Heading for the Plains - Chapter 9

After dinner, Xia Chao volunteered to wash the dishes.

It wasn’t that she was a born maid. It was simply that her boast about “moving out immediately” from yesterday was still ringing in her ears, and the thought of having to shamelessly ask to stay a while longer made her face burn.

After weighing her options, she decided that being proactive with chores was the best way to show her worth. “Don’t hit a smiling face”—it was an old trick she’d used since childhood to get her mother to sign a failing math test. She knew the game; she knew it all too well.

She carefully stacked the plates one by one and carried them into the kitchen with extreme caution. Ping Yuan watched her, thinking the kid had suddenly become suspiciously submissive, looking for all the world like she had a guilty conscience.

Excessive courtesy masks a hidden motive. Ping Yuan got up, walked over, and took a bowl from Xia Chao’s hand.

Xia Chao jumped. “Eh? No, no! Leave it, I’ll do it.” After all, she had a favor to ask.

“I’m not washing them,” Ping Yuan said flatly. “There’s a dishwasher.”

“Oh,” Xia Chao blinked innocently. “What’s a dishwasher?”

Ping Yuan translated: “A machine that washes dishes.”

She gave a demonstration, sliding open the rack, sorting the plates and spoons into their slots, and popping in a detergent pod. Xia Chao studied the process with intense concentration. When it came time to put in the heavy Dutch oven, Ping Yuan seemed to misjudge its weight; her hand slipped, but Xia Chao was quick, reaching out to steady it. These tools really aren’t on speaking terms with Ping Yuan, she thought.

Xia Chao was a bit taller than Ping Yuan. As she leaned over to assist, she noticed Ping Yuan’s lowered lashes flicker, a hint of annoyance crossing her face.

Brat. Why is she so tall? Ping Yuan grumbled internally.

She wasn’t short herself—at 167 cm with great proportions, she was often called a natural clothes-horse. But no matter how good your proportions are, you can’t compete with the “dry-land bamboo” growth of today’s kids. Ping Yuan estimated Xia Chao was at least 170 cm, a good half-head taller than her.

Strangely, she wasn’t usually the type to care about height or hierarchy, but with Xia Chao, those extra few centimeters were inexplicably irritating—as if she were literally “looking up” to the girl. She could look up to anyone else, but looking up to Xia Chao? No.

Ping Yuan glanced at her. Xia Chao was standing there like an idiot, eyes full of that annoying, clear-headed innocence.

She decided to put her to work. “Sit.”

“Oh.” Xia Chao sat down obediently.

This height was much more agreeable. Ping Yuan gave her a satisfied look and ordered: “Go cut the watermelon.”

Wait, then why did you make me sit down? Xia Chao wondered, though she didn’t dare voice her frustration. She gave a loyal “Okay!” and stood back up to cut the fruit.

Her “good-dog” attitude made Ping Yuan feel like her punch had landed in cotton—yielding and unsatisfying—leaving the older woman feeling even more stifled.

From the corner of her eye, Xia Chao saw Ping Yuan lower her lashes and give her lip a quick, sharp twitch. It was a fleeting movement; her cheeks puffed out slightly like a steamed rice cake before snapping back.

To prevent Ping Yuan from getting actually angry, Xia Chao hauled the watermelon onto the cutting board and looked for a knife. Ping Yuan’s kitchen had a full set of specialized knives, unlike the single heavy cleaver they used back home. She remembered how, in middle school, she’d cut a watermelon with a knife that had just sliced garlic; she’d received a legendary scolding from Xia Ling for that one.

Man… I was always getting scolded, she thought with a sheepish grin.

Still, seeing Ping Yuan living so well put her mind at ease. Her mother had nagged her even on her deathbed to take care of her sister. The fruit knife was brand-new and gleaming. Xia Chao brought it down—crack—and the melon split in two, filling the air with a fresh, crisp scent.

The vibrant red flesh was striking. She sliced it into cubes, piled them into a bowl, and handed it to Ping Yuan.

Ping Yuan speared a piece with a fruit fork, then paused. “Aren’t you eating?”

Xia Chao turned around sheepishly, revealing two bright green rinds on the counter. “I couldn’t resist having a couple of pieces first,” she admitted with a crinkled smile, still savoring the taste. “It’s really sweet!”

Give her an inch of sunshine and she’ll bloom.

Ping Yuan remained expressionless. “Sit down and eat.”

Xia Chao scurried over. Ping Yuan popped a piece into her own mouth and squinted. Mm. Good melon—crisp, cold, and sweet. She speared a piece for Xia Chao as well. Xia Chao looked flattered.

The next second, Ping Yuan asked: “What did you do all day?”

Xia Chao felt flattered a second time. “I wandered around today. Went to a job fair.” Remembering the brick wall she’d hit, her face fell.

“Job hunting?” Ping Yuan guessed correctly. “Did you find anything?”

Ping Yuan was ready to lecture her—to tell her how fierce the competition was, how people with degrees were fighting for service jobs, and how without a college diploma, she wouldn’t even know which way the office door opened. She prepared to tell her she’d end up sweeping streets. For the first time, Ping Yuan managed a pleasant, “spring breeze” smile as she looked at Xia Chao.

“I didn’t find anything there,” Xia Chao said. The answer was exactly as Ping Yuan expected.

“But I found something on the way back,” Xia Chao continued, counting on her fingers. “Four to six thousand a month, no room or board, one day off a week.”

“Doing what?”

“Shaking milk tea,” Xia Chao said cheerfully.

The smile froze on Ping Yuan’s lips. She had wondered what kind of illegal labor would pay a salary nearly equal to her own bonuses. So it really is just a serving job, Ping Yuan thought.

She didn’t realize she was projecting a faint disdain, or perhaps that disdain was already etched into her bones; the core tenet of her survival.

Children raised in orphanages learn early to prove their value through competition. As kids, they fight for a foster parent’s favor or an extra chicken leg; as adults, they fight for grades, for contests, for every rung on the ladder. Disdain for losers was a necessity. Because the cost of losing was simply too high.

Ping Yuan remembered a contest in middle school. There was one slot for a city-wide competition. She had signed up, but the homeroom teacher—to play it safe—had pre-selected another girl, Lu Miaomiao. Lu Miaomiao was smart, beautiful, and came from a family of scholars; she had the poise of a swan. But Ping Yuan wasn’t convinced.

It wasn’t that she disliked Miaomiao; she simply hated having the opportunity stolen.

One day, passing the office after school, she heard the teacher coaching Miaomiao on her speech. Driven by an impulse, Ping Yuan stopped and listened from the hallway. It was simple enough; Ping Yuan had a photographic memory for things she cared about. During gym class, she wrote her own version, believing her draft was far superior to Miaomiao’s rigid, formulaic essay.

Full of confidence, she knocked on the teacher’s door and said she wanted to try out too. She remembered the teacher’s indifference. “Go ahead,” he’d said. “Give me your speech.”

She began to speak. Because she had heard Miaomiao’s version, she had preemptively addressed the logical flaws in her own draft. She was articulate and brilliant; she performed perfectly.

But the teacher’s expression shifted. “Ping Yuan,” he said, his face darkening. “You are too calculating for your age. I don’t want a student with such an opportunistic heart.”

She was dismissed. A week later, she sat in the audience and watched Lu Miaomiao in a princess dress, smiling and eloquent. And then, in a sweet voice, Miaomiao delivered the exact arguments Ping Yuan had written.

She remembered her hands and feet turning icy.

It was only after the contest that she learned the homeroom teacher was Miaomiao’s uncle. He had written the original speech, and Ping Yuan had unknowingly walked in and shredded his work to his face.

How ridiculous.

Even more ridiculous was that Miaomiao didn’t even win. Her performance was so polished that the outside judges suspected she’d been given the questions in advance and tore her apart on stage. Ping Yuan remembered passing the backstage area and seeing the “swan” reduced to a puddle of tears, surrounded by a swarm of consoling teachers and students.

If I cried, no one would swarm me, Ping Yuan thought. She caught Miaomiao’s red-rimmed eyes. Two fourteen-year-old girls exchanged a gaze of subtle malice and shame. Years later, Ping Yuan realized that Miaomiao hadn’t known any better either; she was just performing a script for the adults. They were both victims of a performative system.

But the fourteen-year-old Ping Yuan didn’t understand that. She only hated that she hadn’t won. What right did she have to feel soft-hearted toward Miaomiao? A loser without a ticket doesn’t even have the right to cry.

Opportunities had to be fought for, even if the biting was ugly. From that day on, she carved that mantra into her soul and fought her way to where she was today. Her elite degree and prestigious job were proof that she was right.

Thus, the twenty-seven-year-old Ping Yuan couldn’t understand how Xia Chao could say “shaking milk tea” so happily, without a shred of shame.

She looked at Xia Chao and finally asked: “Are you really not going back to school?”

Ping Yuan’s voice had turned cold. Xia Chao looked up at her. She seemed surprised, then thought for a moment before asking softly: “Why is it so important to study?”

Why?

The question was so stupid it was shocking. In a society this competitive, if one has no family connections, no resources, and no luck, how else do you prove your worth? If you don’t squeeze across the single-log bridge with the masses, what do you have?

Oh, Xia Chao might have been “favored” once, but not anymore, Ping Yuan thought, realizing her own cold cruelty. The thought made her uneasy, like seeing Miaomiao cry. She frowned and countered: “What exactly are you trying to say?”

Xia Chao shook her head but simply said, “I just want to ask you: why is studying a ‘must’?”

She continued softly: “I know grades are the closest thing we have to fair selection. But there are so many people in the world without good schools or the ability to get into top universities. Does their education have no meaning?”

“I don’t understand your point,” Ping Yuan repeated.

“Mmh…” Xia Chao looked down, fidgeting with her fingers as she tried to find the words. “I just feel like… we should recognize the rules because many things can’t be changed.” Like the interview today; they looked down on her education, and she had to accept that. “But I don’t think the ‘losers’ are worthless,” she said, her voice softening. “Ordinary people have ordinary value and happiness. If the world thinks they’re worthless, then it’s the world that’s wrong.”

“If the world forces someone to fight until they’re bloody and then mocks them when they fail, then the world is just being mean.”

“People can’t choose their fate. How can we demand that a person only win and never lose? That’s too unfair.”

“Just trying is impressive enough,” she added, her tone becoming indignant again. “In short, no matter what, it’s not that person’s fault.”

Ping Yuan froze. She realized Xia Chao was speaking for her.

She hadn’t told Xia Chao anything about her past, yet the girl had intuitively grasped it. When had she exposed her weakness? Was it that stiff sentence just now, or had Xia Chao sensed the prickles she’d put up since they met?

She couldn’t say it. Xia Chao was still peeking at her; noticing her gaze, the “puppy” flashed a bright smile.

Ping Yuan thought of the test papers again. Xia Chao’s highest score was in Chinese. Except for the rote memorization of poetry, she had filled out every reading comprehension section she could, and the marks were surprisingly good. The catastrophe was in Math and Science, like formulas and theorems were either understood or they weren’t, and no matter how much she racked her brain, she could only turn in a blank sheet.

Ping Yuan could see that Xia Chao had taken the exams seriously.

She thought of Xia Ling’s illness. Perhaps Xia Chao felt that same sense of injustice when she had to give up her studies? Unwilling to lose to such a cruel fate, yet having no specific person to blame, she could only mutter that the “world was wrong.”

Ping Yuan understood. Their past and future overlapped in that moment.

But Xia Chao’s smile was more honest. It’s so unfair, Ping Yuan thought again, though her lips curved into a faint smile. She suddenly grabbed a cushion and gave Xia Chao a light thump, breaking the sentimental mood. “So, are you going to study or not?”

Xia Chao toppled into the sofa from the hit. “I’ll study! I’ll study!” She grinned and winced. “I made two dishes and a soup tonight just to butter you up for this! Hey! Stop hitting me! I just hadn’t found the right moment to bring it up!”

She looked piteously at Ping Yuan, using repetitive words to sound more convincing: “Really, really! I won’t stay for free. I’ll do the laundry, cook, and pay rent!”

I really have raised a Snail Girl! Ping Yuan felt a bit guilty. She gave her one last “blustering” thump. “Stop talking like I don’t do any chores.”

“Ow!”

It was a chaotic bit of play, but both knew they weren’t that close yet. They fell into a mutual silence, knowing the sudden burst of energy was an attempt to cover the awkwardness.

Fine. Xia Chao lowered her head. Before tonight, she really hadn’t planned on studying anymore. Ping Yuan was right; she was lost, like a paper boat drifting on the water. But Ping Yuan looked so unwilling to let it go. Those questions about repeating school weren’t an interrogation of Xia Chao—they were an interrogation of the “other version” of herself: How could you give up?

She didn’t dare say it, though, fearing Ping Yuan would smack her again.

She watched as Ping Yuan stood up and stretched.

“That’s enough for today. I’ll check your subjects over the weekend,” Ping Yuan said, her voice returning to its cool tone. “Are you going to shower?”

The topic shift was abrupt. Xia Chao shook her head blankly. “I still want to eat watermelon.”

“Then I’m going first.”

Xia Chao watched her walk to the bathroom door, but Ping Yuan stopped and turned back.

“You’re right. This world is pretty messed up,” she said calmly, her expression relaxed. “But I’m not as pitiful as you think.”

“Sometimes, I follow the rules just so I can make the rules follow me.”

It was the first time she had expressed herself so boldly in front of Xia Chao. Xia Chao looked up; the bathroom light illuminated Ping Yuan’s face—half-shadowed, half-lit. Like dusk, yet like night.

Then “the Night” smiled, turned, and closed the bathroom door.

A piece of watermelon slipped from Xia Chao’s fork—splat—back into the dish.

So cool. The “Chunibyo” teenage girl in Xia Chao stared at the closed door with stars in her eyes, clutching her cushion.

Now that… is how a mature adult should talk!

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