Hopeless Romance (GL) - Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Exam permit, 2B pencils, black pens, pencils, eraser, compass, ruler, triangle scale…” Qin Wei was meticulously organizing everything according to a checklist. In that moment, it felt as if she were the one heading to the exam hall, her heart racing with a baseless anxiety. While the High School Entrance Exam (Zhongkao) wasn’t exactly a life-defining moment, as a mother, Qin Wei couldn’t help but worry. She simply wanted the best for Chen Pupu: a good school, a good job after graduation, and eventually a good partner to build a happy, peaceful life with. Qin Wei had once hoped Pupu would be extraordinary, but she had quickly accepted that geniuses are rare, and most people are ordinary—just like herself.

Chen Pupu emerged from her shower to see that her mother had already prepared her exam kit for the next day.

“Thanks, Mom. You’re the best,” Pupu said with a grin, her hair still dripping wet.

Sitting at the foot of the bed, Qin Wei turned around and gestured for her daughter to come closer. “Come here, let me dry your hair.”

Pupu usually kept her hair short, but during the hectic final year of middle school, she hadn’t found time for the barber. Her hair was thick and took a long time to dry; the hair dryer would make one’s arm ache, especially in summer when the hot air would just cause fresh sweat to dampen the scalp again. Consequently, Pupu hated drying her hair.

Whenever she had time, Qin Wei would do it for her. Pupu would usually lie across her mother’s lap, tossing her wet hair to one side. Qin Wei’s touch was gentle, and she kept the temperature just right. Pupu adored her mother; she could go to her for anything—hunger, sleepiness, or just a need to act spoiled. While Qin Wei could be strict, it was almost always due to Pupu’s lack of focus on her studies.

Lying there, Pupu recalled a tantrum she had thrown before her music competition. A particular piece was so difficult that she kept making the same mistake. Frustrated, she had slammed the piano lid shut and retreated to her room to sulk. When the music stopped, Qin Wei found her lying lethargically on the bed. For the first time, Qin Wei had truly lost her temper. To ensure Pupu got into a good high school, Qin Wei had visited the admissions office multiple times and used her connections to secure an “Arts Specialty” slot. This meant expensive vocal and piano lessons and a high-quality piano. She had invested so much time and money, only for Pupu to give up and lie down.

“Chen Pupu, get up!” Qin Wei had snapped. It was only after the second shout that Pupu reluctantly rolled over.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s too hard. I can’t learn it,” Pupu replied, her frustration turning into tears.

“And you think you’ll learn it by lying on the bed?” Qin Wei continued. “If you can’t do it, practice. If you don’t get it today, try again tomorrow. What’s the use of running away?” Looking back, Pupu was most grateful that her mother never treated her like an ignorant child to be ordered around, but rather offered guidance and suggestions.

“But I’ve practiced it 43 times!” Pupu argued, showing the tally marks she kept.

“Then treat yourself like a slow bird that needs to start early. Look at Lang Lang—he practices eight hours a day and doesn’t complain.”

“Mom, how do you know he doesn’t complain?” Pupu asked. She felt like everyone in China who touched a piano knew that name.

“Is that the point? Snap out of it and practice. You’ll improve eventually.” Looking at Pupu’s ability to miss the point, Qin Wei often thought it would be a miracle if she made it into high school at all.

…

Just as Pupu was drifting off to sleep, Qin Wei tapped her cheek. “Wake up, lazy pig.”

“Mom, what if I don’t get into Yunchuan High School?” Pupu asked, feeling as if she had just woken from a dream.

“Then we’ll find another school. Yunchuan isn’t the only one,” Qin Wei replied while putting away the hair dryer.

“But I only want to go to Yunchuan.” Pupu had promised Ye Du; she couldn’t trick Ye Du into staying for the guaranteed spot only to leave her there alone.

“Then do your best tomorrow. I believe in you.” Qin Wei couldn’t give Pupu much in the way of material wealth, but she gave her an abundance of love and support.

Looking at the stack of study materials on her desk, higher than her lamp, Pupu could hardly believe middle school was ending tomorrow. She remembered her stiflingly hot self-introduction three years ago, meeting her old classmate Wang Zhu, being befriended by Ye Du, and later getting close to Jiang Xinwan. These three years were short, yet so important. They hadn’t sat in their usual cafeteria corner for a long time; the pressure of Grade 9 had made them less picky about where or what they ate. The ritual of walking laps around the track had been suspended. In two days, all this tension would vanish into the wind. Feeling a sudden sense of melancholy, Pupu decided to call Ye Du.

“Hey, it’s me,” Pupu said as usual.

“What if my mom had answered?” Ye Du teased, laughing at Pupu’s habit of not identifying herself.

“Then I’d just say sorry to her,” Pupu whispered.

“Why aren’t you resting yet?” Ye Du asked, checking the time. It was nearly 9:30 PM.

“Ye Du, it doesn’t feel real.”

“What do you mean?”

“It feels like nothing happened, yet here we are at the Zhongkao. Then high school, then the University Entrance Exam in three years, and then we’re adults.” Pupu struggled to describe the feeling.

“Are you anxious about growing up?”

“I don’t know. Growing up always felt so far away, but now I realize it isn’t. Three years went by in a flash. It makes me a little sad.” The Zhongkao could change everything, potentially sending close friends down different paths. Schools teach facts, but they don’t teach children how to handle parting and change.

“Well… maybe that’s what they mean by ‘Time flies like an arrow’?”

“Thanks, Ye Du. I’ll try to use that in my essay tomorrow.” Pupu laughed, her sadness dissipating. Ye Du really wasn’t great at verbal comfort.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Ye Du clarified. “I just think life is like this—day by day, accumulating into what we call ‘living.’ I don’t want you to be sad, but I don’t know how to fix it.” Ye Du rarely pondered such things; to her, it was just the way the world worked, not a math problem to be solved.

“Then just cheer for me.” Pupu felt sleepiness finally taking over.

“Alright. Classmate Chen Pupu, good luck on your exams!” Ye Du gave her formal blessing.

“Will you come see us tomorrow?”

“I will. Go to sleep.”

Under the warm yellow light, Chen Pupu fell fast asleep, clutching the Chinese exam templates Ye Du had summarized for her.

…

When Ye Du arrived at the school the next morning, she saw her teacher Zhang Jianwei in a new look. Pupu had mentioned that Zhang Jianwei had a custom-made qipao for the occasion—a bright red one to symbolize a “victorious start.” When she announced it in class, some smart-aleck had asked if the dress was paid for by the class fund, making her want to throw her chalk at them. The red was striking in the sunlight, making her look revitalized. Perhaps because she was finally about to let go of this group’s endless drama and paperwork, her eyes were exceptionally gentle. The realization that they might never see each other again made the present moment feel beautiful.

As expected, Pupu, Wang Zhu, and Jiang Xinwan were waiting together at the gate. They looked like comrades-in-arms, checking each other’s kits and offering encouragement. Ye Du waited with them until the security guard opened the gates. A sea of students surged in, leaving behind a crowd of parents and teachers. It was the first time Ye Du had seen so many parents in one place.

Shang Ruixi surprised Ye Du by approaching her. Since moving to the “guaranteed” class, they hadn’t seen much of each other.

“You’re not even testing, and you still came? You must be bored,” Shang Ruixi said, looking quite relaxed.

“I’m just concerned for my classmates.” Ye Du felt a rare ease with Shang Ruixi. Having witnessed each other’s private embarrassments, they had a mutual understanding, though their bond likely wouldn’t grow deeper than this.

“Fair enough,” Shang Ruixi smiled and walked toward the hall.

Ye Du tugged on Shang Ruixi’s backpack strap. “Good luck. Do well for both of us.”

Shang Ruixi didn’t look back, but she raised her right hand in an “OK” sign as she hurried off.

To be honest, Ye Du felt a twinge of regret about skipping the exam. She wondered how well she would have done—if she could have made it into the prestigious No. 1 High School. She imagined how “cool” it would have been to get in there and then choose Yunchuan anyway. She wasn’t sure if she had chosen Yunchuan because she feared failing the exam herself, or because she feared Pupu might not make it in. Lately, she found herself reflecting more often on that flutter of emotion under the ginkgo tree.

With the nearby cafes and milk tea shops packed with parents, Ye Du eventually found a seat in a bookstore. The owner was grateful; she was the only one who had finally bought a copy of the magazine Liy (Carp). It was a beautifully bound magazine of music, literature, and photography that had sat on the shelf for weeks. Its contents were sharp and fresh—unlike the sterile texts in their textbooks. The prose felt like a bright dagger intended to cut through the veins of a dull life.

It was here, in a crowded campus bookstore amidst a summer breeze, that Ye Du first formally encountered the concept of “homosexuality.” She began to see her own feelings more clearly. The realization hit her that feelings like Yu Xiao’s for Pupu actually existed—they weren’t just misunderstandings or jokes between friends. It was a valid category of human emotion.

The book described a girl asking another: “Don’t you think it’s awkward when two pairs of breasts collide during a hug?” Ye Du felt a sharp sting reading that. She sensed the weight of societal disapproval—that even those within such a relationship could ask such hurtful questions. She wanted to ask the girl in the story: Was it the breasts that hindered her love, or the world? Ye Du closed the book before finishing. For the rest of the wait, she pondered a single question: Must two people who love each other necessarily only possess one pair of breasts between them?

…

Before Pupu could find Ye Du after the exam, she was whisked away by her father, Chen Sijun. Qin Wei had taken the day off to cook a nutritious, stomach-friendly meal. The stress of grocery shopping had even made her briefly consider becoming a certified nutritionist.

“How do you think it went?” Chen Sijun started to ask, but Pupu’s warning glare in the rearview mirror stopped him.

“Dad, you aren’t supposed to ask that after an exam. it ruins the ‘state’ for the next one.” Pupu didn’t actually think it would affect her, but she remembered Ye Du always using that excuse when people pried.

“Alright, I won’t ask. Do you want to nap?” He turned on some soft instrumental music.

“Yeah.” After writing for two hours, Pupu was exhausted. She had followed her rule of never leaving a blank space and had filled the paper completely. As the car hummed and vibrated gently, Pupu felt as if she were back in a cradle, falling into a deep, peaceful sleep.

Exam permit, 2B pencils, black pens, pencils, eraser, compass, ruler, triangle scale…” Qin Wei was meticulously organizing everything according to a checklist. In that moment, it felt as if she were the one heading to the exam hall, her heart racing with a baseless anxiety. While the High School Entrance Exam (Zhongkao) wasn’t exactly a life-defining moment, as a mother, Qin Wei couldn’t help but worry. She simply wanted the best for Chen Pupu: a good school, a good job after graduation, and eventually a good partner to build a happy, peaceful life with. Qin Wei had once hoped Pupu would be extraordinary, but she had quickly accepted that geniuses are rare, and most people are ordinary—just like herself.

Chen Pupu emerged from her shower to see that her mother had already prepared her exam kit for the next day.

“Thanks, Mom. You’re the best,” Pupu said with a grin, her hair still dripping wet.

Sitting at the foot of the bed, Qin Wei turned around and gestured for her daughter to come closer. “Come here, let me dry your hair.”

Pupu usually kept her hair short, but during the hectic final year of middle school, she hadn’t found time for the barber. Her hair was thick and took a long time to dry; the hair dryer would make one’s arm ache, especially in summer when the hot air would just cause fresh sweat to dampen the scalp again. Consequently, Pupu hated drying her hair.

Whenever she had time, Qin Wei would do it for her. Pupu would usually lie across her mother’s lap, tossing her wet hair to one side. Qin Wei’s touch was gentle, and she kept the temperature just right. Pupu adored her mother; she could go to her for anything—hunger, sleepiness, or just a need to act spoiled. While Qin Wei could be strict, it was almost always due to Pupu’s lack of focus on her studies.

Lying there, Pupu recalled a tantrum she had thrown before her music competition. A particular piece was so difficult that she kept making the same mistake. Frustrated, she had slammed the piano lid shut and retreated to her room to sulk. When the music stopped, Qin Wei found her lying lethargically on the bed. For the first time, Qin Wei had truly lost her temper. To ensure Pupu got into a good high school, Qin Wei had visited the admissions office multiple times and used her connections to secure an “Arts Specialty” slot. This meant expensive vocal and piano lessons and a high-quality piano. She had invested so much time and money, only for Pupu to give up and lie down.

“Chen Pupu, get up!” Qin Wei had snapped. It was only after the second shout that Pupu reluctantly rolled over.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s too hard. I can’t learn it,” Pupu replied, her frustration turning into tears.

“And you think you’ll learn it by lying on the bed?” Qin Wei continued. “If you can’t do it, practice. If you don’t get it today, try again tomorrow. What’s the use of running away?” Looking back, Pupu was most grateful that her mother never treated her like an ignorant child to be ordered around, but rather offered guidance and suggestions.

“But I’ve practiced it 43 times!” Pupu argued, showing the tally marks she kept.

“Then treat yourself like a slow bird that needs to start early. Look at Lang Lang—he practices eight hours a day and doesn’t complain.”

“Mom, how do you know he doesn’t complain?” Pupu asked. She felt like everyone in China who touched a piano knew that name.

“Is that the point? Snap out of it and practice. You’ll improve eventually.” Looking at Pupu’s ability to miss the point, Qin Wei often thought it would be a miracle if she made it into high school at all.

…

Just as Pupu was drifting off to sleep, Qin Wei tapped her cheek. “Wake up, lazy pig.”

“Mom, what if I don’t get into Yunchuan High School?” Pupu asked, feeling as if she had just woken from a dream.

“Then we’ll find another school. Yunchuan isn’t the only one,” Qin Wei replied while putting away the hair dryer.

“But I only want to go to Yunchuan.” Pupu had promised Ye Du; she couldn’t trick Ye Du into staying for the guaranteed spot only to leave her there alone.

“Then do your best tomorrow. I believe in you.” Qin Wei couldn’t give Pupu much in the way of material wealth, but she gave her an abundance of love and support.

Looking at the stack of study materials on her desk, higher than her lamp, Pupu could hardly believe middle school was ending tomorrow. She remembered her stiflingly hot self-introduction three years ago, meeting her old classmate Wang Zhu, being befriended by Ye Du, and later getting close to Jiang Xinwan. These three years were short, yet so important. They hadn’t sat in their usual cafeteria corner for a long time; the pressure of Grade 9 had made them less picky about where or what they ate. The ritual of walking laps around the track had been suspended. In two days, all this tension would vanish into the wind. Feeling a sudden sense of melancholy, Pupu decided to call Ye Du.

“Hey, it’s me,” Pupu said as usual.

“What if my mom had answered?” Ye Du teased, laughing at Pupu’s habit of not identifying herself.

“Then I’d just say sorry to her,” Pupu whispered.

“Why aren’t you resting yet?” Ye Du asked, checking the time. It was nearly 9:30 PM.

“Ye Du, it doesn’t feel real.”

“What do you mean?”

“It feels like nothing happened, yet here we are at the Zhongkao. Then high school, then the University Entrance Exam in three years, and then we’re adults.” Pupu struggled to describe the feeling.

“Are you anxious about growing up?”

“I don’t know. Growing up always felt so far away, but now I realize it isn’t. Three years went by in a flash. It makes me a little sad.” The Zhongkao could change everything, potentially sending close friends down different paths. Schools teach facts, but they don’t teach children how to handle parting and change.

“Well… maybe that’s what they mean by ‘Time flies like an arrow’?”

“Thanks, Ye Du. I’ll try to use that in my essay tomorrow.” Pupu laughed, her sadness dissipating. Ye Du really wasn’t great at verbal comfort.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Ye Du clarified. “I just think life is like this—day by day, accumulating into what we call ‘living.’ I don’t want you to be sad, but I don’t know how to fix it.” Ye Du rarely pondered such things; to her, it was just the way the world worked, not a math problem to be solved.

“Then just cheer for me.” Pupu felt sleepiness finally taking over.

“Alright. Classmate Chen Pupu, good luck on your exams!” Ye Du gave her formal blessing.

“Will you come see us tomorrow?”

“I will. Go to sleep.”

Under the warm yellow light, Chen Pupu fell fast asleep, clutching the Chinese exam templates Ye Du had summarized for her.

…

When Ye Du arrived at the school the next morning, she saw her teacher Zhang Jianwei in a new look. Pupu had mentioned that Zhang Jianwei had a custom-made qipao for the occasion—a bright red one to symbolize a “victorious start.” When she announced it in class, some smart-aleck had asked if the dress was paid for by the class fund, making her want to throw her chalk at them. The red was striking in the sunlight, making her look revitalized. Perhaps because she was finally about to let go of this group’s endless drama and paperwork, her eyes were exceptionally gentle. The realization that they might never see each other again made the present moment feel beautiful.

As expected, Pupu, Wang Zhu, and Jiang Xinwan were waiting together at the gate. They looked like comrades-in-arms, checking each other’s kits and offering encouragement. Ye Du waited with them until the security guard opened the gates. A sea of students surged in, leaving behind a crowd of parents and teachers. It was the first time Ye Du had seen so many parents in one place.

Shang Ruixi surprised Ye Du by approaching her. Since moving to the “guaranteed” class, they hadn’t seen much of each other.

“You’re not even testing, and you still came? You must be bored,” Shang Ruixi said, looking quite relaxed.

“I’m just concerned for my classmates.” Ye Du felt a rare ease with Shang Ruixi. Having witnessed each other’s private embarrassments, they had a mutual understanding, though their bond likely wouldn’t grow deeper than this.

“Fair enough,” Shang Ruixi smiled and walked toward the hall.

Ye Du tugged on Shang Ruixi’s backpack strap. “Good luck. Do well for both of us.”

Shang Ruixi didn’t look back, but she raised her right hand in an “OK” sign as she hurried off.

To be honest, Ye Du felt a twinge of regret about skipping the exam. She wondered how well she would have done—if she could have made it into the prestigious No. 1 High School. She imagined how “cool” it would have been to get in there and then choose Yunchuan anyway. She wasn’t sure if she had chosen Yunchuan because she feared failing the exam herself, or because she feared Pupu might not make it in. Lately, she found herself reflecting more often on that flutter of emotion under the ginkgo tree.

With the nearby cafes and milk tea shops packed with parents, Ye Du eventually found a seat in a bookstore. The owner was grateful; she was the only one who had finally bought a copy of the magazine Liy (Carp). It was a beautifully bound magazine of music, literature, and photography that had sat on the shelf for weeks. Its contents were sharp and fresh—unlike the sterile texts in their textbooks. The prose felt like a bright dagger intended to cut through the veins of a dull life.

It was here, in a crowded campus bookstore amidst a summer breeze, that Ye Du first formally encountered the concept of “homosexuality.” She began to see her own feelings more clearly. The realization hit her that feelings like Yu Xiao’s for Pupu actually existed—they weren’t just misunderstandings or jokes between friends. It was a valid category of human emotion.

The book described a girl asking another: “Don’t you think it’s awkward when two pairs of breasts collide during a hug?” Ye Du felt a sharp sting reading that. She sensed the weight of societal disapproval—that even those within such a relationship could ask such hurtful questions. She wanted to ask the girl in the story: Was it the breasts that hindered her love, or the world? Ye Du closed the book before finishing. For the rest of the wait, she pondered a single question: Must two people who love each other necessarily only possess one pair of breasts between them?

…

Before Pupu could find Ye Du after the exam, she was whisked away by her father, Chen Sijun. Qin Wei had taken the day off to cook a nutritious, stomach-friendly meal. The stress of grocery shopping had even made her briefly consider becoming a certified nutritionist.

“How do you think it went?” Chen Sijun started to ask, but Pupu’s warning glare in the rearview mirror stopped him.

“Dad, you aren’t supposed to ask that after an exam. it ruins the ‘state’ for the next one.” Pupu didn’t actually think it would affect her, but she remembered Ye Du always using that excuse when people pried.

“Alright, I won’t ask. Do you want to nap?” He turned on some soft instrumental music.

“Yeah.” After writing for two hours, Pupu was exhausted. She had followed her rule of never leaving a blank space and had filled the paper completely. As the car hummed and vibrated gently, Pupu felt as if she were back in a cradle, falling into a deep, peaceful sleep.