[031] Suffocated by Praise

After Cheng Mengfei finished discussing official matters, she smiled and said, “Just now, on our way up, our class was the quietest and had the best discipline. That deserves praise, and I hope you all keep it up.”

A compliment that cost nothing yet worked wonders; some students who had previously thought Fang Chang’an’s role as room monitor was mere formalism felt their dissatisfaction melt away. Many even felt a spontaneous sense of pride.

Fang Chang’an, sitting below, quietly gave Teacher Cheng a thumbs up in his heart. Traditional Chinese education speaks of “filial children are made under the rod,” and the idea of praising children is far from widespread. Even when he was a child, always scoring first or second in every exam, his parents rarely directly praised him.

He reckoned many in the class had similar experiences. Especially those whose academic performance wasn’t outstanding, this might have been their first time being praised by a teacher. It was far more effective than him knocking on the blackboard.

Next time someone breaks the rules, he could use this as an example.

Cheng Mengfei noticed Fang Chang’an’s expression and smiled faintly. She wanted to praise him again—after all, good class discipline couldn’t happen without the class monitor’s efforts—but hesitated and let it go.

At the recently concluded meeting of the first-year class advisors, besides sharing about the new semester, the placement exam results were a key topic. Class Four’s scores weren’t great, coming in last among the four priority classes.

Luckily, the gap wasn’t large, and their top students shone—they claimed three out of the grade’s top ten spots, all ranked highly. Fang Chang’an stood out above all; he broke through the “fate ceiling” set by the teachers who drafted the exams in both subjects. The grade group leader—the class advisor from next door, who also composed the Chinese exam—teased about it in the meeting.

This made Cheng Mengfei’s first class advisor meeting of the semester quite pleasant. At lunch, she also heard Shen Mo recount what happened in the English class, further improving her impression of Fang Chang’an.

The reason she didn’t praise him again was out of concern for overdoing it.

“Everyone, continue your self-study.”

Cheng Mengfei left the classroom, returned to the office, and wandered around, hoping to explain the morning’s events to Xu Min. She didn’t want Xu Min to think poorly of Fang Chang’an or believe he was negligent. But even after school, Xu Min hadn’t come to the office—likely went home straight after leaving the class. Cheng Mengfei packed up and left, bringing Shen Mo along for dinner.

Fang Chang’an was also looking for a place to eat.

Once again, he declined Wang Hao’s invitation to eat together and walked onto the street amidst the crowd leaving school. With no particular aim, he followed what looked like local residents into a noodle shop.

It was an ordinary small eatery run by a husband and wife, serving stir-fried noodles, rice noodles, and boiled noodles. The kind-faced proprietress was preparing boiled noodles when Fang Chang’an approached and asked, “Auntie, can I order a half portion of stir-fried noodles?”

She glanced at him, immediately turned back to her work, and said, “No, no, we don’t sell half portions.”

Fang Chang’an turned and left, going next door to another husband-and-wife-run shop. The proprietress was wiping tables; the boss wore slippers, baggy shorts, and a faded white vest, cigarette dangling from his mouth as he tossed noodles in a wok at the stove.

Fang Chang’an sized him up, thinking he didn’t seem easy to talk to, but still asked, “Uncle, can I get a half portion of stir-fried noodles?”

The boss looked at him sideways, flicked his ash, exhaled a puff of smoke that made Fang Chang’an want to leave, then motioned inside with a nod, “Go sit inside.”

Fang Chang’an was a bit surprised, but went in and found an empty table.

The shop was small, with four long tables. On a cabinet sat an old color TV playing “Legend of the White Snake,” showing the scene where Xu Xian comes to return the umbrella to the Bai family.

Fang Chang’an glanced over and couldn’t help but marvel—her disguise as a man was so convincing, he’d never realized she was a woman as a child, and she was beautiful too. The details of makeup, speech, and walking were leagues ahead of the modern slapdash cross-dressing in TV shows.

The boss soon brought over a full bowl of stir-fried noodles in a white porcelain bowl decorated with blue flowers, seemingly with an egg added, and placed it on the adjacent table. Then he returned to the stove, reignited the fire, poured oil, grabbed a handful of noodles, loosened his fingers, dropped a portion into the wok, quickly stir-fried, tossed in some pickled vegetables, poured in soy sauce, and called out, “Student, want it spicy?”

“Just a little,” Fang Chang’an replied.

In less than two minutes, the proprietress brought a bowl of stir-fried noodles in the same blue-flowered bowl. Fang Chang’an thanked her; she looked at him, surprised, but said nothing, wiped her hands on her apron, and continued cleaning tables.

Fang Chang’an looked at his noodles and estimated that two half portions together wouldn’t fit in one bowl, but he didn’t fuss. He took a pair of chopsticks from the holder and started eating.

At the next table, a middle-aged man ate quickly, slurping his noodles so vigorously they sounded like soup. Fang Chang’an had just begun, while the man polished off his large bowl, patted his stomach, handed two red bills totaling one and a half yuan to the boss watching TV, and said, “I’m off!”

“Alright!”

The boss responded, slipped the money into the drawer, and sat back to watch commercials.

Perhaps the commercials were duller than Fang Chang’an himself; the boss turned to look at the student eating methodically and asked, “Which school are you from?”

“Second Middle School.”

Fang Chang’an usually ate slowly, but not this deliberately. He had no napkins, and the shop didn’t provide any; worried about getting sauce on his mouth with no way to clean it, he had to be careful.

The proprietress finished cleaning, sat down to wait out the commercials, and asked, “Is your family in town?”

She probably thought he was a local kid who came home to find no one cooking, or that his family was absent.

“No, from the countryside.”

“So why not eat at school? Why come all the way out here?”

“The school food is terrible and expensive. For the same price, I’d rather come here and eat half a bowl of noodles.”

The proprietress exchanged a look with her husband and laughed. She looked to be in her forties, her face and expression worn by life, much like the “yellow-faced woman” some men grumble about. But in that moment, her smile seemed quite content. She said to her husband, “This student has some sense.”

Then she turned to Fang Chang’an, “Exactly! The food at your school is awful and overpriced. Especially their steamed bun—squeeze it and it’s tiny, not even as much dough as a single noodle, yet they charge twenty cents.”

Fang Chang’an was curious, “You’ve been to our school?”

“I have. Tried it once, never again.”

She seemed eager to vent but restrained herself, then asked, “How long does it take you to walk here? Don’t you have evening self-study?”

“About twenty minutes each way, forty total. Evening self-study isn’t until half past six.”

She nodded, said nothing further, and went back to watching TV, occasionally chatting with her husband. When other customers arrived, she got up to work again.

Fang Chang’an had eaten well at lunch, and the boss’s half portion was generous. Considering the hot weather, he didn’t dare pack leftovers. He managed to finish all the noodles, leaving only two pieces of pickled vegetable, scraping up the last bean sprouts, then pulled out his money pouch from his pocket.

His mother had sewn the pouch for him before school started—a light blue cloth bag, double-stitched by the sewing machine, fine and sturdy, with one end threaded through a cord tied to his belt.

Fang Chang’an opened the pouch and took out a fifty-cent copper coin, handing it to the proprietress. She accepted it and smiled, “Take care!”

“Alright!”

Fang Chang’an smiled back, left the shop, and strolled back to school.

At the school gate, he saw Wang Ke, Zheng Lili, and several girls from his class skipping rope in the open space beneath the teaching building. Their steps were light, ponytails flying. As he drew near, he heard them chanting, “Marigold opens twenty-one, two five six, two five seven, two eight two nine thirty-one…”

He had lived twice but never figured out the full rhyme.

Wang Ke noticed Fang Chang’an too but didn’t have time to greet him. As he approached, the girl who had encouraged everyone to write notes in self-study earlier called out, “Class monitor, want to play with us?”

Fang Chang’an shook his head and smiled, “I don’t know how. You go ahead.”

Zhou Xiaoyan protested, “Wang Yuwei, why are you inviting a boy?”

Fang Chang’an didn’t mind, waved his hand, and smiled, “You all play, I’m heading upstairs.”

The girl named Wang Yuwei waved at him, flashing a sweet smile, “Bye-bye.”

Wang Ke was holding the rope; seeing Fang Chang’an ignore her, she glared, clearly unhappy. Fang Chang’an noticed, raised his eyebrows and smiled at her. She turned her face away to show she didn’t care.

Back in the classroom, Shen Mo still hadn’t arrived. Fang Chang’an casually opened his history book to continue previewing, waiting and waiting. Neither his beautiful seatmate nor the pretty girl behind him appeared, leaving him to endure the solitude of being a top student alone.

It wasn’t until the evening self-study bell rang that Shen Mo entered with Wang Ke, Zheng Lili, Wang Yuwei, and the others. Fang Chang’an glimpsed her fair, translucent cheeks tinged with red, still flush with excitement, and felt a stir inside.

“You jumped rope with them?”

“Yes!” Shen Mo nodded, then explained, “I came just after you left—I saw you.”

“And you didn’t call me?”

Fang Chang’an pouted, “No loyalty.”

Shen Mo blinked in confusion, “You’re a boy.”

“Who says boys can’t jump rope?”

The girl looked a bit aggrieved, biting her soft lips, “Then next time I’ll call you.”

“If you call me, I still won’t jump.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a boy—how would it look, bouncing around like you girls?”

Shen Mo seemed to realize he was teasing her, turned her head away in a huff, and ignored him.

Fang Chang’an looked back at Wang Ke, who, noticing his gaze, raised her chin, turned away, and ignored him as well.