Three Sisters (34 page)

Two days later Chu Tian returned the notebook to her—in the library, of course. He didn't even try to be discreet; instead, he walked up and set it down in front of her. No one noticed. She opened it to see his autograph. She'd been wrong; it was "red," not "flood." As she hurriedly shut the notebook, a mysterious door in her heart was broken open, and in rushed a flood of unreasonable things. Scared and nervous, she felt she might faint then and there.
I must be in love,
she thought,
this has to be love.

She was in love—Yuyang was sure of it. After that secret exchange, her chest always tightened when she ran into Chu Tian, while he, too, appeared awkward, tossing his hair repeatedly to fling it off of his forehead. That was totally unnecessary.
Why are you tossing your hair?
Yuyang wondered.
You don't have to do that; your hair will never be too messy for me. Will you still be Chu Tian if your hair is neat?
He didn't have to do that, and she'd tell him so when she got a chance.

Yuyang might not have been articulate, but she wasn't stupid. She quickly figured out his daily routine, including his tendency to stroll along the athletic track at least once a day, usually after morning calisthenics or before the evening study period. With fewer people at those times, the field was more spacious, a perfect place for a poet's solitary walk and an ideal spot for the pursuit of romance.

Twelve minutes before the study period began one evening, Yuyang finally mustered the courage and pretended to go for a walk, arriving at the field only to find it empty. Puzzled, she looked around, convinced that she'd seen him head this way after dinner. Where could he have gone?

Undaunted, she tiptoed around behind the cement bleachers, where she spotted Chu Tian, which sent her heart into a frenzy of pounding. Standing alone in the weeds, he was not composing a poem; no, he was standing with his legs spread as he aimed a stream of urine at a tree, straining to send the liquid pillar as high as his head. In order to reach new heights in his urinary endeavor, he pushed with his buttocks and dug in his toes for leverage. Yuyang's mouth fell open. She was shocked by the discovery that the solitary Chu Tian, the proud and unrestrained poet, would be secretly engaged in such sordid, despicable behavior. She stood still, not daring to make a sound, until she managed to turn around and flee. When she reached the entrance to the field, she turned to look behind her. Chu Tian emerged and froze like a pole nailed to the track, apparently knowing that she'd witnessed his disgusting act. They could not see each other's eyes, but they were obviously looking at each other. The ideal image of her poet was shattered; her heart crumbled. As the evening deepened, a dusky color built up between Yuyang and Chu Tian, blurring their outlines and carrying them farther and farther apart. Bracing herself by resting her hand on an iron gate, Yuyang took in big gulps of air as tears roiled in her eyes.

Yuyang fell out of love. But that had no effect on her classmates, who put on an outstanding performance at the singing contest. In fact, Section Three of the class of '82 had a great deal to be proud of. Whether they won or not was secondary; what mattered most was the unprecedented solidarity among the students who formed a combat-ready bloc. Under the centralized leadership of the homeroom teacher, they cooperated with and supported each other, creating a brand-new, positive classroom atmosphere. But of course, none of this had anything to do with Yuyang, although, from a certain perspective, it did seem linked to her. When it was time for Section Three to go on stage, everyone stood up, emptying all the seats but two, one of them occupied by Sun Jianqiang, the other by Yuyang. She was not prepared for that. Even Sun, normally thick-skinned, could not hold his head up. His neck went limp and his head fell forward, his ears reddening. Yuyang looked up only once during the performance and saw little but Sun's red ears. She, too, could no longer hold her head up, for everyone at the school, including Chu Tian, must have seen that she, Wang Yuyang, was not qualified to celebrate 12-9. It was a public humiliation, a display of disgrace. Keeping her head between her knees, she kept scratching the ground with her fingernail, but she had no idea what she was writing or sketching. Maybe she was trying to dig a hole so she could crawl into it and cover herself with dirt. She felt like crying, but lacked even the courage to do that; fortunately she managed to hold back her tears, since crying under these circumstances would have been an even greater loss of face. What would the homeroom teacher think of her then?

Zhao Shanshan was engaged in a flurry of activities. After she applied her makeup, her sparkling eyes were beyond description. Looking at Zhao from a distance, Pang Fenghua had an anxiety attack, and she was incredulous when Zhao walked up and offered to make Fenghua's eyebrows longer. When was the last time Zhao had even acknowledged her presence? But Zhao was for real, for she'd already raised Pang's chin and was elongating her eyebrows all the way over to her temples.

Zhao then redrew Pang's lip lines to make her mouth smaller and show off its outline. After changing the color of Fenghua's eye shadow, Zhao held up a small mirror for Pang to see how she looked.

"Silly girl, see how pretty you are."

Pang glanced away and spotted the homeroom teacher, who was gazing attentively in their direction. Still caught up in her low self-esteem, Fenghua said, "Shanshan, we country girls can never get rid of our country look."

Zhao rapped Pang's head with her knuckles, which hurt; it was as if only pain could help her explain what she wanted to say.

"How could you be a country girl? What makes you think that? Just look at you. You have such good qualities."

Zhao's earnest words entered Fenghua's ears and went straight to her heart. She was deeply moved. Fenghua had always been concerned that she looked like a country girl, but everything was fine now that an authoritative description of her had been formed.

She was so emotional she felt a need to repay Zhao's kindness, but before she could say anything, Zhao gave her a kind reminder: "When we're on stage, don't wait for me to nod to you. You have to give me the signal, all right? Remember, you're the conductor."

Pang just stared at Shanshan and, with a sudden sadness rising up, wrapped her arms around the girl's waist. "Shanshan, I've been so jealous of you, but I promise I won't be any longer. I mean it. Let's be sisters." Shanshan knew she meant it.

Knowing that people tend to degrade themselves in the grip of emotion, Shanshan still did not like what she was hearing. Fenghua was flattering herself.
How dare she claim to be my sister. Who does she think she is?

Shanshan turned and saw that the homeroom teacher was watching her. This time he looked away before she did. Turning back, she took Fenghua's hands and said, "It's our turn." Feeling a bit lost, Pang stared straight ahead, a blank look on her face. But she was convinced that a friendship between Shanshan and herself had taken hold. There had been, she thought, a definite improvement in their relationship. Now she was an integral member of Shanshan's group.

Section Three did not just win; it scored a resounding victory with a huge lead over the class that came in second. When Shanshan went onstage to receive the award, the homeroom teacher signaled his approval with a tilt of his chin. He was the first to applaud. Except for Sun Jianqiang and Wang Yuyang, everyone in Section Three was bathed in a holiday mood. Luckily those two were overlooked, since the others were too happy to be reminded of them. Why would they give them even a passing thought? The homeroom teacher did not have to say or do anything for the students to know how he felt about their accomplishment.

They weren't children, after all. Taking advantage of the happy moment, Shanshan dragged Fenghua over to the homeroom teacher's dorm room that evening. Fenghua, who hadn't wanted to go, stood hand in hand with Shanshan outside his room, wearing a stylish red hairclip that was a gift from Shanshan.

The teacher was happy to see them and had plums ready as a treat, as if he'd known they'd come. "You've done well," he said, drawing a bashful smile from Shanshan, who was sitting on the bed next to Fenghua, still holding her hand.

The teacher lit a cigarette, but he looked like a new smoker as he puffed on it in an awkward, exaggerated manner. But that did not stop him from chattering away; in fact, he all but monopolized the conversation. His Misty Poetry-style of talking was replaced by plain everyday conversation that was easily understood by both girls. That went on for five or six minutes before Shanshan jumped to her feet, suddenly reminded of something urgent. Fenghua stood to leave with her, but Shanshan said, "You stay. I just remembered that someone's waiting for me." A note of self-reproach crept into her voice.

Fenghua insisted on leaving with her, but relented when Shanshan stood firm. Any more insistence would have seemed planned. The room abruptly quieted down when only the two of them were left.

"I never realized how nice Zhao Shanshan can be," Fenghua said quietly.

"Yes, Zhao Shanshan has been behaving nicely lately," the teacher commented after a brief silence.

Not knowing what else to say, they sat quietly, trying to think of something to talk about. And that created an atmosphere of nervous tension. They weren't, of course, really nervous. These were unusual circumstances; they both felt a desire to do something, yet dared not take another step, for that would be crossing a line. Saying that a warm, tender feeling filled their hearts better describes the moment.

Avoiding Fenghua's eyes, the teacher focused on the red hairclip. "I see you like red," he said with a smile. Fenghua lowered her head and concentrated on rubbing her hands.

"Red really isn't a good color," he said.

Without looking up, she batted her eyes and said, "And why is that? You have to take responsibility for what you say."

His chest heaved with a silent laugh. "For something like that? What responsibility do you expect me to take?"

"If the girls in my class say I'm not pretty, I'll come looking for you."

Surprised that she had the nerve to say that, he had to laugh. "I meant red isn't a good color for you."

"Why not?"

"It just isn't."

Fenghua looked up and glared at him, pointing with her chin. With her eyes fixed on his face, she blurted out harshly, "Bullshit."

Panic-stricken at her outburst, she quickly covered her mouth, but was surprised to see that he was not offended. On the contrary, he appeared to like the way she talked; his smile seemed to indicate that he was glad to hear that kind of talk from her. She could tell that the word brought him unexpected happiness. People often forget themselves when they're happy, and the teacher was no exception.

"What did you just say?" he asked softly. "Say it again."

Emboldened by what he must be thinking, Fenghua leaned forward and replied in an even softer voice, "Bullshit. You're full of shit." Her voice was so soft that she seemed to be only mouthing the words.

He reacted to the unique whisper by smiling and saying in a honeyed voice, "Be careful, or I might sew your mouth shut."

Falling out of love is the same as falling ill, and Yuyang's illness was a serious one. She was weak and lethargic. Everyone in her class was elated over winning the singing contest, but their euphoria only made her more aware of her own insignificance and inferiority—yet another kind of humiliation. Preoccupied over her disappointment in love and the pain of that humiliation, she had completely forgotten an important task—she hadn't sent a written report to Teacher Wei for two weeks in a row. His displeasure and anger were clearly on display when he pulled the curtain shut after calling her into the duty office. He got right to the point by giving an accurate diagnosis of Yuyang's problem before asking her to talk about it: She was dispirited and her thinking must have been contaminated by something unhealthy.

As she sat across from her teacher, she felt ashamed and terrified, aware that he'd seen through her, so she looked down at her feet and held her tongue. In fact, she had been watchful since the day she had met Chu Tian, and had cautioned and castigated herself, but to no avail. Unable to control herself, she'd fallen in love with a young hooligan. The results would have been devastating if Chu Tian hadn't destroyed himself in her eyes, if he hadn't exposed his hooligan nature.

After being silent for as long as it took Wei to smoke half a cigarette, Yuyang finally shed tears of remorse and courageously looked up at the teacher. "I'll tell you everything," she said through her tears.

Wei Xiangdong took swift and decisive action. Eleven minutes later, Gao Honghai, alias Chu Tian, was standing in Wei's duty office, where he was told to take the "three-against" position—pressing his nose, his belly, and his toes against the wall. While he was flattened up against the wall, he was told to trace the shameful course of his inner journey as a means of "exposing" his problems. Think, and think hard. The three-against punishment lasted forty-five minutes, which meant that Gao told on himself for three quarters of an hour, after which he was ordered to turn around. Wei then switched on all the lights in the office and brought over a desk lamp to shine in Gao's face; a round patch of lime on his nose made him look like a Peking Opera clown.

"Have you thought through everything?" Wei asked. Gao kept quiet and began to wet himself, drenching his shoes and making a puddle on the floor.

"Have you thought through everything?" Wei repeated.

"Yes," Gao responded softly.

"Then talk."

So Gao talked, telling a shocking story. Stripped of the façade of a poet, he exposed his filthy and sordid inner world, for he was "in love" with eight girls at the same time: Wang Qin, Li Dongmei, Gao Zijuan, Cong Zhongxiao, Chan Xia, Tong Zhen, Lin Aifen, and Qu Meixi. Every night after lights-out, he confessed, he began to think about them one by one.

He even had poetry as proof.

Your long hair flying in the wind is the darkness in my heart
Intoxicating me in a dream I savor while we're apart
I want to touch in the distance only your back
You're my little bird you're my butterfly
Oh splashing rain my tears to start