Hopeless Romance (GL) - Chapter 10

Chapter 10

No matter how much Jiang Zhouchi maintained her aloof composure, she had heard the name Pei Lang. Like a widespread fan obsession, admirers at Yunchuan High School expressed their fluttering hearts for him in various ways, making him a focal point of indulgence amidst the daily drudgery of studying. Although she had never met him, what she gathered from others was enough to piece together a complete image of the boy: a prestigious family background and a father who was a professional racer. Having started racing at age seven and participated in numerous official competitions, Pei Lang possessed a distinct edge that set him apart from other teenage boys. To top it off, he had a handsome face and a height of 1.75 meters that lent him an extraordinary aura. Despite the confessions—some fanatical, others bashful—he remained unfailingly polite and courteous. He was also a top student with a serious attitude toward his studies, truly living up to his reputation from the inside out.

Thus, when Jiang Zhouchi paused for a brief moment in front of the rostrum and turned her head to see a boy holding a colorful flag directly opposite her, her lingering gaze and drifting thoughts told her: this must be Pei Lang. After the opening ceremony ended, she consciously searched for that face. She didn’t even need to ask; the moment she became a bystander in the crowd, she heard the muffled yet obvious praise around her, interspersed with the name “Pei Lang.”

The moment her eyes met his, Jiang Zhouchi turned and walked toward her class. She was certain it was love at first sight—or perhaps more than that. Between others’ descriptions and her own imagination, she had already “met” the version of him in her mind; it was only today that she realized the reality was even better than the fantasy.

By the time Jiang Zhouchi returned to her class stands, the first day’s events were nearing an end. There were gifts and letters on her seat, a sight she was long accustomed to; she didn’t look closely, simply stuffing them into her backpack. When Ye Du and Chen Pupu finished their group photos, Jiang Zhouchi took out a small mirror to tidy her hair and wiped away the beads of sweat from walking before approaching Ye Du. “Ye Du, could you help me take a photo?”

The four girls who were reviewing their photos looked up. “Oh, you’ll have to ask Pupu; it’s her camera,” Ye Du replied. This was the first time she had interacted with Jiang Zhouchi at such close range.

Jiang Zhouchi looked at Chen Pupu and tilted her head with a smile. In the end, Ye Du went alone to take the photo because Jiang Zhouchi was in a hurry and wanted to shoot at the far end of the playground while the others hadn’t finished packing. Jiang Zhouchi kept turning back to check the background. Just as the crowd began to grow restless and prepare to disperse, Ye Du pressed the shutter for a burst of shots as requested. While showing Jiang Zhouchi the results, Ye Du suddenly understood from the varied figures in the background why Jiang Zhouchi had insisted on taking the photo right there.

…

On the second day of the sports meet, the four girls were primarily spectators. Ye Du remembered her task of writing submissions for the rostrum and had written ten pieces at home the night before just in case. When Qin Zibei came to collect them, Ye Du originally intended to hand over just one, but then figured it was a hassle to do it piece by piece. Trusting the class monitor implicitly, she handed over her entire “stock,” telling him to pace the submissions and not to bother her about it again. Jiang Xinwan couldn’t help but feel annoyed seeing Qin Zibei; if he hadn’t put her on the shot put list, her right arm wouldn’t still be aching as if she’d been in a fistfight. Wanting to ensure he felt her wrath, she pointedly rolled her eyes at him. Qin Zibei, however, acted perfectly nonchalant and even leaned in closer to her.

“I happened to miss breakfast that day, so I swindled a bottle of milk from you. Here, I’m paying you back.” Qin Zibei would likely make a good official; he strictly adhered to the principle of returning what he borrowed.

Wang Zhu and Chen Pupu stared at Jiang Xinwan with expressions of pure gossip—eyes full of teasing and a complex “I knew it” vibe. A long, drawn-out “Ohhh” was about to escape when Ye Du caught it with a laugh. She felt Jiang Xinwan was already embarrassed enough by the gift; if they started teasing her, the girl would never hear the end of it all day. Chen Pupu, her gossiping heart thwarted, simply stuck her tongue out at Ye Du.

Despite her complicated feelings, Jiang Xinwan eventually accepted the carton of milk. It was exactly the same brand her aunt prepared at home, and she assumed the taste would be just as hard to swallow. Qin Zibei could have just left it at the designated spot, yet he insisted on handing it to her personally, even though he knew she didn’t like plain milk. Jiang Xinwan didn’t know how to feel; the carton felt scorching hot from the sun, almost too hot to hold. Before Qin Zibei even made it back to his seat, Jiang Xinwan tried to shove the milk onto Chen Pupu, sparking a tug-of-war. Chen Pupu insisted it was a gift and she couldn’t take it, while Jiang Xinwan adamantly rejected the taste of plain milk. Finally, Wang Zhu couldn’t take it anymore; she snatched the milk and stuffed it into Jiang Xinwan’s backpack. “If you don’t want to drink it, then don’t. The shelf life is long anyway—keep it as a souvenir.”

Seeing that everyone agreed, Jiang Xinwan stopped fighting it. However, whenever she looked at the playground, her gaze would unconsciously drift a little to the left, landing discreetly on Qin Zibei. The milk carton she usually despised felt strangely light today. She no longer felt it was a burden to carry home; rather, she treated it like a rare manga volume, locking her bedroom door before taking it out of her bag. She stared at the carton for a long time, imagining many scenes—both real and imagined—until she felt silly. She took a black pen from her pencil case and, next to the printed production date, wrote today’s date. This was another kind of “production date.” Then, she placed it in her locked drawer alongside her most precious manga. She thought if she ever had a huge fight with her mother and the books on her shelf were thrown away, at least this drawer would offer her infinite comfort.

And so, the milk stayed in that small drawer for a very long time—long past its expiration date, long after Jiang Xinwan had left her adolescence behind.

…

A week before the final exams, Chen Pupu passed a notebook from under the desk again. This was already the third one she and Ye Du had shared. By comparison, she found the school-issued exercise books the most practical—thin, durable, and there were always extras left over each semester.

The notes they wrote during class consisted of gossip, complaints, and shared secrets. Chen Pupu usually started them; when her emotions hit a certain point, she felt she had to let them out or she’d burst, but she didn’t dare write too much for fear of being caught. Ye Du’s replies were generally brief and focused. She had to keep up with the teacher’s pace while doing practice problems; she often felt she was busier in class than the teacher was.

Chen Pupu suddenly wanted to bury a “wish bottle,” something she’d seen in a magazine. The idea was to write a wish on paper, roll it up with a ribbon, put it in a glass bottle, and bury it under a tree, only to dig it up at an agreed-upon time to see if it came true. Ye Du didn’t really see the beauty in such an activity, but she could sense how much Chen Pupu wanted to do it. While she didn’t love the idea, she didn’t dislike it either, so she agreed. They planned to eat outside the school at noon, buy the supplies, and finish the task before the afternoon nap.

When it came time to write the wishes, Chen Pupu realized she’d forgotten a pen. She looked at Ye Du, who silently handed her one. Sometimes Chen Pupu felt like the “Scatterbrain” character in a cartoon, always forgetting things or getting stuck; she felt lucky to have an all-around capable friend like Ye Du by her side, someone who was always thoughtful and reliable. Ye Du actually didn’t have much to wish for; she didn’t consider herself a lucky person. Rather than placing her expectations in the hands of fate, she preferred to keep possibilities in her own hands. In the end, she wrote a very simple wish: I hope Chen Pupu gets good grades. Over the past month, Ye Du had been diligently tutoring her, finding different ways to explain theorems she couldn’t grasp. Seeing Chen Pupu’s exam seat assignment move further back each time made Chen Pupu discouraged, which in turn made Ye Du unhappy. So she gave this wish to her friend, believing that if heaven truly favored mortals, it would surely favor someone like Chen Pupu first.

They agreed to return to this tree upon graduation to share their wishes. Before leaving, Chen Pupu kept turning back to memorize the location. It was a tree planted near the bike shed, already three stories high, right next to a flower bed. Seeing her struggling to memorize the features, as if climbing one step would make her forget the last, Ye Du told her that the trees in the school were actually numbered. The tree they chose had a plaque: Number 0531, Scientific Name: Malus ‘Snowdrift’ (Snowball Crabapple).

I hope the next time we come, we can see it in bloom, the thought suddenly flashed through Ye Du’s mind.

At the sound of the preparatory bell, the two of them raced up the stairs and dashed through the winding corridors. Despite their efforts, they couldn’t escape the fate of being late, running straight into Zhang Jianwei as she was counting heads for the noon nap. Zhang Jianwei looked at Ye Du, conflicted about whether to let it slide or make an example of them. They weren’t very late, but lateness was lateness. She decided to make them stand for the entire noon nap. The spot chosen was the podium, one on each side behind her, which gave Zhang Jianwei a rather commanding presence.

This was the first time Ye Du had ever been punished by a teacher. She didn’t feel ashamed; instead, it felt like a novel experience. Standing on the left with her back to the blackboard, she couldn’t help but look at Chen Pupu on the right. Chen Pupu, thinking Ye Du was in a bad mood because of her, wanted to apologize. Since the teacher was right there, she could only mouth the words “I’m sorry.” Ye Du couldn’t understand her lip-reading at all, but she found the whole situation so funny that she began to laugh silently.

Chen Pupu rarely saw Ye Du laugh so happily. Most of the time, Ye Du was the “perfect” girl—teachers liked her, and other parents liked her. Chen Pupu often remembered how Qin Wei would praise Ye Du after parent-teacher meetings, saying how every teacher called her smart, diligent, respectful, and friendly, and urging Pupu to cherish such a friend. Chen Pupu understood that her mother liked Ye Du because the teachers did, and the teachers liked her because of her grades. But Chen Pupu didn’t want that to be the reason they were friends. She felt there was something even more beautiful and precious within Ye Du, though she couldn’t quite name it yet. In that classroom, where heavy curtains blocked out the winter sun, Chen Pupu caught a blurry glimpse of that quality: a rare side of Ye Du—a tolerance and acceptance that made her seem not just “perfect” in the traditional sense, but truly, deeply good.