Hopeless Romance (GL) - Chapter 34

Chapter 34

What is more worth anticipating than graduation? Perhaps only the graduation trip. Yunchuan sat in a mountainous region where great rivers wound alongside the peaks; a trip meant going to see landscapes never witnessed before. At the graduation banquet, Chen Pupu’s mind wasn’t on the food at all; she was focused entirely on pulling Ye Du and the other two aside to discuss a trip to the seaside. Jiang Xinwan and Wang Zhu agreed instantly, ready to pack their bags and leave the next day. Ye Du, however, had to consider Ye Sangshu’s feelings and couldn’t give an immediate answer.

“Ye Du, how about we call your mom and talk to her? If she knows more, she might feel safer and agree,” Chen Pupu suggested, believing that parents’ refusal to let their children travel was purely a matter of safety.

“If my mom says no, it probably won’t be for that reason.” It was embarrassing to admit, but Ye Du had never traveled in her life. She had never even seen Ye Sangshu go far; aside from class reunions or work dinners, Ye Sangshu rarely socialized. Sometimes, Ye Du wondered if her mother even had friends.

“Then why? It’s not like you failed your exams.” As the lazy Susan turned, Jiang Xinwan deftly snatched a fried chicken leg—her top-rated dish of the night.

“She’s arranged tutoring for me. The timing might be difficult.” In truth, tutoring was just a pretext. If Ye Sangshu really agreed to the trip, missing a few classes wouldn’t be an issue. The core problem was that Ye Sangshu did not believe anything was worth a concession in Ye Du’s studies—and Ye Du still couldn’t bring herself to explain this predicament frankly to her friends.

“Go home and talk it over with her first,” Wang Zhu said, already imagining the beach. Exams and grades could wash away into the Pacific for all she cared.

“You really have to come,” Chen Pupu added, nearly letting the words “you couldn’t come last time” slip before biting them back.

Facing Chen Pupu’s gaze, Ye Du found she couldn’t say no. She nodded and spent the rest of the dinner mentally rehearsing the conversation with her mother.

This was the first time Ye Du tried to express her own desires. Usually, she wore what her mother bought and ate what her mother cooked without complaint. Even her tutors were chosen by Ye Sangshu; Ye Du was the one being selected, never the one giving feedback. In mastering the skill of “acceptance,” she had slowly lost the ability to “express.” She felt her words were like raindrops falling into the ocean—unheard and insignificant.

But she didn’t want to say “sorry” to Chen Pupu’s eyes again, even though she had already prepared an excuse for herself.

Ye Sangshu’s refusal was expected, but the intensity of her words was not. Ye Du was no stranger to her mother’s breakdowns, but she hadn’t yet grown a thick enough emotional callus to block the rage that pierced through her ears to her heart.

“I raised you all this way, and you only listen to others? Someone says ‘let’s go see the sea’ and you just go? Why can’t you stay home, study, and keep me company like I ask? How did I raise someone so ungrateful?” Whenever Ye Du spoke of leaving, it acted as a trigger for Ye Sangshu’s sickness. It made her restless, as if every cell were screaming to burst out. She couldn’t control herself, nor her desire to hurt Ye Du.

In the moments of calm after such storms, Ye Sangshu often wondered: if she spoke less harshly, would Ye Du talk to her more? But she knew she couldn’t help it. Ye Du always reminded her of Song Yu—the symbol of her life’s most humiliating defeat.

“Okay, I won’t go,” Ye Du agreed, practicing a familiar submission. She couldn’t endure any further madness. She remembered when Song Yu had asked for a divorce; Ye Sangshu had brandished a kitchen knife, screaming that they would die together. Terrified, Ye Du had locked herself in her room. The sounds of crashing and screaming had eventually faded into muffled sobs. When Ye Du finally emerged, Song Yu was gone. She had approached her mother to wipe her tears, but before she could reach her, the woman looked up with eyes full of a hatred that Ye Du didn’t yet understand. No one had told her it was possible for a mother to hate her daughter.

Ye Du didn’t call Chen Pupu. She couldn’t face her. Like a coward, she went to an internet cafe, left a message for her on QQ, and fled as if Chen Pupu might jump through the screen to question her.

By the time the first round of summer tutoring ended, Ye Du had drawn six “Correct” tallies (signifying 30 days) in the back of her notebook. She hadn’t logged onto QQ or received a call from Chen Pupu. She tried to tell herself that if she didn’t want to live her mother’s life, she had to study hard to gain control over her own. But when she wasn’t studying, she couldn’t stop thinking about the others at the beach—had they tanned? Were they picking up shells? Were they chasing the sea breeze at dusk?

Every time she went to the kitchen for water, she passed the landline. She would check the cord or dial a random number to check the credit, but she never dialed the number she knew by heart. She realized she had grown used to this role: if Chen Pupu needed her and she could help, she would. But if the other didn’t speak, Ye Du remained in a silent, agonizing wait—like someone awaiting a verdict.

Finally, the phone rang.

She looked up from her exercises to hear Chen Pupu’s voice. “How have you been lately?” Years later, Ye Du would realize that Chen Pupu always asked this question—whether they had been apart for a month or had just seen each other that morning.

“I… did a lot of practice problems. It was exhausting.” Ye Du wanted to say she’d been miserable, but she felt it was her own fault. Yet, the moment she heard that voice, everything began to feel okay again.

“I knew it.” Chen Pupu didn’t mention the missed trip. She had been sad for a while, but that feeling had faded after she returned. For both of them, enough time had passed.

Chen Pupu wasn’t petty. She knew the broken promise wasn’t entirely Ye Du’s choice. The real reason she hadn’t called was that she thought she had failed. She had looked at the leaked answers for the High School Entrance Exam and concluded that even with her status as an arts student, she wouldn’t make it into Yunchuan Middle School. Her parents had spent weeks trying to pull strings at the admissions office.

Salvation came on the day the results were released. Her father, Chen Sijun, had calculated the scores and realized she had made it. Chen Pupu had screamed with joy, throwing her pillows across the room.

“I’m sorry, Pupu,” Ye Du said over the phone, apologizing not just for the trip, but for her cowardice.

“Don’t. Stop saying ‘sorry’ to me. Books say ‘sorry’ only exists where there is hurt, so I won’t let you say it anymore,” Chen Pupu replied.

“Okay. I promise.”

“Why aren’t you asking how we all did?” Chen Pupu teased, not wanting to let her off that easily.

“Then… how… how did you all do?” Ye Du stammered.

“I’m not telling!” Chen Pupu chirped. She had been waiting for this.

“Pupu…” Ye Du sighed with a helpless smile.

“Tell you what, if you promise me one thing, I’ll tell you.” Chen Pupu looked at the concert tickets her father had given her. The moment she received them, she had thought of Ye Du. “Let’s go to a concert together.”

“Okay,” Ye Du answered without hesitation.

Okay. Let’s go to a concert. Let’s do many, many things together. Let’s live our lives together.

The June entrance exam was like a great rain. Some stayed put waiting for it to stop; others got soaked and had to run for cover. Wang Zhu and Jiang Xinwan didn’t meet the cutoff for Yunchuan. Jiang Xinwan’s mother offered to pay the “score gap fee” to get her in, but she refused. She had heard Qin Zibei made it into the high school division, and she couldn’t face the silence that followed her confession to him on QQ. It was a private, dignified kind of heartbreak. She vowed not to go to Yunchuan even if she could.

Wang Zhu missed the cutoff by only 3 points, but the fees for the “parallel class” were more than her family could afford over three years. Instead, she chose a provincial key high school’s experimental class. Ye Du was placed in Class 1 (the elite track), while Chen Pupu was in Class 12 (the arts and sports track). The hand of fate had moved, and the four who were once inseparable would no longer crowd the cafeteria or walk the track together. But Ye Du thought it was okay. At least they had shared their most pure and innocent years. Her only regret remained that graduation trip—she had thought there would be plenty of time in life for another, but some regrets simply remain regrets.