was “cursing” her in her head, she opened her phone and began searching: What kind of soup is best to stew in the summer?

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